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Updated: June 21, 2025
Gusterson was sure it was Pooh-Bah because of its air of command, and because he would have sworn on a mountain of Bibles that he recognized the red fleck lurking in the back of its single eye. And Pooh-Bah alone had the aura of full conscious thought. Pooh-Bah alone had mana.
He said plaintively, "Haven't we heard enough about ticklers for a while?" "I guess so," Gusterson agreed, "but I get to wondering about the little guys. They were so serious and intense about everything. I never did solve their problem, you know. I just shifted it onto other shoulders than ours. No joke intended," he hurried to add. Fay forbore to comment.
"Say, Fay," he asked in a soft voice after about five minutes, "are you meditating?" "Why, no," Fay responded, starting up and then stifling another yawn. "Just resting a bit. I seem to get more tired these days, somehow. You'll have to excuse me, Gussy. But what made you think of meditation?" "Oh, I just got to wonderin' in that direction," Gusterson said.
"In that case you shouldn't write memorandums or even take notes." "Maybe I shouldn't," Gusterson agreed lamely. "I'd have to think that over too." "Ha!" Fay jeered. "No, I'll tell you what your trouble is, Gussy. You're simply scared of this contraption.
Fay smiled. "It ought to please you that society still has a use for you outre inner-directed types. It takes something to make a junior executive stay aboveground after dark, when the missiles are on the prowl." "Society can't have much use for us or it'd pay us something," Gusterson sourly asserted, staring blankly at the tankless TV and kicking it lightly as he passed on.
"Didn't I hear somewhere that Trix is a secret subsidiary of Micro?" Gusterson demanded, rearing up from his ancient electric typewriter. "No, you're not stopping me writing, Fay it's the gut of evening. If I do any more I won't have any juice to start with tomorrow. I got another of my insanity thrillers moving. A real id-teaser.
He whipped off the sunglasses that all moles wore topside by day and began to pound Gusterson on the back while calling boisterously, "How are you, Gussy Old Boy, Old Boy?" Daisy came in from the kitchen to see why Gusterson was choking. She was instantly grabbed and violently bussed to the accompaniment of, "Hiya, Gorgeous! Yum-yum! How about ad-libbing that some weekend?"
He lifted his hands to his throat and unhooked the clasp of his cape, then hesitated. "You wear that thing to hide the hump your tickler makes?" Gusterson filled in. "You got better taste than those other moles." "Not to hide it, exactly," Fay protested, "but just so the others won't be jealous.
There's nothing to them at all. Pooh-Bah's precis, which he's just given to me, proves it." "Look," Gusterson said solemnly, "there's one thing I want you to do. Purely to humor an old friend. But I want you to do it. Read that memo yourself." "Certainly I will, Gussy," Fay continued in the same ebullient tones. "I'll read it " he twitched and his smile disappeared "a little later."
Leaving the hall door open Gusterson got out his .38 and cleaned and loaded it, meanwhile concentrating on a chess problem with the idea of confusing a hypothetical psionic monitor. By the time he had hid the revolver again he heard the elevator creaking back up.
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