Drug of Choice

Clark pushed him away from the desk, opened the drawer, and removed the gun. Alongside it in the drawer was a small tuning fork.

He held it up to Blood and smiled.

“Listen Roger,” Harvey Blood said, speaking very rapidly, “listen, we can work something out.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Listen, Roger, you’re being ridiculous. If you think by all this that you can stop the corporation—”

“I can stop you.”

“—you’re wrong. I’m not alone. Advance is not alone. All over the country, corporations are springing up. What we don’t do, somebody else will carry out. It’s impossible to stop us. It’s the wave of the future. It’s coming, like it or not.” Clark held the tuning fork loosely in his hand. “Don’t you see?” Harvey Blood said. “Don’t you understand? You’re fighting for a principle that doesn’t exist. Already you are manipulated, pushed, pulled, tugged by your world. Do you think a car is beautiful? If you do, it is only because somebody paid millions in advertising to make you think so. Do you find a woman attractive? If you do, it is only because someone planned the fashion, the clothing, the walk, the talk—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“Are you against drugs? If you are, you’re in the minority. The largest-selling prescription drugs in this country are tranquilizers and sedatives. Everybody takes them. Everybody wants them. Everybody loves—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“Do you want to live in a certain neighborhood? Do you find certain food tasty? Do you prefer certain climates, clothes, cars, paintings, movies, books, films, toilet paper, soap, toothpaste, singers? Don’t you see your preferences are all conditioned? Don’t you see you are manipulated every minute of your life? You’re manipulated by Proctor and Gamble, by Ford, by MGM, by Random House, by Brooks, by Bergdorf, by Revlon, by Upjohn—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m right,” Harvey Blood said, sweat pouring down his face. His eyes were fixed on the tuning fork. “I swear to God I’m right.”

“You’re wrong,” Clark said, and struck the tuning fork against the desk.

It hummed softly.

Harvey Blood did not move. He continued to stare at Clark, and his lips worked, but he did not speak. Clark watched with a kind of curiosity: he had never given the reversal drug in such a large dose before.

Harvey Blood screamed.

“They’re after me!” he cried. “They’re all after me!”

He sobbed, tears running down his cheeks. And then he began to pound his head against the desk.

Clark looked at his watch.

Four minutes.

He walked out of the room, hearing Harvey Blood’s cries, and the sound of his head thumping against polished mahogany.

The rest went quite smoothly. He hit the policeman at the front door across the back of the skull, then carried him, feet scraping, across the asphalt parking lot, dropping him onto the wet grass some distance from the building.

Three minutes.

He climbed into the limousine and started the engine. As he was about to pull out of the parking lot, a small sportscar came up and stopped by the entrance. A girl got out; he recognized Susan Ryle.

He called to her. She came over, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“There’s about to be an explosion,” he said, pointing to the building. “Right in there.”

“An explosion? What are you talking about?”

“Get into the car,” he said. She hesitated. “Get in!”

She climbed into the back seat. He checked his watch: a little more than two minutes.

He drove down to the road, turned left, and went two hundred yards. He pulled off and waited. From here, they could still see the building.

She said, “You’re really serious.” Her voice was awed and frightened.

“I really am, Susan.”

“My name isn’t Susan now. It’s Angela Sweet.”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s Susan once again.”

The seconds ticked by. Finally Susan said, “How do you know there’s going to be—”

She stopped. She understood. “You’re a madman,” she said.

“Apparently.” He grinned.

“You’re going to blow up that building?”

“Apparently.”

One minute left. He sighed.

“But you can’t do that. Everything is there — my costumes, the music, everything.” He shrugged. “The breaks.”

“How can you do this to me?” she wailed, and began to cry.

At that moment, the headquarters of Advance, Inc. exploded. Clark thought it was rather a nice explosion, one that built up slowly from a muffled roar to a giant hot fireball as chemical stores caught and blew. The building seemed to fly apart; the sky was filled with gas and burning sparks.

Susan watched, mouth open, and then sobbed loudly. “I hate you,” she said. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

“That’s all right,”

“I hope when they catch you they lock you up and throw away the key.”

“They may do that,” he said, starting the car and driving down the road.

“You’re completely insane,” she said. “Hopelessly insane.”

“That will be decided,” he said. He turned onto the freeway, and headed toward the police station. As he drove, he wondered if she were right. He wondered if he were really insane.

He decided that probably, he wasn’t.

But it was hard to be sure.