Paul lit a cigarette for her. She scowled at him, then dipped her face toward the flame. Then she walked away and sunk herself into the hotel-supplied couch. I could tell it was the hotel's, because it was one solid color.

“Something wrong?” Paul asked.

She didn't say anything. They entered the living room. She closed the door behind him. “Go ahead. Make your speech."

“No speech. Just a few rules. For one, you tell me everything. Where you're going to be, how long you intend to be there."

“Even before I pee?"

“Even then."

“What if I can't predict how long it will take my urine to leave my body?

Paul ignored her. “Rule two. When I'm not with you, you stay inside this room."

“Or unless Richard takes me out to dinner."

“Obviously."

“Although,” Susannah continued, “I'm not sure what he could do to protect me. I mean, he's not you."

Paul ignored that, too. After a few moments of heavy silence, Susannah asked, “That it? Two eensy-weensy rules?"

“That's it."

“Okay. I have a few eensy-weensy rules of my own. Whenever we're out, I'm going to introduce you as my cousin. No one needs to know anything; no one is to infer anything. I have a reputation to protect in this town. Understood?"

“I'm a professional, Ms. Winston."

She ignored him. “Is-that-un-der-stood?"

“Yes, my massah."

“Repeat it."

“It-is-un-der-stood.” Paul stared off, out the window to the skyline. “You know, for a minute there last night, I thought we'd both get along."

Susannah looked at him coldly, then broke into a smile. “I like you Paul. However, image is very important."

“Oh. Am I the disreputable type?"

“That remains to be seen, young man.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.

“I seem to make you nervous, Mrs. Robinson."

“Nothing makes me nervous, silly boy."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Again, I couldn't read Paul's mind, but I was sure he was waiting for Susannah to take the lead. I know I would. Maybe he could get away with earning a paycheck by hanging out in an air-conditioned hotel room all day, eating room service meals and swapping cheap paperback novels back and forth. Then again, I'm sure Paul doubted it could be that easy.

“So,” said Susannah. “What should we do?"

“What do you normally do?"

“My every day routine you mean? Oh, nothing much. Eat breakfast, read the newspaper, shop, get high, polish my toenails and try to avoid death."

“Very funny."

“I'm sorry, Paul. I didn't plan any serious activities for us today."

“You don't have to entertain me."

“Still, I'm being a poor hostess."

My God, I thought. Was this an assignment, or a first date?

“Do you blow grass?” Susannah asked.

“Only when I'm cleaning my lawnmower."

Susannah laughed, and seemingly, let down her guard. Along with her polished Smith speaking voice. “Man, you're a trip. Hey-what do you say we get drunk?"

To my surprise, I heard Paul respond: “Sounds like a fine idea to me."

Now this was real trouble. Let me take a moment to explain why.

Whenever I took my alcoholic pleasure inside the Brain Hotel, there were no worries. Inside, there was no such thing as a hangover. Unless, of course, you insisted on one, for reality's sake.

But whenever I (or, whoever happened to be in control of the body) drank real alcohol, all kinds of bad things started to happen. Brain plumbing started to go. Brain toilets backed up. Brain walls tremored, and sometimes, even disappeared. Some personal Brain affects would suddenly vanish, too. I've had problems with sensitive case files going missing. I'm not sure if was the impact of alcohol on the normal processes of my physical brain, or if it was completely psychological. Either way, it was a miserable experience for all involved.

What-you thought I drank Fresca for the taste?

This of course, I only heard second hand. I've never been inside the Brain Hotel when the physical brain became intoxicated. But I heard the complaints for weeks. I had to warn Paul.

Paul called room service and ordered a bottle of Tangueray, a bottle of tonic, a bucket of ice, half a case of beer, a couple of bottles of soda water. I couldn't believe it until I saw it being delivered only minutes later, despite it being 9:30 in the morning.

“Paul,” I said into the lobby mike. “I have to speak with you."

What can I mix you? Susannah asked up on the screen, wheeling the cart into her living room.

“Right now,” I insisted.

A scotch and water, please. Excuse me a minute, will you?

Of course, she said.

Paul walked us into the bathroom, closed the door, flicked the light over the mirror and stared at himself. What is it? he whispered.

I carefully reminded Paul about the personal dangers of alcohol consumption. He sighed, then shook his head.

What do you think I am? A rube? I wasn't planning on drinking.

“Then what's the gin for? Window-washing?"

Alcohol is a social lubricant. If Ms. Winston thinks I'm intoxicated, she'll relax and become intoxicated, too. Most likely, she'll pass out and I'll have the rest of the day to kick back and relax.

“How professional."

Hey-you have your ways of running things, and so do I. Now if you're through with the A.A. lecture, I have our client to attend to.

“Cheers,” I told him.

I flipped off the lobby mike and watched Paul turn away from the mirror and flick off the lights. He walked back into the living room where Susannah was waiting for him with a drink. Here you go, she said. Bottoms up.

Tough assignment.

I tried going back to study my Association notes, but the thought of what was happening in the real world kept me distracted. In the end, I retreated to Old Tom's for a Brain drink. Fuck the Fresca.

Sixteen

Deja Rendezvous

The first week continued in a similar vein. Paul would jerk me out of my slumber, having already seized control of my body, and I'd be forced to wander down to Old Tom's for a morning pick-me-up. Tom made a mean order of scrambled eggs and greasy, fatty bacon, along with a big tumbler of cold tomato juice. However, I started to miss waking up in reality. Damn-after a few days, I realized I missed taking my first morning leak. A Brain piss didn't cut it. Someday, I was sure, some psych researcher would confirm that the male urination ritual set the tone for the day to follow: a healthy, horse-powered piss would indicate a take-charge day, while a sporadic, split-stream piss would indicate a day of indecision and discontent. Lord knows what a researcher would think of a piss in one's own mind.

Most of the residents in the Brain Hotel didn't bother installing a bathroom in their quarters. I was one of the few; I aimed for verisimilitude whenever possible.

While Paul spent the day with Susannah drinking (or faking it), shopping, or watching movies at one of the many theaters within walking distance of the hotel, I'd be compiling and organizing evidence. I needed to see everything laid out in front of me, so I spent a lot of time re-typing and editing the daily accounts stored in my numerous filing cabinets. It was amazing how fast they filled-every second I spent in reality translated into a few words, maybe of sentence, or notes. Already, there was a folder full of notes from Paul After's case. Incredible, the Brain's storage system.

“Which, of course, lends credence to the fact that you are one self-contained mega-sped processing computer from the future,” said a voice. The Ghost of Fieldman. Uninvited as always.