I wonder what the left one’s called, Charles Freck thought.

“The waitress we had last time was named Patty,” Barris said, eyeing the waitress grossly. “Same as the sandwich.”

“That must have been a different Patty from the sandwich. I think she spells it with an i.”

“Everything is super good,” Barris said. Over his head Charles Freck could see a thought balloon in which Beth was stripping off her clothes and moaning to be banged.

“Not with me,” Charles Freck said. “I got a lot of problems nobody else has.”

In a somber voice, Barris said, “More people than you’d think. And more each day. This is a world of illness, and getting progressively worse.” Above his head, the thought balloon got worse too.

“Would you like to order dessert?” Beth asked, smiling down at them.

“What like?” Charles Freck said with suspicion.

“We have fresh strawberry pie and fresh peach pie,” Beth said smiling, “that we make here ourselves.”

“No, we don’t want any dessert,” Charles Freck said. The waitress left. “That’s for old ladies,” he said to Barris, “those fruit pies.”

“The idea of turning yourself over for rehabilitation,” Barris said, “certainly makes you apprehensive. That’s a manifestation of purposeful negative symptoms, your fear. It’s the drug talking, to keep you out of New-Path and keep you from getting off it. You see, all symptoms are purposeful, whether they are positive or negative.”

“No shit,” Charles Freck muttered.

“The negative ones show up as the cravings, which are deliberately generated by the total body to force its owner—which in this case is you—to search frantically—”

“The first thing they do to you when you go into New-Path,” Charles Freck said, “is they cut off your pecker. As an object lesson. And then they fan out in all directions from there.”

“Your spleen next,” Barris said.

“They what, they cut—What does that do, a spleen?”

“Helps you digest your food.”

“How?”

“By removing the cellulose from it.”

“Then I guess after that—”

“Just noncellulose foods. No leaves or alfalfa.”

“How long can you live that way?”

Barris said, “It depends on your attitude.”

“How many spleens does the average person have?” He knew there usually were two kidneys.

“Depends on his weight and age.”

“Why?” Charles Freck felt keen suspicion.

“A person grows more spleens over the years. By the time he’s eighty—”

“You’re shitting me.”

Barris laughed. Always he had been a strange laugher, Charles Freck thought. An unreal laugh, like something breaking. “Why your decision,” Barris said presently, “to turn yourself in for residence therapy at a drug rehab center?”

“Jerry Fabin,” he said.

With a gesture of easy dismissal, Barris said, “Jerry was a special case. I once watched Jerry Fabin staggering around and falling down, shitting all over himself, not knowing where he was, trying to get me to look up and research what poison he’d got hold of, thallium sulfate most likely … it’s used in insecticides and to snuff rats. It was a burn, somebody paying him back. I could think of ten different toxins and poisons that might—”

“There’s another reason,” Charles Freck said. “I’m running low again in my supply, and I can’t stand it, this always running low and not knowing if I’m fucking ever going to see any more.”

“Well, we can’t even be sure we’ll see another sunrise.”

“But shit—I’m down so low now that it’s like a matter of days. And also … I think I’m being ripped off. I can’t be taking them that fast; somebody must be pilfering from my fucking stash.”

“How many tabs do you drop a day?”

“That’s very difficult to determine. But not that many.”

“A tolerance builds up, you know.”

“Sure, right, but not like that. I can’t stand running out and like that. On the other hand …” He reflected. “I think I got a new source. That chick, Donna. Donna something.”

“Oh, Bob’s girl.”

“His old lady,” Charles Freck said, nodding.

“No, he never got into her pants. He tries to.”

“Is she reliable?”

“Which way? As a lay or—” Barris gestured: hand to mouth and swallowing.

“What kind of sex is that?” Then he flashed on it. “Oh, yeah, the latter.”

“Fairly reliable. Scatterbrained, somewhat. Like you’d expect with a chick, especially the darker ones. Has her brain between her legs, like most of them. Probably keeps her stash there, too.” He chuckled. “Her whole dealer’s stash.”

Charles Freck leaned toward him. “Arctor never balled Donna? He talks about her like he did.”

Barris said, “That’s Bob Arctor. Talks like he did many things. Not the same, not at all.”

“Well, how come he never laid her? Can’t he get it on?”

Barris reflected wisely, still fiddling with his patty melt; he had now torn it into little bits. “Donna has problems. Possibly she’s on junk. Her aversion to bodily contact in general—junkies lose interest in sex, you realize, due to their organs swelling up from vasoconstriction. And Donna, I’ve observed, shows an inordinate failure of sexual arousal, to an unnatural degree. Not just toward Arctor but toward …” He paused grumpily. “Other males as well.”

“Shit, you just mean she won’t come across.”

“She would,” Barris said, “if she were handled right. For instance …” He glanced up in a mysterious fashion. “I can show you how to lay her for ninety-eight cents.”

“I don’t want to lay her. I just want to buy from her.” He felt uneasy. There was perpetually something about Barris that made his stomach uncomfortable. “Why ninety-eight cents?” he said. “She wouldn’t take money; she’s not turning tricks. Anyhow, she’s Bob’s chick.”

“The money wouldn’t be paid directly to her,” Barris said in his precise, educated way. He leaned toward Charley Freck, pleasure and guile quivering amid his hairy nostrils. And not only that, the green tint of his shades had steamed up. “Donna does coke. Anybody who would give her a gram of coke she’d undoubtedly spread her legs for, especially if certain rare chemicals were added in strictly scientific fashion that I’ve done painstaking research on.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” Charles Freck said. “About her. Anyhow, a gram of coke’s selling now for over a hundred dollars. Who’s got that?”

Half sneezing, Barris declared, “I can derive a gram of pure cocaine at a total cost to me, for the ingredients from which I get it, not including my labor, of less than a dollar.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’ll give you a demonstration.”

“Where do these ingredients come from?”

“The 7-11 store,” Barris said, and stumbled to his feet, discarding bits of patty melt in his excitement. “Get the check,” he said, “and I’ll show you. I’ve got a temporary lab set up at the house, until I can create a better one. You can watch me extract a gram of cocaine from common legal materials purchased openly at the 7-11 food store for under a dollar total cost.” He started down the aisle. “Come on.” His voice was urgent.

“Sure,” Charles Freck said, picking up the check and following. The mother’s dingey, he thought. Or maybe he isn’t. With all those chemistry experiments he does, and reading and reading at the county library … maybe there’s something to it. Think of the profit, he thought. Think what we could clear!

He hurried after Barris, who was getting out the keys to his Karmann Ghia as he strode, in his surplus flier’s jump suit, past the cashier.

They parked in the lot of the 7-11, got out and walked inside. As usual, a huge dumb cop stood pretending to read a strokebook magazine at the front counter; in actuality, Charles Freck knew, he was checking out everyone who entered, to see if they were intending to hit the place.

“What do we pick up here?” he asked Barris, who was casually strolling about the aisles of stacks of food.