Symbiography by William Hjortsberg Read Free Book Online Page A

ninepins, the laughing bowlers in ancient beer commercials.)
    After the ritual formality and uniform chanting of the presentation ceremony, the Exalted One raised the masking flap of his hood and revealed a surprisingly warm and friendly face. His eyes, sinister and snake-like when isolated behind the slitted openings in the anonymous cloth, seemed benign and understanding. The Grand Dragon beckoned for Buick to come forward, and the boy knelt on the step before the shaft-mounted throne.
    While the Holy Brotherhood looked on in silence, the Grand Dragon whispered confidentially to Buick, embroidering his narrative of renegade harassment with an amount of skillful flattery and pausing occasionally for an avuncular smile to look straight into Buick’s praise-brightened eyes. In the end, the boy proclaimed his allegiance to Kodak, his ardent voice audible throughout the hall.
    “Amen,” the Brotherhood chanted.
    The Grand Dragon clapped his hands and called for the sacred vessels; a gong took up the summons; robed attendants passed through the room, filling the shallow metal bowls with wine; a hundred voices joined in common pledge. The Grand Dragon drank first. Buick reverently raised the holy dish to his lips. (Hubcaps, mused the Dreamer as he tasted the sour sacramental wine.)”
    “Par … ? Are you there, Par?” Omar Tarquille, the Syndicate Executive, crossed the patio of the Dreamer’s house, a scowl of consternation scrawled across his features like the unskilled signature of an apprentice forger.
    “No sign of him down below,” puffed the Security Agent, out-of-breath from the unaccustomed effort of walking in the open air. “Any luck here?”
    “No, not a trace.” Tarquille stared at the flagstone terrace where their rocketsled sat, tilted like an oversized silver top beside the ornamental pond. “If he’s not inside, we’ll have to search the woods.”
    The Security Agent grunted with displeasure. “What a place to live; insects and snakes and what-all.” The prospect of tramping through the woods was enough to dampen any man’s enthusiasm. “Let’s have a look in the house.”
    The two men approached the sealed entrance. The Security Agent tapped out a code-number on his portocall and waited a few seconds while the machines back at headquarters ran through the classified files and located the combination to the Dreamer’s house. He dialed the secret numbers on the doorplate and the wide, circular entrance slid silently open, expanding from the center like an iris. Only members of the Security Agency were authorized to enter a citizen’s home without consent, and Tarquille waited outside while the Agent stepped into the hall and asked the computer where he could find Mr. Sondak.
    “Mr. Sondak is not to be disturbed,” the laconic voice answered.
    “Is he alive?”
    “His health is excellent.”
    “And where is he now?”
    “In the studio … dreaming.”
    “Well, Mr. Tarquille,” the Agent said, “looks like everything is in order here.”
    “Nonsense. No one stays hooked-up for a month, not even a Dreamer. I have a Committee order stating that I am to see Mr. Sondak, and I mean to see him and not be put off by some computer.”
    The arrangements were simple. The Agent took the computer’s serial number and checked it with his portocall, receiving in return the code-coordinates for countermanding programmed instructions. A new program was written and the computer directed the two men down the metal corridor to the studio. They found Sondak sitting naked on the edge of the ovoid chamber, rubbing his eyes and scratching under his arm. “Why, Omar,” he yawned, “what are you doing here?”
    “No cause for alarm, Mr. Sondak. I’m Security Agent Justin Sattermeyer.” He pointed to the golden disk on his service belt. “We’re here with Executive Committee authorization. There’s been some concern expressed regarding your whereabouts and the state of your health.”
    “Par, I’ve