Dayworld by Philip José Farmer Page B

Tuesday would not stay silent. It demanded that Tingle at least be Jeff Caird’s agent. That was all that Tingle was going to allow himself to be. Caird had to be regarded as someone who had temporarily employed Tingle to represent him in Wednesday.
    Tingle said, “I may have to work overtime.”
    “I’ll authorize it. No sweat.”
    Tingle grinned because Paz’s face was filmed with salty water.
    The reason given for overtime would be one more coverup. Lies bred lies, and their growing weight put immense stress on what they were supposed to ease.
    Paz’s cough sprang Tingle from his reveries. “Do you have anything to add?” Paz said. Tingle rose and said, “No. If that’s all ...”
    “Yes. If anything important comes along, notify me.”
    “Of course.”
    Tingle was biting his lip when he left the office. As he walked down the corridor, he felt bladder pressure. Halfway down the corridor, he turned right into a doorway above which was a sign: P & S. The anteroom gave onto a large room with off-white pseudomarble walls, ceiling, and floor. On his left was a long row of urinals above each of which was a strip displaying news programs. On his right was a row of cubicles from which came the muted voices of newscasters and soap opera actors, the flushing of a toilet, and groans.
    After looking along the unoccupied row, he chose a urinal in front of Channel 176. John “Big” Fokker Natchipal, its daytime caster, was a man whom Tingle detested. Thus, while he stood there, Tingle could imagine himself urinating on the ever-egregious Natchipal. Four screens away was the channel on which the fantastically beautiful and sexy Constant Tung delivered the news. But he had given up watching her—at least, in toilets—because he usually got an erection and that made it hard (no pun intended) to pee.
    However, this time his choice of station did not help him. He could hear her voice faintly, and that was enough to keep him thinking about her. While standing exasperated and frustrated, he became aware that someone was standing a few feet to his left. He turned his head toward her. She was wearing a brown jockey cap on which was a green circle enclosing a red star and a brown robe decorated with small green crux ansatas, looped Egyptian crosses. Her shoulderbag was large, green, and jammed full. Bright green shoes thrust their pointed snouts from under the hem of the robe.
    She was short, about five feet eight inches high, slim, and had short black hair gleaming like seal’s fur. Her face was delicate-boned, high-cheeked, and triangular. Her large dark brown eyes—also reminding him of a seal’s—stared at him. Though as beautiful as Tung, she did not have the same effect on him. Her rudeness made him angry.
    “Yes?” he said.
    Before she could answer, a woman entered, waved at Caird, said, “Good morning, Bob,” and disappeared into a cubicle.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you here,” the woman said in a husky but rapid voice, “I didn’t want to wait outside. I don’t like to waste time.”
    “Who are you, and what can I do for you?” he said harshly.
    Embarrassment and anger had deflated his penis, but he still was unable to urinate. He said, “I give up,” and he zipped his pants. He strode angrily to the washbowl while the woman followed him.
    She said, “I’m Detective-Major Panthea Pao Snick. I —”
    “I know who you are,” he said, looking at her in the mirror. “My superior, Colonel Paz, told me about you. He said—”
    “I know. I came into his office a few seconds after you left it.” He walked to the hot-air blower and punched its button. She followed him, saying, “I’m authorized to give only a minimum explanation about my mission. But I can and will demand full cooperation.”
    That meant that the North American Superorganic Council was backing her. Or that she was claiming more authority than she had because she could then get full cooperation. Tingle, as Caird, had done that more than