Free The illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Shea, Robert Anton Wilson Page B

of social graces.
    “I say,” 00005 muttered, “this is going to be a bit
thick.”
    But he cheered up quickly, for he knew that Fernando Poo would be equipped at least with a bevy of tawny-skinned or coffee-colored females, and such women were the Holy Grail to him. Besides, he had already formed his own theory about Fernando Poo: he was convinced that BUGGER—Blowhard’s Unreformed Gangsters, Goons, and Espionage Renegades, an international conspiracy of criminals and double agents, led by the infamous and mysterious Eric “the Red” Blowhard—was behind it all. 00005 had never heard of the Illuminati.
    In fact, 00005, despite his dark hair combed straight back, his piercing eyes, his cruel and handsome face, his trim athlete’s body, and his capacity to penetrate any number of females and defenestrate any number of males in the course of duty, was not really an ideal intelligence agent. He had grown up reading Ian Fleming novels and one day, at the age of twenty-one, looked in the mirror, decided he was everything a Fleming hero should be, and started a campaign to get into the spy game. After fourteen years in bureaucratic burrowing, he finally arrived in one of the intelligence services, but it was much more the kind of squalid and bumbling organization in which Harry Palmer had toiled his cynical days away than it was a berth of Bondage. Nevertheless, 00005 did his best to refurbish and glamorize the scene and, perhaps because God looks after fools, he hadn’t managed to get himself killed in any of the increasingly bizarre missions to which he was assigned. The missions were all weird, at first, because nobody took them seriously—they were all based on wild rumors that had to be checked out just in case there be some truth in them—but later it was realized that 00005’s peculiar schizophrenia was well suited to certain real problems, just as the schizoid of the more withdrawn type is ideal for a “sleeper” agent since he could easily forget what was conventionally considered his real self. Of course, nobody at any time ever took BUGGER seriously, and, behind his back, 00005’s obsession with this organization was a subject of much interdepartmental humor.
    “Wonderful as it was,” Mary Lou said, “some of it was scary.”
    “Why?” Simon asked
.
    “All those hallucinations. I thought I might be losing my mind.”
    Simon lit another joint and passed it over to her. “What makes you think, even now, that it was just hallucinations?” he asked
.
    ROCK ROCK ROCK TILL BROAD DAYLIGHT
    “If that was real” Mary Lou said firmly, “everything else in my life has been a hallucination”
    Simon grinned. “Now,” he said calmly, “you’re getting the point.”

THE SECOND TRIP, OR CHOKMAH
Hopalong Horus Rides Again
    Hang on for some metaphysics. The Aneristic Principle is that of order, the Eristic Principle is that of disorder. On the surface, the Universe seems (to the ignorant) to be ordered; this is the aneristic illusion. Actually, what order is “there” is imposed on primal chaos in the same sense that a person’s name is draped over his actual self. It is the job of the scientist, for example, to implement this principle in a practical manner and some are quite brilliant at it. But on closer examination, order disolves into disorder, which is the ERISTIC ILLUSION.
    —Malaclypse the Younger, K.S.C.,
Principia Discordia
                      
    And Spaceship Earth, that glorious and bloody circus, continued its four-billion-year-long spiral orbit about the Sun; the engineering, I must admit, was so exquisite that none of the passengers felt any motion at all. Those on the dark side of the ship mostly slept and voyaged into worlds of freedom and fantasy; those on the light side moved about the tasks appointed for them by their rulers, or idled waiting for the next order from above. In Las Vegas, Dr. Charles Mocenigo woke from another nightmare and went to the toilet to