Free Dayworld by Philip José Farmer Page A

the bag and dropped the neck-chain over his head and onto his neck. He picked up the gun, which he had placed on the floor, and stuck it between the waistband and his body. He placed the bag on the stoner floor and closed the door. Inside the great cylinder was what had so far always passed as the relatively molecularly motionless body of Jefferson Cervantes Caird.
    Soon enough, it would be stoned.
    Blowing a kiss to Ozma as he left, he ran upstairs, opened the front door, closed it, sprang over the railing at the end of the front porch, and hastened under the trees to the east fence. Leaped over the white picket fence with a hand on it. Ran across the yard and under the trees. Up the front steps of the big building with many white columns that looked so much like Scarlett O’Hara’s mansion. Stopped at the front door to insert one tip of the ID star into the hole. Saw the light come on in the apartment lobby. Pushed in on the door and let it swing shut. Sped across the lobby to the wide staircase and up it to the second floor. Ran down the thickly carpeted corridor to Number 2E. Inserted the star tip again and entered the apartment living room. Raced down a narrow hail to the stoner room and darted to the left through a doorway. Fourteen cylinders here, much more closely spaced than in the basement of the house he had just left.
    Ten minutes after midnight.
    Never had he cut it so close. Never again would he have to, he hoped.
     
     
     

 
    7.
     
    Wednesday’s wife stared unseeingly at him through her window. He turned away from her to his own cylinder, which faced hers across a narrow aisle. It bore a plaque with the name ROBERT AQUILINE TINGLE. His own face looked at him through the window. Its door should have been locked since there was someone—no, some thing—inside it, and it should be unlocked only from the inside. Caird, however, had arranged that it could be opened.
    At the moment, he could do nothing with the air-inflated dummy. He ran from the room to the shower room, removing the gun and taking off the sash and blouse on the way. In the shower room, he punched a button, and the water began gushing at a preset pressure and temperature. The rest of his clothes came off, and he stepped under the water and began vigorously soaping himself. There was not time to do a thorough cleansing of the makeup; he stepped out while there were still paint streaks on his legs. He rubbed off these with a towel and then threw the towel into the hamper. He would dispose of that later, though the chances that his wife would see it were small. Taking another towel, he began rubbing himself, only to stop with a muttered exclamation. He reached over and punched the button to stop the shower.
    His hair was still too wet, but he did not have time to dry it completely. After putting the second towel on top of the first in the hamper, he picked up his Tuesday clothes, balled them, and put them under the towel. When he had the opportunity, he would hide the clothes and towel in his personal possessions closet or destroy them.
    Naked except for the neck-chain and ID star and holding the gun, he ran down the hallway and into the stoner room. Eighty seconds to go. He could get into the cylinder and try to find room beside the hard and unsqueezable replica or he could pretend that he was just coming out of the cylinder. The second action seemed more perilous. The microsecond that destoning power went on, his wife would probably open her eyes. She would see that the door was closed. Unless he stood in front of the window of his stoner until she had gone away, she would see that other face in the window. Even if she did not see it, she would wonder why he had gotten out of his cylinder before she did. And he would have a hell of a time explaining why he kept standing in front of the cylinder window.
    “Choices of equal misfortune,” he muttered.
    Cursing, he opened the door and sidled in, bent over. Ten seconds to go. His foot hit the