guffaw.  His  European  smile  ignores  the  mis-
behavior  of a  child or  an animal.  He goes  on smoothly
in  his  eerily  unaccented,  disembodied   English.  "Our
Old Faithful Bacillus Koch." The  doctor clicks  his heels
and  bows  his  head.   "Otherwise  they   would  multiply
their stupid peasant asshole into the sea, is it  not?" He
shrieks,  thrusting  his face  into Carl's.  Carl retreats
sideways with the grey wall of rain behind him.
  "Isn't there some place where he can be treated?"
  "I think  there is  some sort  of sanitarium,"  he drags
out  the  word  with  ambiguous  obscenity,  "up   at  the
District Capital. I will write for you the address."
  "Chemical therapy?"
  His voice falls Hat and heavy in the damp air.
  "Who  can  say.   They  are   all  stupid   peasants,  and
the  worst  of  all  peasants  are  the  so-called educated.
These  people  should  not  only  be  prevented  from learn-
ing to  read, but  from learning  to talk  as well.  No need
to prevent them from thinking; nature has done that."
  "Here  is  the  address,"  the  doctor  whispered  without
moving his lips.
  He  dropped  a  pill  of  paper  into  Carl's   hand.  His
dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt, rested on Carl's sleeve.
  "There is the matter of my fee."
  Carl   slipped   him   a   wadded   banknote...   and  the
doctor  faded  into  the  grey  twilight, seedy  and furtive
as an old junky.

  Carl  saw  Joselito  in a  big clean  room full  of light,
with  private  bath  and   concrete  balcony.   And  nothing
to  talk  about  there  in  the   cold  empty   room,  water
hyacinths   growing  in   a  yellow   bowl  and   the  China
blue  sky  and drifting  clouds, fear  flickering in  and out
of  his  eyes.  When  he  smiled  the  fear  flew   away  in
little  pieces of  light, lurked  enigmatically in  the high
cool  corners  of  the room.  And what  could I  say feeling
death  around  me,  and  the   little  broken   images  that
come before sleep, there in the mind?
  "They  will  send  me  to  the  new  sanitarium  tomorrow.
Come and visit me. I will be there alone."
  He coughed and took a codeineeta.
  "Doctor  I  understand,  that  is  I  have  been  given to
understand,  I  have  read  and  heard --  not a  medical man
myself  --  don't  pretend  to be-that  the concept  of sani-
tarium  treatment  has  been   more  or   less  supplanted,
or  at  least  very  definitely  supplemented,  by  chemical
therapy.  Is  this accurate  in your  opinion? What  I mean
to say is, Doctor, please tell me in all sincerity,  as one
human  being  to another,  what is  your opinion  of chemi-
cal versus sanitarium therapy? Are you a partisan?"
  The  doctor's  liver  sick  Indian  face  was blank  as a
dealer's.
  "Completely  modern,  as  you   can  see,"   he  gestures
toward  the  room  with  the  purple  fingers of  bad circu-
lation.  "Bath...  water...  flowers.  The  lot."   He  fin-
ished  in   Cockney  English   with  a   triumphant  smirk.
"I will write for you a letter."
  "This letter? For the sanitarium?"
  The  doctor  was  speaking  from  a  land of  black rocks
and  great,  iridescent  brown  lagoons.  "The furniture...
modern and comfortable. You find it so of course?"

  Carl  could  not  see  the  sanitarium  owing to  a false
front  of  green stucco  topped by  an intricate  neon sign
dead and sinister  against the  sky, waiting  for darkness.
The  sanitarium  was  evidently  built  on  a  great  lime-
stone  promontory,  over  which  flowering  trees  and vine
tendrils  broke  in   waves.  The   smell  of   flowers  was
heavy in the air.
  The  commandante  sat  at  a  long  wooden  trestle under
a  vine  trellis.  He  was  doing  absolutely  nothing.  He
took  the  letter  that  Carl  handed  him   and  whispered
through  it,  reading  his  lips  with  the  left  hand. He
stuck the letter on a spike over a  toilet. He  began tran-
scribing  from a  ledger full  of numbers.  He wrote  on and
on.
  Broken  images  exploded  softly  in  Carl's  head, and
he was moving  out of  himself in  a silent  swoop. Clear
and sharp from a  great distance  he saw  himself sitting
in  a  lunchroom.  Overdose  of H.  His old  lady shaking
him and holding hot coffee under his nose.
  Outside  an  old  junky  in  Santa  Claus  suit selling
Christmas  seals. "Fight  tuberculosis, folks,"  he whis-
pers  in  his  disembodied,  junky voice.  Salvation Army
choir  of  sincere,  homosexual  football  coaches sings:
"In the Sweet Bye and Bye."
  Carl  drifted back  into his  body, an  earthbound junk
ghost.
  "I could bribe him, of course."
  The  commandante  taps  the   table  with   one  finger
and  hums  "Coming  Through  the  ъye."  Far  away,  then
urgently near like a  foghorn a  split second  before the
grinding crash.
  Carl pulled a note half out  of his  trouser pocket....
The  commandante  was  standing  by   a  vast   panel  of
lockers  and  deposit  boxes.  He  looked  at  Carl, sick
animal  eyes gone  out, dying  inside, hopeless  fear re-
flecting the face of death. In the smell of flowers a note
half out of his pocket, the  weakness hit  Carl, shutting
of  his breath,  stopping his  blood. He  was in  a great
cone spinning down to a black point.
  "Chemical  therapy?" The  scream shot  out of  his flesh
through  empty  locker rooms  and barracks,  musty resort
hotels, and  spectral, coughing  corridors of  T,B. sani-
tariums,  the  muttering,  hawking, grey  dishwater smell
of  flophouses  and  Old  Men's  Homes, great,  dusty cus-
tom  sheds  and  warehouses,  through   broken  porticoes
and  smeared  arabesques,  iron  urinals worn  paper thin
by the urine  of a  million fairies,  deserted weed-grown
privies with a musty smell  of shit  turning back  to the
soil, erect wooden phallus on the grave of  dying peoples
plaintive as leaves in the wind,  across the  great brown
river where  whole trees  float with  green snakes  in the
branches  and sad-eyed  lemurs watch  the shore  out over
a vast plain  (vulture wings  husk in  the dry  air). The
way  is  strewn  with  broken  condoms  and empty  H caps
and  K.Y. tubes  squeezed dry  as bone  meal in  the sum-
mer sun.
  "My  furniture."  The  commandante's  face  burned like
metal in the  Hash bulb  of urgency.  His eyes  went out.
A whif  of ozone  drifted through  the room.  The "novia"
muttered over her candles and altars in one corner.
  "It  is all  Trak... modern,  excellent..." he  is nod-
ding  idiotically  and  drooling. A  yellow cat  pulls at
Carl's pant leg and runs onto a concrete  balcony. Clouds
drift by.
  "I could get back my deposit. Start  me a  little busi-
ness  someplace." He  nods and  smiles like  a mechanical
toy.
  "Joselito!!!"  Boys  look  up  from street  ball games,
bull  rings  and bicycle  races as  the name  whistles by
and slowly fades away.
  "Joselito!...   Paco!...   Pepe!...   Enrique!..."  The
plaintive  boy  cries  drift  in on  the warm  night. The
Trak sign stirs like a nocturnal  beast, and  bursts into
blue flame.
THE BLACK MEAT

"We friends, yes?"
The  shoe  shine  boy  put  on  his hustling  smile and
looked up into the Sailor's dead, cold,  undersea eyes,
eyes without a trace of warmth or lust  or hate  or any
feeling  the  boy  had ever  experienced in  himself or
seen in another, at once  cold and  intense, impersonal
and predatory.
The  Sailor  leaned  forward  and put  a finger  on the
boy's inner arm  at the  elbow. He  spoke in  his dead,
junky whisper.
"With veins like that, Kid, I'd have myself a time."
He  laughed,  black  insect  laughter  that  seemed  to
serve some obscure function of orientation like a bat's
squeak.  The  Sailor  laughed  three times.  He stopped
laughing  and  hung  there  motionless  listening  down
into  himself. He  had picked  up the  silent frequency
of junk.  His face  smoothed out  like yellow  wax over
the high cheek-bones. He waited  half a  cigarette. The
Sailor  knew  how  to wait.  But his  eyes burned  in a
hideous dry hunger.  He turned  his face  of controlled
emergency  in a  slow half  pivot to  case the  man who
had just come  in. "Fats"  Terminal sat  there sweeping
the  cafe  with  blank, periscope  eyes. When  his eyes
passed the Sailor he nodded  minutely. Only  the peeled
nerves of junk sickness would  have registered  a move-
ment.
The  Sailor  handed  the  boy a  coin. He  drifted over
to  Fat's  table with  his floating  walk and  sat down.
They sat a  long time  in silence.  The cafe  was built
into one side of a stone ramp at the  bottom of  a high
white  canyon  of  masonry.  Faces  of  The  City  poured
through silent as fish, stained with vile  addictions and
insect lusts. The lighted cafe was  a diving  bell, cable
broken, settling into black depths.
  The Sailor  was polishing  his nails  on the  lapels of
his glen plaid suit.  He whistled  a little  tune through
his shiny, yellow teeth.
  When  he  moved  an  effluvia  of  mold drifted  out of
his  clothes,  a  musty smell  of deserted  locker rooms.
He studied his nails with phosphorescent intensity.
  "Good  thing  here,  Fats. I  can deliver  twenty. Need
an advance of course."
  "On spec?"
  "So  I  don't  have  the  twenty eggs  in my  pocket. I
tell  you it's  jellied consomme,  One little  whoops and
a push." The Sailor  looked at  his nails  as if  he were
studying a chart. "You know I always deliver."
  "Make  it  thirty. And  a ten  tube advance.  This time
tomorrow.
  "Need a tube now, Fats."
  "Take a walk, you'll get one."
  The  Sailor  drifted  down  into  the  Plaza.  A street
boy  was  shoving  a  newspaper in  the Sailor's  face to
cover his  hand on  the Sailor's  pen. The  Sailor walked
on. He pulled  the pen  out and  broke it  like a  nut in
his thick, fibrous, pink  fingers. He  pulled out  a lead
tube. He cut one  end of  the tube  with a  little curved
knife.  A  black  mist  poured  out and  hung in  the air
like boiling fur. The Sailor's face dissolved.  His mouth
undulated  forward  on  a  long  tube  and sucked  in the
black  fuzz, vibrating  in supersonic  peristalsis disap-
peared in a silent,  pink explosion.  His face  came back
into  focus  unbearably  sharp  and  clear,   burning  yellow
brand  of  junk  searing  the  grey   haunch  of   a  million
screaming junkies.
  "This  will  last  a  month,"  he  decided,  consulting  an
invisible mirror.
  All  streets  of  the  City  slope  down   between  deepen-
ing  canyons  to   a  vast,   kidney-shaped  plaza   full  of
darkness.  Walls  of  street  and  plaza  are  perforated  by
dwelling  cubicles  and   cafes,  some   a  few   feet  deep,
others  extending  out  of sight  in a  network of  rooms and
corridors.
  At  all  levels  criss-cross of  bridges, cat  walks, cable
cars.  Catatonic  youths  dressed  as   women  in   gowns  of
burlap   and   rotten   rags,   faces  heavily   and  crudely
painted  in  bright  colors  over   a  strata   of  beatings,
arabesques  of  broken,  suppurating   scars  to   the  pearly
bone,  push   against  the   passer-by  in   silent  clinging
insistence.
  Traffickers  in  the   Black  Meat,   flesh  of   the  giant
aquatic  black  centipede  --  sometimes  attaining  a  length
of six feet -- found in a lane of black rocks  and iridescent,
brown   lagoons,  exhibit   paralyzed  crustaceans   in  cam-
ouflage  pockets  of  the  Plaza  visible  only  to  the  Meat
Eaters.
  Followers   of   obsolete   unthinkable   trades,  doodling
in  Etruscan,  addicts  of drugs  not yet  synthesized, black
marketeers  of   World  War   III,  excisors   of  telepathic
sensitivity,  osteopaths  of  the  spirit,  investigators  of
infractions  denounced  by  bland  paranoid   chess  players,
servers  of   fragmentary  warrants   taken  down   in  hebe-
phrenic   shorthand   charging  unspeakable   mutilations  of
the spirit, officials of unconstituted police  states, brokers
of exquisite dreams and nostalgias  tested on  the sensi-
tized cells of junk sickness and  bartered for  raw mate-
rials of the will, drinkers of the Heavy Fluid  sealed in
translucent amber of dreams.
  The  Meet  Cafe  occupies  one  side  of  the  Plaza, a
maze of kitchens, restaurants, sleeping  cubicles, peril-
ous  iron  balconies  and  basements  opening   into  the
underground baths.
  On  stools  covered  in  white  satin  sit  naked  Mug-
wumps   sucking   translucent,  colored   syrups  through
alabaster  straws.  Mugwumps  have  no liver  and nourish
themselves  exclusively  on  sweets.   Thin,  purple-blue
lips cover a razor-sharp  beak of  black bone  with which
they  frequently  tear  each  other  to shreds  in fights
over clients. These creatures secrete an  addicting fluid
from  their erect  penises which  prolongs life  by slow-
ing  metabolism.  (In  fact  all  longevity  agents  have
proved addicting  in exact  ratio to  their effectiveness
in  prolonging  life.  )  Addicts  of  Mugwump  fluid are
known  as  ъeptiles. A  number of  these How  over chairs
with  their  flexible  bones  and  black-pink flesh.  A fan
of green  cartilage covered  with hollow,  erectile hairs
through  which  the  ъeptiles  absorb  the  fluid sprouts
from  behind  each ear.  The fans,  which move  from time
to time touched  by invisible  currents, serve  also same
form of communication known only to ъeptiles.
  During  the  biennial  Panics  when  the   raw,  pealed
Dream   Police   storm  the   City,  the   Mugwumps  take
refuge in the deepest crevices of the wall  sealing them-
selves  in  clay cubicles  and remain  for weeks  in bio-
stasis. In those days  of grey  terror the  ъeptiles dart
about  faster  and  faster,  scream  past  each  other at
supersonic speed, their flexible skulls flapping in black
winds of insect agony.
  The  Dream  Police  disintegrate  in  globs  of  rotten
ectoplasm  swept  away  by  an  old  junky,  coughing and
spitting   in   the   sick   morning.  The   Mugwump  Man
comes with alabaster jars of fluid  and the  ъeptiles get
smoothed out.
  The air is once again still and clear as glycerine.
  The  Sailor spotted  his ъeptile.  He drifted  over and
ordered a green syrup.  The ъeptile  had a  little, round
disk mouth  of brown  gristle, expressionless  green eyes
almost  covered  by  a  thin  membrane  of   eyelid.  The
Sailor  waited  an  hour  before  the creature  picked up
his presence.
  "Any  eggs  for  Fats?"  he  asked, his  words stirring
through the ъeptile's fan hairs.
  It took two hours for the ъeptile  to raise  three pink
transparent fingers covered with black fuzz.
  Several Meat  Eaters lay  in vomit,  too weak  to move.
(The  Black  Meat  is like  a tainted  cheese, overpower-
ingly  delicious and  nauseating so  that the  eaters eat
and vomit and eat again until they fall exhausted.)
  A  painted  youth slithered  in and  seized one  of the
great black claws sending the  sweet, sick  smell curling
through the cafe.

        HOSPITAL

  Disintoxication Notes. Paranoia of early withdrawal.
  . Everything looks blue.... Flesh dead, doughy,
toneless.
  Withdrawal  Nightmares.  A  mirror-lined  cafe. Empty.
...Waiting  for  something....  A man  appears in  a side
door.... A slight, short Arab dressed in a  brown jellaba
with grey beard and grey  face... There  is a  pitcher of
boiling acid  in my  hand.... Seized  by a  convulsion of
urgency, I throw it in his face....
  Everyone looks like a drug addict....
  Take  a  little walk  in the  hospital patio....  In my
absence someone has  used my  scissors, they  are stained
with  some  sticky,  red  brown  gick....  No  doubt that
little bitch of a criada trimming her rag.
  Horrible-looking Europeans clutter  up the  stairs, in-
tercept  the  nurse  when  I  need  my   medicine,  empty
piss  into  the  basin  when  I  am  washing,  occupy the
toilet for hours on end -- probably  fishing for  a finger
stall of diamonds they have stashed up their asshole....
  In  fact  the  whole  clan  of  Europeans has  moved in
next  to  me....The  old mother  is having  an operation,
and  her  daughter  move  right  in to  see the  old gash
receive  proper  service.  Strange  visitors,  presumably
relatives...  One  of  them wears  as glasses  those gad-
gets jewelers screw into their  eyes to  examine stones.
...Probably  a  diamond-cutter  on  the skids...  The man
who   loused   up  the   Throckmorton  Diamond   and  was
drummed  out  of  the  industry....  All  these  jewelers
standing around the Diamond in  their frock  coats, wait-
ing  on  The  Man.  An  error  of  one  thousandth  of an
inch  ruins  the rock  complete and  they have  to import
this  character  special  from Amsterdam  to do  the job.
...So  he  reels  in dead  drunk with  a huge  air hammer
and pounds the diamond to dust....
  I  don't  check these  citizens.... Dope  peddlers from
Aleppo?...  Slunk  traffickers  from  Buenos  Aires?  Il-
legal   diamond   buyers  from   Johannesburg?...  Slave
traders  from  Somaliland?  Collaborators  at  the  very
least...
  Continual dreams  of junk:  I am  looking for  a poppy
field....  Moonshiners  in black  Stetsons direct  me to
a Near East cafe.... One of the waiters is  a connection
for Yugoslav opium....
  Buy  a  packet  of  heroin  from  a  Malay  Lesbian in
white belted trenchcoat.... I cop  the paper  in Tibetan
section of a museum. She keeps trying to steal  it back.
...I am looking for a place to fix....
  The  critical  point  of withdrawal  is not  the early
phase of acute sickness,  but the  final step  free from
the  medium  of junk....There  is a  nightmare interlude
of cellular panic,  life suspended  between two  ways of
being....  At this  point the  longing for  junk concen-
trates in a last, all-out yen, and seems to gain a dream
power:  circumstances  put  junk  in  your  way....  You
meet  an  old-time Schmecker,  a larcenous  hospital at-
tendant, a writing croaker....

  A  guard  in  a  uniform  of  human  skin,  black buck
jacket  with  carious yellow  teeth buttons,  an elastic
pullover shirt in  burnished Indian  copper, adolescent-
nordic-sun-tan slacks, sandals from calloused foot soles
of  young  Malayan  farmer,  an ash-brown  scarf knotted
and  tucked  in the  shirt. (Ash-brown  is a  color like
grey under brown skin.  You sometimes  find it  in mixed
Negro  and  white  stock,  the mixture  did not  come of
and the colors separated out like oil on water.... )
  The Guard  is a  sharp dresser,  since he  has nothing
to  do  and  saves  all his  pay to  buy fine  clothes and
changes three times  a day  in front  of an  enormous mag-
nifying  mirror.  He  has  a  Latin  handsome-smooth  face
with  a  pencil  line  mustache,  small black  eyes, blank
and greedy, undreaming insect eyes.
  When  I  get  to  the  frontier  the  Guard  rushes  out
of  his casita,  a mirror  in a  wooden frame  slung round
his neck. He is trying to get the mirror off  his neck....
This  has  never  happened  before,  that  anyone  reached
the  frontier.  The  Guard has  injured his  larynx taking
of  the  mirror  frame....  He has  lost his  voice.... He
opens  his  mouth,   you  can   see  the   tongue  jumping
around  inside.  The  smooth  blank  young  face  and  the
open  mouth  with  the  tongue   moving  inside   are  in-
credibly  hideous.  The  Guard  holds  up  his  hand.  His
whole  body  jerks  in  convulsive  negation.  I  go  over
and  unhook the  chain across  the road.  It falls  with a
clank  of  metal  on  stone.  I  walk  through.  The Guard
stands  there  in  the  mist  looking  after  me.  Then he
hooks the chain up again,  goes back