We settled on a sofa and armchairs, around a low sleek table that might have been by Ruhlmann, on which stood foot-tall Art Deco sculptures of exotic dancers that appeared to be by Chiparus.
The concealed Glock pressed uncomfortably against my right hip, but I was glad to have it. Tim’s deference and fervent geniality were the cake-frosting-like gloss on a pile of guano; even if he might be sincere, beneath his pretty icing was a pile of shit.
Taking her cue from Panthea, Bridget leaned forward in her chair. With her eyes as wide as those of a child in a Keane painting, she asked, “Do your soul siblings sleep connected to oxygen tanks, like the Asians on the floor above?”
Tim looked surprised and hesitated before deciding to turn up the dial on his affability generator as well as accord us a greater measure of respect. “You’re of that class of visitors to whom all doors are open. I’m sorry not to have realized this sooner. You’ve been modest in the presentation of yourselves. Rest assured, the desires that have brought you here will be fulfilled at least twice over, and the transcendence you seek will be yours.” Those words seemed to have come from the ship’s chaplain. The social director took control of the Tim entity again. “The twelve unfortunates you saw sleeping are typical Moujiks. They would oppress us if we didn’t harness them to a better purpose and reeducate them.” He smiled and shook his head and held his arms out and up in a palm-raised gesture of exasperation. “What else can be done with such sad people? But my soul siblings and I are all blithe spirits, freed from all chains of oppression and ignorance. We need no sedation to sleep, because we have no yearnings unfulfilled, no desires thwarted, no regrets. We live to live! To delight each other and ourselves. You’ll see! You, too, will be exalted beyond your expectations, transformed by the gift of perfect freedom!”
If I’d been a regular seeker of the One True Snake Oil all my life, I would have been so taken with Tim’s ecstatic endorsement of the Way that I might have bought a barrel of what he was selling. Instead, his rap increased my uneasiness, my sense that when the other shoe dropped, it would be a giant’s boot.
Although Tim and his like weren’t fitted with shock collars and daily sedated, they most likely had not arrived at their current condition exclusively by persuasion, indoctrination, and spiritual transcendence. According to Panthea, the odd couple at the Republic of Beebs supplied Emmerich not only with recreational drugs but also with pharmaceuticals that he used to control his soul children. If what our seer saw was correct, Tim and his grotesque family might unknowingly receive chemical programming through food and drink.
Panthea said, “The rooms in the five hallways on this level are occupied by your soul siblings. Is that right?”
“Yes. That’s right. This is the communal level. This is where life is lived! Lived as it is nowhere else in the world of ignorance and oppression beyond these walls.”
“How many soul siblings are there?”
He eased forward to the edge of his chair, smiling and nodding. He clasped his hands and shook them, smiling and nodding, as if to indicate that her question was precisely to the point and that his answer would please and perhaps even thrill her. “Currently, there are forty men and forty-eight women. All are exciting individuals.”
I looked casually at my wristwatch. Sundown was still more than an hour away. Not until then would the soul children fly from their rooms like eighty-eight bats in a feeding frenzy.
Tim said, “We range in age from fifteen to fifty. The youngest look quite like children. You will be enchanted by them. The oldest can be a parental figure if that is wanted, a strict disciplinarian or not, and to a one they’re of the most striking appearance. No seeker is ever accepted here just because he or she wants to follow the Way. We are chosen by the Light.” Pride entered his voice. “We must have a look, a most special look.” He sat back in the armchair, assuming a pose that allowed us to admire his physique, his face. “There is no ugliness in the Oasis. Ugliness is a consequence of the sick society of the Moujiks, from which we have divorced ourselves.”
I wondered about the word Moujiks. I didn’t seek a definition because that gap in our knowledge might disabuse him of the notion that we were friends of Bodie Emmerich and invited guests.
The availability of Tim and his soul siblings for whatever purpose we wished was implied in what he’d said, but Bridget boldly pressed the issue. “If I see those who interest me, how do I arrange for them to come to my suite?”