Wichita (9781609458904) by Thad Ziolkowsky

annoyed, large-eyed wonderment. “That was Jessie.” As if Lewis already knows who Jessie is but this is what it’s like talking to Bishop. “The DMT the Feds sent, which arrived two days ago?” he says. “It’s already decayed by thirty percent! So unless they sabotaged the stuff—” Bishop bugs out his eyes and laughs wheezily through clenched teeth. “But let’s not even go there, right?”
    â€œRight,” Lewis agrees, “better not.”
    â€œAnyway,” Bishop says, “this is according to Jessie, who somehow got it into his head that it’s a
free base
.” He lets out an annoyed bark of a laugh. “So who really knows what the fuck is going on!”
    â€œWhat’s DMT, Bishop?” Because it’s either ask the obvious now or resign himself to simpering and nodding along in the dark.
    Bishop squints at him in disbelief. “DMT?
DMT
!” As if it’s the equivalent of the Beatles or Shakespeare. “N, N Dimethyl­tryptamine? —Dimitri’?”
    Lewis shakes his head. “Sorry.”
    â€œWell, gosh, let’s see,” Bishop says, casting about for suitably basic building blocks. “It’s a tryptamine, like ’shrooms, only
way
more powerful.” He pauses and looks at Lewis. “You
have
done ’shrooms.”
    Lewis nods as if of course though in fact he’s never taken any psychedelic, not after seeing what happened to Seth. Reassured, Bishop says, “The Indians in the Amazon take it in snuff form for shamanic purposes. Most folks smoke it. For the study, we inject it.”
    â€œWait, is this the toad stuff?” Lewis asks.
    â€œRight, right—it’s excreted by certain toads, sure,” Bishop says with gentle condescension. “But it’s also in, you know—” he gestures at the yard, “grass, lizards, peas. In
us
too, in our bloodstream, endogenously. The
human fucking brain
produces it! Basically it’s the most powerful psychedelic known to man. Launches you into other universes, McKenna’s whole machinic-elves realm, etc., etc.”
    He turns aside and raises a hand to his ear piece. “Whew!” he says, giving Lewis a thumbs-up. “That’s more like it, Jessie! Later.”
    Bishop claps his hands and seizes Lewis happily by the biceps. “It
hasn’t decayed
! He was just measuring wrong.” Releasing Lewis, he spins in place, lifts his Teva’d feet in a victory dance. ‘It hasn’t decayed, it hasn’t fucking
decayed
! You don’t know how
worried
I was. Oh my God.”
    â€œWhat sort of study is this?” Lewis asks.
    Bishop stops dancing. He looks perplexed, wounded. “Abby didn’t tell you?”
    Lewis shakes his head.
    â€œHuh, that’s strange,” Bishop says, touching his beard. “Wonder what that’s all about,” he murmurs, flicking at his lip with a finger and squintingly searching Lewis’s face for clues.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have wanted to be in it anyway,” he says finally. “
That’s
why Abby didn’t tell you about it. OK, that makes sense.” He nods his head. “OK, yeah, what it is: we’re trying to see whether a certain Big Pharma antihistamine that shall remain nameless blocks the serotonin receptor two site.” Bishop grins conspiratorially at Lewis, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “Good luck getting volunteers for
that
, right?!”
    â€œWhy?” Lewis asks.
    â€œI mean, duh!” Bishop says with a laugh. “Receptor two is THE site for psychedelics. Who wants to be part of a study that may well LESSEN the effects of your pure DMT?”
    â€œI see,” says Lewis.
    â€œBut we’ve actually got a good group of folks. Of course,
Seth
’s on board,” Bishop adds with a sly smile.
    Lewis feels a surge of alarm. “What do you mean?”
    Bishop shrugs.