by H. L. Gold
nothing, than theyever did when they were regular citizens."
"Concentration of psychic energy, of course."
"And they don't get a damn cent for it."
* * * * *
Doc hesitated, put down his half-filled tumbler. "I beg your pardon?"
"I say they're getting stiffed," Clocker stated. "Anybody who works thathard ought to get paid. I don't mean it's got to be money, althoughthat's the only kind of pay Zelda'd work for. Right, Arnold?"
"Well, sure," said Arnold Wilson Wyle wonderingly. "I never thought ofit like that. Zelda doing time-steps for nothing ten-fifteen hours aday--that ain't Zelda."
"If you ask me, she _likes_ her job," Clocker said. "Same with the othercatatonics I seen. But for no pay?"
Doc surprisingly pushed his drink away, something that only a seriousmedical puzzle could ever accomplish. "I don't understand what you'regetting at."
"I don't know these other cata-characters, but I do know Zelda," saidArnold Wilson Wyle. "She's got to get something out of all that work.Clocker says it's the same with the others and I take his word. What arethey knocking theirself out for if it's for free?"
"They gain some obscure form of emotional release or repetitivegratification," Doc explained.
"Zelda?" exploded Clocker. "You offer her a deal like that for a clubdate and she'd get ruptured laughing."
"I tell her top billing," Oil Pocket agreed, "plenty ads, plentypublicity, whole show built around her. Wampum, she says; save money onads and publicity, give it to her. Zelda don't count coups."
Doc Hawkins called over the waiter, ordered five fingers instead of hiscustomary three. "Let us not bicker," he told Clocker. "Continue."
* * * * *
Clocker looked at his charts again. "There ain't a line that ain'trepresented, even the heavy rackets and short grifts. It's a regularhuman steeplechase. And these sour apples do mostly whatever they didfor a living--draw pictures, sell shoes, do lab experiments, sewclothes, Zelda with her time-steps. By the hour! In the air!"
"In the air?" Handy Sam repeated. "Flying?"
"Imaginary functioning," Doc elaborated for him. "They have nothing intheir hands. Pure hallucination. Systematic delusion."
"Sign language?" Oil Pocket suggested.
"That," said Clocker, before Doc Hawkins could reject the notion, "is onthe schnoz, Injun. Buttonhole says I'm like doping races. He's right.I'm working out what some numbers-runner tells me is probabilities. Igot it all here," he rapped the charts, "and it's the same thing allthese flop-ears got in common. Not their age, not their jobs, nottheir--you should pardon the expression--sex. They're _teaching_."
Buttonhole looked baffled. He almost let go of Doc's lapel.
Handy Sam scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully with a big toe."Teaching, Clocker? Who? You said they're kept in solitary."
"They are. I don't know who. I'm working on that now."
Doc shoved the charts aside belligerently to make room for his beefyelbows. He leaned forward and glowered at Clocker. "Your theory belongsin the Sunday supplement of the alleged newspaper I write for. Not allcatatonics work, as you call it. What about those who stand rigid andthose who lie in bed all the time?"
"I guess you think that's easy," Clocker retorted. "You try it sometime.I did. It's work, I tell you." He folded his charts and put them backinto the inside pocket of his conservative jacket. He looked sick withlonging and loneliness. "Damn, I miss that mouse. I got to save her,Doc! Don't you get that?"
Doc Hawkins put a chunky hand gently on Clocker's arm. "Of course, boy.But how can you succeed when trained men can't?"
"Well, take Zelda. She did time-steps when she was maybe five and goingto dancing school--"
"Time-steps have some symbolic significance to her," Doc said with morethan his usual tact. "My theory is that she was compelled to go againsther will, and this is a form of unconscious rebellion."
"They don't have no significance to her," Clocker argued doggedly. "Shecan do time-steps blindfolded and on her knees with both ankles tiedbehind her back." He pried Buttonhole's hand off Doc's lapel, and tookhold of both of them himself. "I tell you she's teaching, explaining,breaking in some dummy who can't get the hang of it!"
"But who?" Doc objected. "Psychiatrists? Nurses? You? Admit it,Clocker--she goes on doing time-steps whether she's alone or not. Infact, she never knows if anybody is with her. Isn't that so?"
"Yeah," Clocker said grudgingly. "That's what has me boxed."
* * * * *
Oil Pocket grunted tentatively, "White men not believe in spirits.Injuns do. Maybe Zelda talk to spirits."
"I been thinking of that," confessed Clocker, looking at the red angelunhappily. "Spirits is all I can figure. Ghosts. Spooks. But if Zeldaand these other catatonics are teaching ghosts, these ghosts are thedumbest jerks anywhere. They make her and the rest go through time-stepsor sewing or selling shoes again and again. If they had half a brain,they'd get it in no time."
"Maybe spirits not hear good," Oil Pocket offered, encouraged byClocker's willingness to consider the hypothesis.
"Could be," Clocker said with partial conviction. "If we can't see them,it may be just as hard for them to see or hear us."
Oil Pocket anxiously hitched his chair closer. "Old squaw name DryGround Never Rainy Season--what you call old maid--hear spirits all thetime. She keep telling us what they say. Nobody listen."
"How come?" asked Clocker interestedly.
"She deaf, blind. Not hear thunder. Walk into cactus, yell like hell.She hardly see us, not hear us at all, how come she see and hearspirits? Just talk, talk, talk all the time."
Clocker frowned, thinking. "These catatonics don't see or hear us, butthey sure as Citation hear and see _something_."
Doc Hawkins stood up with dignity, hardly weaving, and handed a bill tothe waiter. "I was hoping to get a private racing tip from you, Clocker.Freshly sprung from the alcoholic ward, I can use some money. But I seethat your objectivity is impaired by emotional considerations. Iwouldn't risk a dime on your advice even after a race is run."
"I didn't expect you to believe me," said Clocker despairingly. "None ofyou pill-pushers ever do."
"I can't say about your psycho-doping," declared Arnold Wilson Wyle,also rising. "But I got faith in your handicapping. I'd still like along shot at Hialeah if you happen to have one."
"I been too busy trying to help Zelda," Clocker said in apology.
They left, Doc Hawkins pausing at the bar to pick up a credit bottle tosee him through his overdue medical column.
Handy Sam slipped on his shoes to go. "Stick with it, Clocker. I saidyou was a scientist--"
"_I_ said it," contradicted Buttonhole, lifting himself out of the chairon Handy Sam's lapels. "If anybody can lick this caper, Clocker can."
Oil Pocket glumly watched them leave. "Doctors not think spirits real,"he said. "I get sick, go to Reservation doctor. He give me medicine. Iget sicker. Medicine man see evil spirits make me sick. Shakes rattle.Dances. Evil spirits go. I get better."
"I don't know what in hell to think," confided Clocker, miserable andconfused. "If it would help Zelda, I'd cut my throat from head to footso I could become a spirit and get the others to lay off her."
"Then you spirit, she alive. Making love not very practical."
"Then what do I do--hire a medium?"
"Get medicine man from Reservation. He drive out evil spirits."
Clocker pushed away from the table. "So help me, I'll do it if I can'tcome up with something cheaper than paying freight from Oklahoma."
"Get Zelda out, I pay and put her in show."
"Then if I haul the guy here and it don't work, I'm in hock to you.Thanks, Oil Pocket, but I'll try my way first."
* * * * *
Back in his hotel room, waiting for the next day so he could visitZelda, Clocker was like an addict at the track with every ce
nt on ahunch. After weeks of neglecting his tip sheet to study catatonia, hefelt close to the payoff.
He spent most of the night smoking and walking around the room, tryingnot to look at the jars and hairbrushes on the bureau. He missed thebobbypins on the floor, the nylons drying across the