The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "My mind goes funny."

  Fitzgerald rumpled his gray hair, narrowing his eyes and watching the other man intently. "Come again. I don't quite—"

  With angry patience, Kerry said, "This morning I went into the library and looked at this reference. I read it all right. But it didn't mean anything to me. Just words. Know how it is when you're fagged out and have been reading a lot? You'll run into a sentence with a lot of subjunctive clauses, and it doesn't percolate. Well, it was like that."

  "Read it now," Fitzgerald said quietly, thrusting the book across the table.

  Kerry obeyed, looking up with a wry smile. "No good."

  "Read it aloud. I'll go over it with you, step by step."

  But that didn't help. Kerry seemed utterly unable to assimilate the sense of the passage.

  "Semantic block, maybe," Fitzgerald said, scratching his ear. "Is this the first time it's happened?"

  "Yes ... no. I don't know."

  "Got any classes this afternoon? Good. Let's run over to your place."

  Kerry thrust away his plate. "All right. I'm not hungry. Whenever you're ready—"

  -

  Half an hour later they were looking at the radio. It seemed quite harmless. Fitzgerald wasted some time trying to pry a panel off, but finally gave it up as a bad job. He found pencil and paper, seated himself opposite Kerry, and began to ask questions.

  At one point he paused. "You didn't mention that before."

  "Forgot it, I guess."

  Fitzgerald tapped his teeth with the pencil. "Hm-m-m. The first time the radio acted up—"

  "It hit me in the eye with a blue light—"

  "Not that. I mean—what it said."

  Kerry blinked. "What it said?" He hesitated. " 'Psychology pattern checked and noted,' or something like that. I thought I'd tuned in on some station and got part of a quiz program or something. You mean—"

  "Were the words easy to understand? Good English?"

  "No, now that I remember it," Kerry scowled. "They were slurred quite a lot. Vowels stressed."

  "Uh-huh. Well, let's get on." They tried a word-association test.

  Finally Fitzgerald leaned back, frowning. "I want to check this stuff with the last tests I gave you a few months ago. It looks funny to me—damned funny. I'd feel a lot better if I knew exactly what memory was. We've done considerable work on mnemonics—artificial memory. Still, it may not be that at all."

  "Eh?"

  "That—machine. Either it's got an artificial memory, has been highly trained, or else it's adjusted to a different milieu and culture. It has affected you—quite a lot"

  Kerry licked dry lips. "How?"

  "Implanted blocks in your mind. I haven't correlated them yet. When I do, we may be able to figure out some sort of answer. No, that thing isn't a robot. It's a lot more than that."

  Kerry took out a cigarette; the console walked across the room and lit it for him. The two men watched with a faint shrinking horror.

  "You'd better stay with me tonight," Fitzgerald suggested.

  "No," Kerry said. He shivered.

  -

  The next day Fitzgerald looked for Kerry at lunch, but the younger man did not appear. He telephoned the house, and Martha answered the call.

  "Hello! When did you get back?"

  "Hello, Fitz. About an hour ago. My sister went ahead and had her baby without me—so I came back." She stopped, and Fitzgerald was alarmed at her tone.

  "Where's Kerry?"

  "He's here. Can you come over, Fitz? I'm worried."

  "What's the matter with him?"

  "I ... I don't know. Come right away."

  "O.K.," Fitzgerald said, and hung up, biting his lips. He was worried. When, a short while later, he rang the Westerfield bell, he discovered that his nerves were badly out of control. But sight of Martha reassured him.

  He followed her into the living room. Fitzgerald's glance went at once to the console, which was unchanged; and then to Kerry, seated motionless by a window. Kerry's face had a blank, dazed look. His pupils were dilated, and he seemed to recognize Fitzgerald only slowly.

  "Hello, Fitz," he said.

  "How do you feel?"

  Martha broke in. "Fitz, what's wrong? Is he sick? Shall I call the doctor?"

  Fitzgerald sat down. "Have you noticed anything funny about that radio?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Then listen." He told the whole story, watching incredulity struggle with reluctant belief on Martha's face. Presently she said, "I can't quite—"

  "If Kerry takes out a cigarette, the thing will light it for him. Want to see how it works?"

  "N-no. Yes. I suppose so." Martha's eyes were wide.

  Fitzgerald gave Kerry a cigarette. The expected happened.

  Martha didn't say a word. When the console had returned to its place, she shivered and went over to Kerry. He looked at her vaguely.

  "He needs a doctor, Fitz."

  "Yes." Fitzgerald didn't mention that a doctor might be quite useless.

  "What is that thing?"

  "It's more than a robot. And it's been readjusting Kerry. I told you what's happened. When I checked Kerry's psychology patterns, I found that they'd altered. He's lost most of his initiative."

  "Nobody on earth could have made that—"

  Fitzgerald scowled. "I thought of that. It seems to be the product of a well-developed culture, quite different from ours. Martian, perhaps. It's such a specialized thing that it naturally fits into a complicated culture. But I do not understand why it looks exactly like a Mideastern console radio."

  Martha touched Kerry's hand. "Camouflage?"

  "But why? You were one of my best pupils in psych, Martha. Look at this logically. Imagine a civilization where a gadget like that has its place. Use inductive reasoning."

  "I'm trying to. I can't think very well. Fitz, I'm worried about Kerry."

  "I'm all right," Kerry said.

  Fitzgerald put his fingertips together. "It isn't a radio so much as a monitor. In this other civilization, perhaps every man has one, or maybe only a few—the ones who need it. It keeps them in line."

  "By destroying initiative?"

  Fitzgerald made a helpless gesture. "I don't know! It worked that way in Kerry's case. In others—I don't know."

  -

  Martha stood up. "I don't think we should talk any more. Kerry needs a doctor. After that we can decide upon that." She pointed to the console.

  Fitzgerald said, "It'd be rather a shame to wreck it, but—" His look was significant.

  The console moved. It came out from its corner with a sidling, rocking gait and walked toward Fitzgerald. As he sprang up, the whiplike tentacles flashed out and seized him. A pale ray shone into the man's eyes.

  Almost instantly it vanished; the tentacles withdrew, and the radio returned to its place. Fitzgerald stood motionless. Martha was on her feet, one hand at her mouth.

  "Fitz!" Her voice shook.

  He hesitated. "Yes? What's the matter?"

  "Are you hurt? What did it do to you?"

  Fitzgerald frowned a little. "Eh? Hurt? I don't—"

  "The radio. What did it do?"

  He looked toward the console. "Something wrong with it? Afraid I'm not much of a repair man, Martha."

  "Fitz." She came forward and gripped his arm. "Listen to me." Quick words spilled from her mouth. The radio. Kerry. Their discussion—Fitzgerald looked at her blankly, as though he didn't quite understand. "I guess I'm stupid today. I can't quite understand what you're talking about."

  "The radio—you know! You said it changed Kerry—" Martha paused, staring at the man.

  Fitzgerald was definitely puzzled. Martha was acting strangely. Queer! He'd always considered her a pretty level-headed girl. But now she was talking nonsense. At least, he couldn't figure out the meaning of her words—there was no sense to them.

  And why was she talking about the radio? Wasn't it satisfactory? Kerry had said it was a good buy, with a fine tone and th
e latest gadgets in it. Fitzgerald wondered, for a fleeting second, if Martha had gone crazy.

  In any case, he was late for his class. He said so. Martha didn't try to stop him when he went out. She was pale as chalk.

  -

  Kerry took out a cigarette. The radio walked over and held a match.

  "Kerry!"

  "Yes, Martha?" His voice was dead.

  She stared at the ... the radio. Mars? Another world—another civilization? What was it? What did it want? What was it trying to do?

  Martha let herself out of the house and went to the garage. When she returned, a small hatchet was gripped tightly in her hand.

  Kerry watched. He saw Martha walk over to the radio and lift the hatchet. Then a beam of light shot out, and Martha vanished. A little dust floated up in the afternoon sunlight.

  "Destruction of life-form threatening attack," the radio said, slurring the words together.

  Kerry's brain turned over. He felt sick, dazed and horribly empty. Martha—

  His mind churned. Instinct and emotion fought with something that smothered them. Abruptly the dams crumbled, and the blocks were gone, the barriers down. Kerry cried out hoarsely, inarticulately, and sprang to his feet.

  "Martha!" he yelled.

  She was gone. Kerry looked around. Where—

  What had happened? He couldn't remember.

  He sat down in the chair again, rubbing his forehead. His free hand brought up a cigarette, an automatic reaction that brought instant response. The radio walked forward and held a lighted match ready.

  Kerry made a choking, sick sound and flung himself out of the chair. He remembered now. He picked up the hatchet and sprang toward the console, teeth bared in a mirthless rictus.

  Again the light beam flashed out.

  Kerry vanished. The hatchet thudded onto the carpet.

  The radio walked back to its place and stood motionless once more. A faint clicking proceeded from its radioatomic brain.

  "Subject basically unsuitable," it said, after a moment. "Elimination has been necessary." Click! "Preparation for next subject completed."

  Click.

  -

  "We'll take it," the boy said.

  "You won't be making a mistake," smiled the rental agent. "It's quiet, isolated, and the price is quite reasonable."

  "Not so very," the girl put in. "But it is just what we've been looking for."

  The agent shrugged. "Of course an unfurnished place would run less. But—"

  "We haven't been married long enough to get any furniture," the boy grinned. He put an arm around his wife. "Like it, hon?"

  "Hm-m-m. Who lived here before?"

  The agent scratched his cheek. "Let's see. Some people named Westerfield, I think. It was given to me for listing just about a week ago. Nice place. If I didn't own my own house, I'd jump at it myself."

  "Nice radio," the boy said. "Late model, isn't it?" He went over to examine the console.

  "Come along," the girl urged. "Let's look at the kitchen again."

  "O.K., hon."

  They went out of the room. From the hall came the sound of the agent's smooth voice, growing fainter. Warm afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows.

  For a moment there was silence. Then—

  Click!

  The End

  COMPLIMENTS OF THE AUTHOR

  Unknown Worlds - October 1942

  with Henry Kuttner

  (as by Henry Kuttner)

  The book gave all the answers. The being who wrote it had reduced all human affairs to a few situations, figured the answer to every one of them. But there was one human situation the owner of the book had forgotten—

  -

  "If you know what's good for you," said the cat, "you'll get the hell out of here. But quick!"

  Sam Tarbell thoughtfully patted the bottle in his topcoat pocket. The gesture was only a momentary confession of weakness, for the Journal reporter wasn't drunk. He had several vices, including a profitable side line of blackmail, but dipsomania wasn't one of them. No, there was a simpler explanation—ventriloquism.

  Tarbell's gaze went past the cat to where Baldwin Gwinn's house loomed darkly above him, a big, ramshackle place in an isolated section of Laurel Canyon. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. Tarbell didn't want witnesses during his impending interview with Gwinn—Gwinn would pay off, of course; the evidence against the man was overwhelming. And, since Tarbell was the only one who possessed that evidence in its entirety, an attempt to collect hush money was clearly indicated.

  The principle was nothing new, either in Hollywood or to Sam Tarbell. He was a lank, dark, saturnine man of forty-odd, with a permanent sneer of cynicism on his aquiline face, and a profound trust in his own ability to come out on top. Till tonight, however, he had not had occasion to cross swords with a magician. But that didn't matter—Gwinn had made a mistake, and the result should mean cash in the bank for Tarbell. He could always use money. A succession of very interesting blondes, to which he was partial, the Santa Anita track, the casinos along the Sunset Strip, and zombies, minks, and melodious howlings—the Hollywood equivalent of wine, women, and song—combined to keep the bank account overdrawn. But Tarbell had excellent connections, and was always willing to suppress a scandal, C.O.D. He never put the squeeze on widows or orphans, either. They seldom had money.

  Now in one pocket he had a bottle of whiskey, in another certain significant photostats, and in a third a useful little automatic, very handy for bluffing his way out of tight spots. It was night. Gwinn's house was in a pocket of the Hollywood Hills, isolated, though a few lights gleamed from distant slopes. Stars and a spotlight of a moon were garish overhead. The reporter's sleek dark coupé was parked unobtrusively under a pepper tree, and a fat black cat with white mittens of paws sat on the curbstone twitching its whiskers at Sam Tarbell.

  "Ventriloquism, Mr. Gwinn," said the reporter gently, "is O.K. for the sticks. But don't waste it on me."

  "Ventriloquism, hell," the cat replied, glaring balefully. "Don't you know a familiar when you see one? Baldy knows you're coming, and he's all upset. I'd hate to lose him. He's a fine master. I warn you, louse, that if you hurt Baldy, I, personally, will take steps."

  Tarbell aimed a kick at the cat, which was deftly avoided. The creature cursed in a fervid undertone and went behind a convenient bush, from which low, searing oaths proceeded. Tarbell's cynical sneer increased in intensity. He walked up the steps and rang the bell.

  "The door's open," said the cat. "You're expected."

  -

  Tarbell shrugged and obeyed. The room in which he found himself was big, comfortably furnished, and didn't look at all like the home of a practicing magician. Etchings hung on the walls. A Bokhara rug, slightly singed, was on the floor. At a big table by the window a fat man with a cast in one eye was sitting, staring down unhappily at an open book before him.

  "Hello, Gwinn," the reporter said.

  Gwinn sighed and looked up. "Hello, Tarbell. Sit down. Cigar?"

  "No, thanks. You know me?"

  Gwinn pointed to a crystal ball on a tripod in one corner.

  "I saw you in that. You won't believe it, of course, but I'm really a magician."

  Tarbell grinned. "Sure. I believe it. So do lots of other people. Like Ina Phairson."

  Gwinn didn't turn a hair. "Such things are necessary in my profession."

  "Rather tough on Ina Phairson, though. And it'd look bad in the papers. In fact, it'd look awful."

  "It would mean the gas chamber, or at best a long prison term. I know. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about it."

  Tarbell took out the photostats and laid them on the table. He didn't say anything. Gwinn shuffled through the documents, nodding. His thick lips pursed.

  "You have all the evidence, I see. The trouble is that I can't pay blackmail. It isn't allowed."

  "Blackmail's an ugly word," Tarbell said. "Let's call it a dividend. Five thousand bucks and this evidence go
es up the spout. I'll raise my price tomorrow."

  Gwinn said, "You don't understand. I made a pact with the devil some years ago, and there were certain terms in the contract. One of them is that I'm not allowed to pay blackmail."

  "Suit yourself." Tarbell shrugged. "You can keep those photostats. I have the originals, of course. There'll be a story about you in tomorrow's Journal."

  "No ... no. I don't want that." Gwinn glanced worriedly at the book before him, and closed it with a snap.

  Tarbell's face didn't change, but a new look came into his eyes. That small volume had the look of a diary, or an account book. It would be interesting to thumb through it. There might be names, facts, and figures, all of which would be useful and perhaps profitable.

  The book had a plain cloth cover, and on the front was a small white oval against the brown. In gold script was engraved, "Baldwin Gwinn." Tarbell read the name upside down.

  "I haven't all night," he said. "Give me an answer. I don't care what it is. I'll act accordingly."

  Gwinn fingered his thick lower lip. "It's no use, of course," he said under his breath. "Still—"

  He threw a handful of nothing at the fireplace, and flames blazed up with blue brilliance. Then he plucked a wax figurine out of empty air and examined it thoughtfully. It was about six inches high, and was a perfect replica of Tarbell.

  He threw it into the fire.

  "I've heard of that," Tarbell said. "But I don't believe it."

  "Then it won't work," Gwinn muttered, but waited, nevertheless. For a brief moment Tarbell felt uncomfortably warm. He didn't show it. He grinned tightly, and the feeling went away.

  -

  Then, without warning, there was a third person in the room. His name was Andy Monk, and two years ago he had died at the hands of the law, as a result of a feature story Tarbell had written. Monk wouldn't pay blackmail, either. And Tarbell had always been afraid of the man and his handiness with a knife. For months, till Monk was captured, he had gone in fear of shadows—

  Monk was a shadow now, and Tarbell knew that. Hypnosis was old stuff. But the hatred blazing in the man's eyes was horribly disturbing.

  Monk had a gun, and he fired it at Tarbell. The bullets weren't real, of course. Tarbell braced himself against the impact; almost to his surprise, he realized that he was trembling violently. Hypnotism—but—