A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

DR. ALOYSIO and Dr. Fesler were not sitting in the office this time. In fact, they were not sitting at all. And Dr. Fesler had a smirk on his round face.

  “If we had done it my way,” he chuckled, “he would never have met the girl. It’s not working out according to plan, is it?”

  Dr. Aloysio laughed aloud.

  “My pretty brother,” he sneered. “My pretty, foolish brother! I told you that you were no artist—that you lacked imagination!” He rubbed his hands together. “Can’t you see it will be better this way? Can’t you imagine that we will have more sport this way?” Dr. Fesler scowled.

  “All right, all right. But I still think the old ways are best.”

  Dr. Aloysio shook his head pityingly.

  “No imagination. No imagination.”

  MONTROSE parked his coupe at the curb in front of the church. The car was like Montrose himself, neat, trim, conservative. He switched off the motor and looked at Marcia, sitting beside him.

  Montrose laughed softly.

  “You don’t seem nervous,” Marcia smiled.

  “Too much has happened,” he replied. “The year has gone by too darned fast.”

  “It has been a good year, hasn’t it, darling!”

  “A good year? Hmmn. Sole owner of a nice little construction outfit. Frank Montrose, Builder! Twenty thousand in the bank! And . . .”

  “And?”

  “It looks very much as though I’m being dragged to the preacher to see about getting married!”

  “Do you like the idea very much?”

  “When it’s the loveliest girl this side of Paradise! This side? Say, I’ll include Paradise!”

  “Frank! That’s sacrilege. And in front of a church too!”

  “In three weeks I’ll say it inside of a church!”

  He lifted her chin and looked at her. God, Montrose thought, I’m lucky! This girl—this wonderful girl—what hasn’t she done for me!

  “I think we’d better go in,” Marcia said at last. “Our appointment’s for ten.”

  He nodded and let go her chin. Montrose reached for the door handle, “Frank!” then—his hand dropped back.

  He turned toward Marcia.

  “What—what is it?” he stammered.

  “You had the queerest look . . . of strain . . . as though you were lifting something!”

  Montrose forced a grin.

  “I suppose I’m a little embarrassed, darling. I haven’t been inside a church for years.”

  “Is that it! Why, you’ll love Dr. Eddison. He’s a real person—there’s nothing stuffy about him at all!”

  Marcia opened her door. This time, Montrose forced himself to get out and started around to her side of the car. What the devil was wrong with him? His feet dragged, his whole body seemed not to co-ordinate.

  Montrose lifted a hand to help Marcia from the car, missed her elbow and almost fell.

  “Frank!”

  He frowned.

  Marcia made a joke of it.

  “You’re not supposed to lose your gallantry until after we’re married,” she chided.

  Montrose tried to grin.

  “I—I tried to help you,” he defended himself. “I think I slipped. Or you were too fast for me.”

  Marcia was too fast for him going across the sidewalk. He could barely force one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, Frank Montrose was scared. At the edge of the church’s lawn he could move no further.

  He was paralyzed!

  MARCIA looked back over her shoulder. At sight of his straining, sweating face, she rushed back to him.

  “Darling! Are you ill?”

  What could he say to her? He tried to turn away from her, back out of her reach.

  He could turn!

  As soon as Montrose tried to move away from the church his feet moved. He took another step. Toward the car. The paralysis left him.

  Marcia hurried after him, grabbed his arm.

  “Frank, darling! Say something!”

  What could he say? What kind of paralysis was this? Why could he move in one direction only? Montrose tried to think very fast.

  “I—I don’t feel so hot, honey.” Sweat poured down his face. “Suppose it’s nervous indigestion—probably been working too hard.”

  “You do look ill, Frank. I’m frightened! I’m taking you to a doctor, right now!”

  Oh, no! No doctors! Something was stirring, far back of Montrose’s consciousness. He could not define it—he didn’t full realize it—but it made him feel strangely . . . unclean. He had to be alone. Alone.

  “Look,” he croaked. “Just take me home. A couple of hours rest and I’ll be okay. I’ve had this before and I know just what to do.”

  “Well, all right.” But Marcia still looked uncertain. “You are looking a little better, thank goodness. I never saw anyone look lie—”

  “Never mind,” Montrose said hastily. “Just take me home and let me sleep. We can visit Dr. Eddison tomorrow.”

  As they drove away, Montrose lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. His body felt completely relaxed. He wriggled his toes, surreptitiously flexed his arms. Movement was free and unrestrained!

  But crawling along the back of his mind, there was something . . . Some thought that would explain all this. And the explanation would not be pleasant.

  Marcia took him to his apartment, made him lie down on the couch and covered him with a blanket.

  “When you wake up, call me,” she ordered, “I’ll fix your lunch. And your dinner, too.”

  She smoothed back his hair and smiled down at him.

  “You’ll make a wonderful wife,” he grinned.

  “You go to sleep—or you won’t make such a much of a husband! Fainting on the public streets!”

  “Did not faint!”

  He grinned and closed his eyes. Her lips brushed his and she was gone. Montrose did not see the worried look she gave him just before closing the door.

  Montrose waited for a while. Then he arose, went to the kitchen for a bottle and glass and came back to the couch. Carefully, methodically, he poured and drank three drinks.

  The rye failed to warm him. It did not relax his mind, allowing all his thoughts to form. Montrose poured a fifth drink. He raised it to his lips, then stopped. It came to him, then, that this was the way he used to meet problems. Drink them out of existence. That had stopped with the coming of Marcia.

  But you couldn’t tell Marcia that you had a one-way paralysis. Why not? Well, you just couldn’t!

  MONTROSE stood up. He stretched slowly, raising himself on tiptoe. His body felt fine. Clenching his fists at his sides, he jogged in place for several minutes. Swinging his arms violently, he performed several spectacular bending exercises.

  “I’m all right,” Montrose gloated. “I’m thirty-four and I’ll bet I could run a hundred in ten flat. In fact, I’ll go over to the gym and prove it!

  He was a little tight, of course. But as he walked over to the gym, his stride was long and even and his body was erect.

  Montrose looked at his nude body before putting on a gym suit. Not a blemish. Stomach flat, shoulders broad. A damn’ good body!

  “Hi, Frank! What is this, an Adonis act?”

  Dr. Sam Halsey, his chunky body in gym trunks, stood at the end of the row of lockers, grinning widely at him. Montrose blushed, then laughed.

  “Hello, Sami I’m developing a new fixation for you to play around with. I’ve fallen in love with my big toe!”

  “Listen, bud,” grinned Halsey, “you wouldn’t expect a big-shot alienist like me to fool with that, would you?”

  “All right, big shot, just how would you cure it?”

  “Simple,” Halsey said with mock gravity. “Just amputate the toe!”

  The both laughed heartily.

  “Say, Frank, how about a few fast rounds? I haven’t had the gloves on for a month.”

  “Swell,” nodded Montrose. “Check ’em out, will you, while I get a suit on?”

  Montrose slid eas
ily between the ropes and went to one corner of the ring. The padded canvas felt light and springy beneath his feet. He looked warily over at Halsey, now going into his customary crouch. As Montrose edged out into the ring, he remembered the drinks. Have to keep Halsey away from the body, today.

  “Okay?” called Halsey.

  “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

  Halsey hunched his shoulders and charged. It was his usual attack. Montrose, taller and with a decided edge in reach, usually side-stepped that first rush and did some deadly work with a left jab.

  Not today, however.

  Montrose extended his hand for the jab. That is, he tried to extend it. His left, and then his right, came up and covered his face—like a child shutting his gaze off from some feared thing. Nor did Montrose side-step. Instead, he jumped wildly backward, bounced against the ropes, then turned his back to Halsey and ran away from him.

  Halsey stopped.

  “Hey!” he grunted. “What goes?”

  Montrose crashed into the ropes at the opposite side of the ring.

  “Don’t hit me!” he yelled. “You mustn’t hurt me!”

  Halsey dropped his hands.

  “Huh! What did you say?”

  Montrose dropped his hands. He stared at Halsey, eyes glassy with fear. Halsey frowned at that fixed stare. Then, Montrose shook his head. Intelligent fear replaced the hysteria in his eyes.

  “Wha—what did I say?” he stammered.

  Halsey told him.

  Montrose looked down at his gloved hands.

  HALSEY went over to him. He laid a glove on Montrose’s shoulder, noticing the involuntary wince as he raised the glove.

  “Tell me, Frank.” It was the psychiatrist speaking now. “What’s wrong?”

  Montrose did not lift his head.

  “I—oh hell, Sam! I might as well tell the truth! I was scared! I had to cover up—run away, so you couldn’t hit me!”

  “You were afraid of getting hurt?”

  “That’s it!” Montrose raised his head and looked beseechingly at the other. “You know I’m not a coward, Sam!”

  “Sure I do,” soothed Halsey. “Now, you and I are getting dressed and then we’ll go over to my office. Something’s bothering you, fellow, and I’ll find out what it is!”

  They had quite a talk. Halsey opened a bottle of very good Scotch, let Montrose have all he wanted. In half an hour, Montrose was telling the story of his life. When he had finished, Halsey fiddled with his key chain for a while, then grinned at Montrose.

  “I envy you,” he said. “You’ve been places and done things.”

  “I’m a lot happier right here in Pleasanton!”

  “With a girl like Marcia! You should be, Frank!”

  Halsey cleared his throat.

  “You see, Frank, Marcia’s really the crux of the matter. Tell me, does she know about this deal you made with the hospital?”

  “God, no! As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten it myself—until today . . .”

  Halsey nodded.

  “I see. Well, fellow, you haven’t forgotten about it! At least, your subconscious has made quite a play with that fact.”

  “What’s that got to do with Marcia?” frowned Montrose.

  “A guilt sense. Subconsciously, you believe that your body doesn’t belong to you any more. You can’t marry Marcia with a body that doesn’t belong to you. It’s cheating yourself and her!”

  Montrose fiddled with his empty glass.

  “That sounds pretty far-fetched to me, Sam,” he muttered. “I don’t quite get it.”

  “Look.” Halsey’s voice was patient. “You’re a high strung, imaginative fellow. You’re deeply in love with Marcia. You feel that she has re-made your life—which she has. And because of this—this sale of your body—you don’t feel worthy of her. That rankles!”

  “And that’s why I—I couldn’t go in the church?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  Halsey leaned back in his chair, grinning widely.

  “I wish I could cure all my patients as easily.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s see, it’s noon. You get the one o’clock plane to the city. Go over to the hospital and buy back that damn’ bill of sale. Tear it up—come back here—and I’ll get tight at your wedding!”

  Montrose hesitated, then rose slowly from his chair.

  “Are you sure, Sam?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “We—ell . . . it sounds good. But I’ve had the feeling as though this was something I didn’t know about—something I, personally, couldn’t control . . .”

  HE PAID the driver and stood for a moment, staring curiously at the small hospital. Actually, he was seeing it for the first time. Montrose walked slowly up the tiled walk. His hand slowed a little as he reached to push open the door. A vague uneasiness crept over him.

  A brisk, middle-aged woman in a severe suit looked up from the switchboard as Montrose approached.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to see Dr. Aloysio.”

  “Dr. Aloysio does not see anyone without an appointment.”

  “I think he will know me. Mr. Frank Montrose. I’m in the city for just an hour or two and it’s very urgent.”

  “All right,” the woman said doubtfully. “I’ll call him.”

  Montrose turned away as she plugged in the call. The air was still heavy with the hospital smell. But, in the afternoon light, the place was certainly different. More cheerful. He tried to picture the haunting gloom of his previous visit.

  “Dr. Aloysio does not know you, sir.” Montrose swung back to face her. “If you will state your business, he will give you an appointment.”

  Montrose frowned. Had the doctor forgotten? Of course not! No one, even J.P. Morgan, forgets giving out a hundred dollars. Then what went on here?

  “Ask Dr. Aloysio to think again,” Montrose snapped. “Just mention one hundred dollars to him!”

  The woman’s mouth tightened.

  “Dr. Aloysio has an excellent memory,” she grated. “He said that he had never heard of you!”

  Montrose paled. The woman flinched a little before the blazing fire in his eyes. Blind, hot anger surged over him. The day had been terrible enough without this last, unreasonable complication.

  “I think,” he grated, “that I can soon convince Dr. Aloysio that he does remember me!”

  He strode down the corridor to the office door. The woman started to rise, then hastily plugged in a line.

  Montrose jerked open the door and stalked into the office of Dr. Aloysio.

  Dr. Aloysio was seated at the big desk.

  “Who are you, sir.” There was restrained anger in the clipped tones. “What do you want?”

  Montrose stood in front of the desk. He leaned forward, palms of both hands flat on the desk’s oaken top.

  “Take a good look, Dr. Aloysio,” he said as calmly as he could. “Don’t you remember me now?”

  The cold eyes behind the glasses gave no hint of recognition.

  “I do not, sir.”

  The doctor’s phone rang. The doctor ignored Montrose completely as he lifted it from its cradle.

  “Yes? Yes, he is here now. If I do not phone you in five minutes, summon two orderlies!”

  That was wrong. Even in his anger, Montrose remembered the other voice. The Dr. Aloysio had been pompous, wordy. Now . . .

  The devil with that! A man’s voice is different at different times! And he wasn’t here to worry about this damned doctor’s vocal characteristics. Montrose took out his wallet and took out a hundred dollars.

  “Let’s cut out the foolery, Dr. Aloysio,” he snapped. “There is a hundred dollars. Take it and give me back the agreement!”

  Dr. Aloysio stared at the bill.

  “My dear sir,” he said, “I do not know you at all. Still less do I know what you are talking about!”

  He almost convinced Montrose. The hand that held the money wavered, drew back. Dr. Al
oysio permitted himself a small nod. That jerked Montrose back to his taut fury.

  HOLDING himself in as best he could, Montrose jerked out the story of the episode of a year ago. Dr. Aloysio’s eyes widened, then narrowed in a stare of clinical appraisal. When Montrose had finished, he arose, walked around the desk and stood in front of Montrose.

  “Mr. Montrose,” he said, “you are obviously not drunk. From a cursory examination, I would think you sane—sane but, at present, emotionally unbalanced. You—”

  “I did not come here for an examination!” Montrose’s voice rose. “Damn it to hell—I’ve had a bad day—I’m not going to stand here and let you make it worse. I don’t know what your motive is and I don’t give a damn! But, damn you—tell me you didn’t write this! If you can!”

  Montrose tossed the money on the desk. It slipped to the floor, but neither man noticed it. His whole body was trembling as Montrose jerked out his wallet again. His fingers probed awkwardly for the agreement., found it, creased and worn. He smoothed it out, held it in front of the doctor’s face.

  “Take a look at that! You wrote it and your fat friend, Fesler, watched you write it!”

  “Fesler? Dr. Fesler?”

  “Oh, God!” cried Montrose. “Won’t you stop it! He was here in the office with you.”

  Dr. Aloysio lost his impersonal calm for the first time. His voice was hesitant as he said,

  “My good friend Dr. Fesler died three years ago.”

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  “Go away, boys,” called Aloysio, “it’s all right.”

  As retreating footsteps sounded down the hall, Aloysio held out his hand.

  “Let me see that agreement, please.”

  Montrose handed it over. Aloysio looked at it carefully. He sighed. Most of his professional aplomb came back.

  “I did not write that, Mr. Montrose. Wait,” as Montrose opened his mouth. He opened a drawer in the desk. “Here is one of my notebooks. Compare the handwritings.”

  Montrose did so. The room teetered crazily. His anger left him, to be replaced with a crawling, snickering fear. The handwriting of the agreement was not that of Dr. Aloysio. From afar off, Montrose seemed to hear a wild, jeering laugh.

  “Here, man!” cried Dr. Aloysio. “Sit down.”

  Montrose felt his arm taken, was steered to a chair. He felt himself fall into an easy chair, heard the doctor move back to his desk. Then the sharp fumes of smelling salts cleared his fogged brain.