by Robert Bloch
Suddenly he lashed out, his right hand grasping her hair, his left arm closing about her throat. His fingers tightened across her neck and he bent her back, and then—
Her hands locked behind her, closing around the back of his neck. His feet left the deck, and then he was whirling through the air. Before he knew what had happened he was jarred into painful realization as he landed on the hard surface with a thump that knocked the wind out of his lungs.
Clare stood over him stolidly, then tossed her hair back over her shoulders and smiled faintly. “Please don’t try anything like that again,” she said, crisply, “or I’ll have to use force.”
“Force? What do you call that?”
All at once the faint smile blossomed into an unmistakable grin. “Judo,” she explained. “Doc taught me.”
“You must have been a good pupil.” He stirred, and ran his right hand across his bruised shoulders.
“Here, I’ll help you up,” Clare said, “If you’ll promise not to make a break for it.”
“I guess there’s no choice, is there?” Graham allowed her to assist him, taking her hand as she pulled him to his feet. Her clasp was warm and unfemininely firm. He prepared to release his grip but she held him firm and bent her head closer to his own.
“Hold it,” she whispered. “They can see us from below, through the mirror. Pretend you’re dizzy and lean on me. Now listen carefully. I know why you tried to escape, of course. And I suppose I should have told you sooner. You were right when you questioned my motives in saving you. We don’t ordinarily rescue anyone—our job is merely to police and patrol these waters. But Doc has other plans in mind. You’ll just have to trust him, and trust me. Now, will you promise to behave?”
Graham nodded. “Then he’s not really a Psycho?”
“Oh, he’s a Psycho—but there’s more to it than that. Wait and see.”
Clare stepped away. “Look,” she said. “We’re coming in!”
The boat chugged along a reef and entered the island harbor. Through the trees bordering the beach Graham caught a glimpse of a cluster of buildings, unprotected by any semblance of a Dome.
Slowly they moved towards a crude wooden dock, and all at once the engines slowed and stilled as they drifted in. One of the men clambered up from the cabin and ran across the deck, vaulting the rail to the dock below. He secured the boat with a rope. His companion left the wheel and spoke to Clare, who nodded.
The two men led the way. Graham and Clare followed, taking a path across the beach which led to a series of stone steps. They ascended, and came to a courtyard fronting a semicircle of steel and concrete structures, all of which seemed to have solid glass window-walls on the side facing the courtyard. Graham recognized the screen arrangements over the glass; visibility would be perfect from within, but it was impossible to see what lay behind from outside here. Architecturally, the buildings would not have been out of place in Holywood, but this was not surprising; hadn’t Clare said there was a Psycho in charge of the Key? He’d just have to trust her from now on.
Oddly enough, he did. She was smiling reassuringly now, urging him forward as they approached the outer door. Something buzzed and clicked—electronic protector threshold, Graham realized—and then the door slid open. The two men entered and turned down a corridor to the left. Clare grasped his arm and guided him to the right, through a long hall which resembled a corridor back in Technoquarters. Everything was white and shining—Psycho-white, Psycho-shining.
Clare halted before a doorway. “Don’t worry, now,” she whispered. Her voice was lost in the buzzing and clicking as the electronic guardian acknowledged their presence and activated the lock-mechanisms. The door moved to one side and they entered the office. A white-gowned figure gazed at them from behind a desk.
“Here we are,” Clare said, gaily. “Mission accomplished.”
The Psycho stood up, nodding slowly. As his eyes met Graham’s, he was conscious of seeing in them the same curious look of shocked recognition he’d noted in Clare’s glance. The impression lasted for only an instant and then a veil came down. It wasn’t actually a veil, but at the moment Graham was reminded of a lizard he had once seen sunning itself upon a stone; the reptile had seemed to draw a film over its gaze.
There was something remote and reptilian about this little man in the white robe. Suddenly Graham was conscious of a cold tingle of apprehension. He’d felt it before, that other time, when he’d reached out and touched the lizard. The lizard had flicked its tongue suddenly and moved away.
The Psycho flicked his tongue.
“So you’re Graham,” he murmured. “I’m glad to see you. In fact, we’re both glad to see you—aren’t we, Krug?”
Graham whirled, suddenly, raising his arm lest Clare try to intercept him. The girl made no movement. And Graham, after turning, halted and stood still.
Krug stood directly behind him, his eyes levelled on Graham’s face and his stunner levelled at his forehead.
“Very glad,” Krug said. “Very glad indeed.” He smiled at Clare. “But I’m a little surprised, too. I’d have thought this one might have put up more of a struggle. He’s disturbed, you know.”
Clare nodded. “I took care of that. I persuaded him it was all a trick designed to deceive you. After that he was quite cooperative. I imagine he thought Doc here would save him.”
“And so I shall.” The Psycho’s lizard-tongue licked at thin lips.
Graham faced the girl. “Bomb you! Why didn’t you let me go over the side? At least I’d have had a quick death.”
“You aren’t to die,” Clare told him. “Doc gave me my orders.”
“And Krug gave me mine,” the Psycho said.
“And Sigmond himself instructed me,” Krug added. He grinned slowly. “We bear you no malice, Graham. So there will be no punishment. Only an adjustment.”
“Adjustment?” Despite himself, Graham could not repress the note of pleading in his voice. “I don’t want that. Believe me, I’d rather die—”
“Sigmond knows best,” Krug said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’d be only too happy to eliminate you. But Sigmond insisted otherwise. You’re a Talent, remember? And Talents are too scarce to be destroyed. Years have been invested in training you, and we can’t afford to be cheated of your creative potential. You’ll be re-assigned to a project after a proper period of Therapy.”
“Therapy? You mean I’m going to be laundered, is that it?”
“We’ll leave the matter up to Doc here. He’s in charge.” Krug grinned again. “Actually, it’s lucky in a way that you bailed out when and where you did—made it all very convenient. Unless Sigmond chose to treat you in Holywood, chances are we’d have flown you down here anyway as a second choice. Doc gets a lot of special cases, don’t you, Doc?”
The lizard-tongue flicked once more from between the smiling, parted lips. “That is correct.”
Graham paled. “You mean this is a—Womb?”
“Please.” The Psycho raised a hand. “Let us not descend to vulgarities, Graham. It is enough for you to know that you are now an inmate of an Insanatorium.”
Smiling graciously, he raised his hand in a languid motion and at the same time Graham felt Krug’s stunner beam him in the back.
FLASHBACK: DOWN MEMORY LANE
Kenner wanted to go to the bathroom, but it was too late.
The signal was already flashing—Fasten Your Seat Belt, and of course, No Smoking.
Kenner stubbed his cigarette and peered through the window. The plane must be right over town now; he could see the smog. Well, it was good to be home again.
Rio had been interesting and the view from the Sugar Loaf was spectacular, but the city below it was hot and noisy and crowded and dirty. Too many people, too much poverty; it was probably his fault, but he never did get used to the food and the smells or the unbroken language-barrier. Like they always said,, there’s no place like home.
Kenner shifted in his seat, glanced at his watch. He
’d remembered to set it ahead again, but even so, the flight was coming in three hours late. He’d have to phone Barbara from the airport when they landed, so she wouldn’t worry.
Come to think of it, why weren’t they landing? The plane was veering upwards again, then dipping with a sickening lurch he could feel in his stomach—and his bladder.
They must be stacked up over the field here. Unless, of course, there was something wrong with the landing-gear. Kenner tried to remember if he’d heard the telltale sounds of the wheels lowering. Come to think of it, he had. So that was one thing he didn’t have to worry about. They were just stacked up. Another few minutes now—
Kenner didn’t have to look at his watch. His bladder was a bursting chronometer. Half an hour they’d been circling here with that infuriating ricky-ticky all’s-well-with-the-world canned music playing over the speaker system.
But now, at last, it broke off and the crackling voice stuttered over the speaker to inform him and his fellow-passengers that they were touching down, their Red Carpet Right was over. And a damned good thing, too, because in another few minutes of delay he’d have put a few stains in their precious Red Carpet.
Bump. Bumpety-bump. And then the roaring reversal of the engines as they skidded through the sudden sunlight along the runway. More bumps now; the plane was taxiing slowly. A few of the passengers were starting to rise, but the mini-voice of the mini-skirted stewardess rasped faintly through the speaker, reminding them to please stay seated until the plane—
Kenner waited it out patiently. And when the exit was opened he rose and stood in line patiently as the passengers inched forward. Additional patience was required after he’d made the long walk to Immigration and queued up with the others awaiting the arrival of the uniformed inspectors who scrutinized the passports. There was some dispute involving the man in line ahead of him who presented an Italian visa, but it was all resolved within five minutes or so.
Then Kenner went down the corridors to the Customs area. There were no washrooms to be seen en route—probably a cautionary measure, lest someone try to smuggle in a rectum full of rubies. Kenner could understand that, but his bladder remained obstinately unconvinced. Well, the only thing to do was get through Customs as quickly as possible.
Customs was already jammed; apparently everyone had the same idea, if not a similar problem. A hundred and fifty passengers scurried in search of five hundred pieces of luggage along the moving baggage-belt, shoving towards suit cases, tugging trunks, hoisting hat-boxes, overnight bags, two-suiters, parcels of souvenirs.
Kenner spotted his heavy grip and its compact companion and fought his way through a cluster of Family-Plan passengers whose kids were trying to snatch bags at random in a new and exciting game they’d improvised.
Hefting luggage in both hands, he turned and attempted a quick analysis of the situation. There were six counters in operation, which gave him a choice of six lines, each of which already paraded a dozen or more passengers awaiting their turn for inspection. On impulse, Kenner chose the line at the far end, even though it meant carrying his bags an additional fifty yards. And there he stood, and there he waited.
Patience, he reminded himself. Patience is a monument. But monuments don’t have to go to the john. In fact it’s quite the other way around; monuments themselves serve as johns for pigeons. Well, he was a pigeon, all right. A passenger pigeon.
Were passenger pigeons extinct? Kenner couldn’t remember. It was stuffy in here, and noisy, and the luggage-handles were cutting into the flesh of his palms. He shifted his grip, shifted his stance, shifted his gaze; still six ahead of him. The line moved slowly. Inspectors weren’t waving anyone through today; maybe the inspectors themselves were being inspected and wanted to do a thorough job.
Kenner’s feet burned. Shoes too tight; no, that wasn’t it—he’d read somewhere that the human body tends to become swollen during a long flight. And his mouth felt like a mixing-pot for fish glue. Needed a shave, too, also a bath, and about fourteen hours of sleep. After he hit the john.
Three more gone from the line ahead of him, and three to go. Go. That was the wrong word to think about now. Think about Barbara and drinking water straight from the tap and all the comforts of home he’d missed on the trip. Just a few moments more—
“Open your luggage, please.”
Okay, great, this was it. Kenner reached into his pocket for the key.
The key, the goddam key! It wasn’t in his pocket. It wasn’t on his key-chain—only the car keys for trunk and ignition, the key to the front door, the key to the back door, the key to the garage, the key to the office, the key to the safety-deposit box—
He smiled at the inspector, who didn’t smile back. The inspector was in a hurry apparently. That was a laugh. Kenner wanted to tell him to be patient, but there was no time because he had to find the key.
Wallet. Yes, he remembered now—he’d slipped the key into his wallet for safekeeping. But where in the wallet? Kenner searched the leather pockets. Business cards, insurance identification, driver’s license, social security—and no key. He riffled the cellophane transparencies of the inserts: gasoline credit cards, Diner’s Club, American Express, Carte Blanche, Master-Charge, Automobile Club, membership cards for the Athletic Club, Rotary, Eagles. Finally he investigated the billfold compartment and there was the key, down at the bottom of the wad of traveler’s checks. Kenner smiled at the inspector again, hating himself for responding to what seemed to be a conditioned reflex in the presence of any type of uniformed authority, and opened his two pieces of luggage.
“Anything to declare?”
Kenner did indeed have something to declare. He wanted to declare to this inspector that he’d spent half an hour on the plane during the flight just filling out the detailed and complicated form required by customs regulations. He wanted to declare that the answers he’d given on that form clearly and specifically stated he had nothing to declare—and that this form, with these answers, was now in the inspector’s ham-like hand; all he had to do was look at the damned thing and see for himself that there was no problem, except perhaps the one he’d encounter if he followed Kenner’s advice by taking said form and shoving it—
Instead of verbalizing, Kenner merely shook his head and found himself smiling again. The stupid, automatic smile, while the inspector pawed through the neatly-arranged clothing and accessories in the two pieces of luggage. Then there was a rubber-stamping ritual and Kenner was free to reassemble the mess and jam the luggage shut once more.
But it was over, and he was free to go. That word again. Kenner went out into another corridor and found the john. At least he found the Restrooms sign with its indicating arrow. He followed the arrow through the crowd, his luggage lurching against his legs. Around the corner here—no, this one said Women. Must be further up. Yes.
Somewhere in the washroom, past the machine for shining shoes, the machine for electric shaving, the machines for dispensing pocket-combs, cologne, cleansing tissue and identification tags, Kenner discovered what he wanted.
For this relief much thanks.
The omnipresent piped music burbled in the background as Kenner washed his hands. The soap-machine didn’t work and the towel-machine was stuck, but you can’t have everything. Kenner picked up his bags and marched back along the rows of dime-in-the-slot toilet cubicles. The happy music entertained the happy customers therein.
The happy music sounded outside, too, as Kenner looked around for a porter. You don’t call them “redcaps” any more, and you don’t call them “boy” either. In fact, you don’t call them anything, because there aren’t any. Kenner carried his luggage himself, down the escalator and along the two-block ramp leading to the lobby and ticket area. His hands were raw by the time he got there, but what the hell, it’s the White Man’s Burden. Kenner shrugged at the thought. Been a long time since the days when he’d traveled by train and all the pullman porters were called “George,” and he certaintly didn’t want to see
that come back again. It’s just that it would be nice if someone still was available to help, even if he was called “Whitey”. You can carry some things too far—and this includes luggage.
There were porters in the lobby, at the door, and one of them even approached Kenner with a luggage-cart.
“Taxi, mister?”
Kenner shook his head. He reached into his pocket for the claim-slip—at least he’d remembered to put it there where it would be handy—and showed it to the porter.
“Lot Five.”
That’s right; he’d been away too long for his car to remain in the airport parking area across the street. He’d put it on a lot. “How do I get there?” he asked.
“Bus.” The porter took the bags, loaded them on the cart and started out. Kenner followed him to the curb where crowds congregated under a series of signs. No Stopping At Any Time. Passenger Loading Only. Airport Limousine. Express Downtown. Taxis. Bus For Connecting Terminals. Reserved. Loading Zone. Baggage Only. Yes, here it was. Bus To Parking Lots.
At least the sign was there, though the vehicle itself wasn’t visible.
“How long?”
“Five minutes.” The porter dumped the bags on the walk. Kenner gave him a dollar and the man disappeared.
Fifteen minutes later the bus came. The driver took Kenner’s claim-check, inspected it, handed it back, and motioned him aboard. Kenner hoisted his luggage and climbed in.
There was no red carpet on the bus. The decor was frayed and worn, like Kenner’s nerves. He sat there smoking for ten minutes, sat there fuming for another ten, while the vehicle waited for additional passengers. The driver drifted off down the curb to discuss the grave crisis in the pro football situation with his fellow experts. Finally a man and woman took seats in the bus. Probably husband and wife, because their faces seemed to have been dipped in the same vat of vinegar and they didn’t talk to one another.
The driver came back. He climbed in and asked to see the man’s claim-check. The man fumbled through his pockets, then glanced at the woman. “It’s in your purse,” he said. “I gave it to you on the plane, remember?”