The Ultimate Egoist

by Theodore Sturgeon

  His influence was far-reaching. One night he happened to tune into a radio soprano who was mutilating Italian opera to such an extent that Kenneth inadvertently remarked: “She’s lousy!” Thirty seconds later the loudspeaker gave vent to a series of squeaks and squalls which had no conceivable connection with Italian opera.

  He had to watch his language. No author or orator was ever so careful about avoiding clichés and catch-phrases as was Kenneth Courtney in the weeks in which he enjoyed his powers. A friend once remarked that he had been working all day; “I’m dead!” he said. Kenneth turned pale and solemnly swore he would never use that expression again. He began to notice things about the way we speak: “I’m starved.” “You’re crazy.” “You look like a ghost.” “I hate you.” “You’re a half-wit,” or “idiot” or “imbecile.” “You never grew up.”

  At first Kenneth was a good man to have around the house. From his easy chair he did the housework, made the beds, cooked a delicious series of meals, redecorated the living room, and renewed every article of clothing and linen in the house. Pretty soft. But he found that the wear and tear of the thing was too much for his wife.

  Though Marjorie had every evidence that the work was done, still she had no memory of doing it—unless, of course, she remarked on it to Kenneth. In that case she would be told, and truthfully, that she had done the work herself. But she began to worry a little about her memory; at times she thought she was losing it altogether. You don’t cook a six-course dinner without remembering anything about it except the fact that you cooked it; and Marjorie even had to be told about that. So Kenneth, after a while, left the house to its appointed boss, and amused himself elsewhere.

  And Kenneth never told her—or anyone—about Rakna and what he had done. Why? Because the conviction that matter-of-fact, efficient little Marjorie Courtney wouldn’t believe such a farfetched tale was so deep-rooted that it never occurred to him to use his power on her. She had, in the past, called him a liar so many times with justice that he felt subconsciously that she would do it again. That, incidentally, might have been Rakna’s doing.

  Well, for three weeks this went on. Kenneth had money to burn, all the leisure time he wanted—he worked now for the fun of it—and life was a song—in swingtime, of course, but still a song. He had been so busy experimenting and amusing himself that he hadn’t thought of really celebrating. And on one memorable Saturday night he went downtown and threw a whingding that made history.

  Only an old sailor or an ex-soldier or a man with Kenneth’s powers can throw that sort of a binge. He was not a heavy drinker; but every time that sickly, cloying feeling came over him he’d say, like every other swiller: “I’m not drunk. I may be tight, but I’m not drunk.” And then he could start over. Never mind the details; but let this suffice: the next morning, stocks on liquor jumped two points, and on the various hangover remedies, six to ten points. Not a sober man went out of a barroom anywhere in town that night. Kenneth painted the town bright, bright red; and he and all the tipplers he could possibly find—and everything was possible to Kenneth!—literally drank the town dry.

  He reeled home about six in the morning. He had poured some two hundred gallons of the best down his throat, and his breath would fell a strong man at thirty yards. Yet he was only delightfully high; he even remembered to eradicate the breath as he came in the door, by remarking that it was sweet as a baby’s.

  Marjorie was up when he entered rockily, flinging his hat to the right, his coat to the left, and himself on the carpet. She said nothing, which was bad; just walked daintily around him and upstairs. He called her, but she kept on going.

  “Oh, oh!” he said. He started after her, found the stairs a little too much for him, and so declared himself on the second floor. Once there, he stumbled in on Marjorie. She was packing.

  “What goes on?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m going to stay with mother for a while,” she said tiredly. “Till you sober up.”

  “Sober up?” he repeated. “Why, I’m perfectly sober!” It was true, of course; but that made no difference. Just because a thing is basically, unalterably true doesn’t mean that a woman and a wife is going to believe it. She kept packing.

  “Now wait a minute, darling. Haven’t I been good to you? What do you want me to do? Marjorie!” This was the first time she had pulled anything like this. He was flabbergasted.

  She turned toward him. “Kenneth, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go away from you for a while. Maybe forever,” she added forlornly. “You see, something’s happened to me … to us … in the last few weeks. I don’t know what it is, but I think sometimes that I’m losing my mind. I forget things … and you, Kenneth! I can’t understand what you’re up to, with all your running around at all hours of the night, and the strange things that are happening. The other day I was in the living room and just happened to be looking at Aunt Myrtle’s vase when it disappeared … vanished, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  Kenneth swore under his breath. That was a slip. He had hated that eyesore, and happened to think of it one day when he was on the road. He had stated that it no longer existed, forgetting that his wife might be in the room at the time.

  “So you see I need a rest, Kenneth.” She began to cry, but turned to her packing all the same. Kenneth tried to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away.

  Now Kenneth had learned during his year or so of marriage that the only way to stop one of these bickerings was to tell the truth, take his medicine like a man, and then be forgiven. Well, he reasoned, the truth wouldn’t be so hard to tell this time. Again, it never occurred to him to tell her that nothing was the matter, that she wasn’t angry and frightened. No, the only thing he could think of that would fill the bill was to share his secret about the god in the garden. That was the cause of it all, so it might be the cure.

  “Marjorie … I can explain everything.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “You always can.”

  He swallowed that and tried again. “Listen, darling, please. I was digging our lily pool, and—”

  As the story unfolded she stopped her packing and sank down on the edge of the bed. His words carried a peculiar conviction, and he thrilled to the dawning belief in her face.

  “—and so last night I thought of celebrating it. It would do no harm that couldn’t be set right. See? So don’t go, sweetheart. There’s no need—”

  The remark brought her engrossed mind back to the fact that she had been in the midst of leaving his bed and board when he had interrupted with this story, this—yes—preposterous story. She remembered that she was angry at him, and that fact was quite sufficient. He was so horribly smug, so terribly in the right about everything. Marjorie Courtney was by no means the first woman who, incensed, refused to believe the absolute truth simply because that truth put her in the wrong.

  “I don’t believe any of it!” she said firmly. Suddenly she drew back a little. “Kenneth … I do believe that it’s you who are losing your mind, not I … Ohhh—”

  Kenneth realized then that if she kept that up any longer she’d have herself convinced. That wouldn’t do. He took her by the arm, hurried her out and down the stairs. “Come on,” he said grimly. “You’re about to be introduced to a god. That’ll show you who’s crazy.”

  She struggled a little, but allowed herself to be forced out into the yard and down the garden path. She wouldn’t believe it! She wouldn’t!

  As they reached the pool she looked up at Kenneth’s face. It was grimly determined; she was frightened. She did not see old Rakna grin and raise his carven eyebrows.

  “Rakna!” called Kenneth. “My wife won’t believe in you. What can I do to convince her?”

  Marjorie said brokenly: “It’s just an old statue … I know … I saw the hideous thing last week … it can’t talk … It’s stone—”

  Rakna said: “I am stone, to her. I told you I didn’t want anybody but you knowing anything about me.”

>   “But … she’s my wife!” cried Kenneth.

  Marjorie said: “What?”

  “You see,” said Rakna, “she can’t hear me. She thinks you’re talking to a piece of stone.” The god laughed richly. “I don’t blame her for thinking you’re nuts!”

  “Skip that,” Kenneth said angrily. “She’s going to leave me if I can’t convince her I’m sane. She just won’t believe me. I thought you said I would always speak the absolute truth? Why won’t she believe me?”

  “Kenneth!” gasped Marjorie hysterically. “Stop it! Stop talking to that awful statue! Please, Kenneth!”

  Rakna laughed again. “Look, dope, don’t you know that truth, as such, does not exist to an angry woman, unless she happens to agree with it? As for my doing anything about this, that’s up to you. You got yourself into this. I found it most amusing, too. Now get yourself out. That ought to be funnier.”

  “Why you old … Listen, Rakna, give me a break, will you?” said Kenneth desperately.

  Rakna just chuckled.

  Suddenly Marjorie fell on her knees beside Kenneth. She looked up at him with tear-filled, imploring eyes. She was incredibly lovely, lovely and pitiful, as she knelt there.

  “Kenneth,” she moaned. “Oh, darling, I love you … I always will, no matter what happens to you, no matter—” She drew a great shuddering sigh, and Kenneth’s heart and soul went out to her. “Tell me you’re all right, Kenneth. Tell me this is all a dream. Oh, God … Kenneth! I’m your wife, and I’m crying for you! You’re out of your mind! This idol … its power over you—”

  Kenneth dropped beside her and held her close. Rakna chuckled again—his last chuckle.

  Kenneth whispered in Marjorie’s ear: “Darling, it’s all right! I’m quite sane, truly I am. Just forget everything. There is no Rakna … you’re right. Just a brownstone idol. Rakna has no power over me. I have no powers that he gave me—” Anything to comfort her. He murmured on and on.

  They crouched there, those two young people, at the foot of an incredibly old brownstone idol, who was once Rakna, a god with the power of a god. The stone idol had no power over Kenneth Courtney, for Kenneth had spoken the truth when he said those words.

  They lived, of course, happily ever after. And if you visit them, Kenneth may take you into the rock garden and show you his ugly old idol. It has a craggy, aristocratic face, with an expression on it of rueful humor. He was a good sport, that Rakna. Kenneth, by the way, still lies to his wife.

  Fit for a King

  SWEEPING AND POLISHING; the moan of high-powered vacuum cleaners and the chatter of chambermaids; sharp orders, hurrying feet, and the half eager, half resentful scurrying of employees; and over it all, the suave efficiency of Percy Gregg, the hotel’s dictatorial little manager. This was an epoch-making spring cleaning, for this was an epoch-making spring; the spring that was to bring a King-Emperor and his Queen to our shores. And they were to honor this great hotel with their august presences.

  Bill Foxx, the bell captain, took it all with a grin. It was almost funny to see Mr. Percy Gregg driving himself and his employees to distraction; to see the hustle and bustle centering around the impending visit of, after all, two mere human beings. That he could take it all with a grin did Bill Foxx credit, because Bill was held responsible for every unshined button on each impeccable uniform, and for every false move in the elaborate dress rehearsal of the carefully planned entrance. Sometimes, too, Mr. Gregg’s near psychopathic efficiency was a little hard to take. The man was inhuman on occasions, and his cold anger was feared by every desk clerk, bellhop and pot-walloper in the hotel. His rigid discipline and unbending manner toward all who worked for him were the qualities that made him one of the best, and certainly the least liked, hotel managers in the country.

  It made no difference how old and trusted an employee might be, one tiny slip and he was out. Percy Gregg prided himself on never giving anyone a second chance. Bill Foxx had made it his business to avoid making such little slips. His was a good job, and he had to keep it. Bill Foxx was saving up to marry, and when a man feels that way about a girl, he will bear anything—anything at all—to achieve his aim.

  As the days dragged on in a heartbreaking succession of drills and speed-up routines, there was more than one occasion when Bill almost forgot to grin. But he kept the vision of the girl he was to marry in his overworked mind. Like any human unjustly treated, the thought formed with greater and greater intensity, “Some day I’ll tell old man Gregg where to head in!” But he didn’t—not quite. Almost, though, time and again.

  It was on the day that Their majesties arrived that the last straw was piled on Bill’s uncomplaining back. Gregg’s anger was particularly uncalled for, because everything had been executed without a hitch; the grand entrance, with the lines of scrubbed and pressed and polished bellhops on each side of the door while the King’s National Anthem was played, and the ceremonial registering of royalty in the hotel books—all were performed with the greatest precision. And Gregg went out of his way to catch Bill Foxx, who had not made a mistake in four faithful years, in a most trifling error in etiquette. He could have glossed it over—but he wouldn’t. Not Percy Gregg.

  It happened this way. As Gregg was showing the royal couple into their suite, Bill appeared with ice water. He stood waiting until his entrance would be unnoticed, then crossed the room swiftly and set down his burden. Just as swiftly and quietly he turned and walked to the door, passing Gregg who, mouthing obsequious phrases, was backing from the room. Bill had seen this sort of thing in the movies, but had the impression that it was a little out of date. If Gregg wanted to make a fool of himself that way—

  “Foxx!” Gregg’s icy little voice cracked at him like a whip. He turned back. Gregg was standing at the door, closing it, and his smooth face was distorted with fury. Bill turned back.

  “You walked out of that suite,” Gregg said, his voice trembling. “You stupid, useless, blundering idiot! Don’t you know enough to keep your face toward a king when you leave his rooms? Get your money. You’re through!”

  Bill drew himself up and grinned, trying to check the torrent of words that swirled inside him. But why? He was through. He’d have his say, he decided. He began quietly, but his voice carried well, and it rose steadily as he said, “With pleasure. But I want to tell you this, you slave driver. I am an American, and I happen to be proud of it. I have treated these people with the respect and consideration due any guest. But I’m not paid to kowtow to any man or woman, and as an American I never learned to do it. I—” He stopped suddenly as the door was flung open and the King stepped out. In that tense moment Bill admired the man; he was a king, and he looked like a king.

  Gregg was frantically bowing and scraping, saying: “Your Majesty, I had no idea—a thousand pard—it is unthinkable that—”

  The King looked at him coldly, and Gregg subsided, trembling. Then the King came toward Bill and said, “I heard this unfortunate argument, and feel that I must speak to the first American who has acted as I understood all Americans act. I shall be honored to shake your hand in the American way.” And he did.

  No, Gregg did not fire his bell captain after that. For once he did not dare.

  Ex-Bachelor Extract

  A BUNCH OF us were there, former bachelors all. Now a former bachelor is ever so subtly different from the ordinary run-of-the-mill married man. A former bachelor is essentially a reformed person, whereas the average married man never reformed. Not so you’d notice it. He just steps into marriage as he stepped into school when he was a kid, or as he stepped into his first job. A casual, necessary thing. But a former bachelor is uprooted, reorganized; never a natural fit in the new order, but an artificially adjusted person.

  And when a bunch of former bachelors—yes, they flock together!—indulge in a bull session, sooner or later the talk will drift around to the reasons that this one and that one had for abandoning the blissfully independent single state. These yarns are always worth hearing, beca
use it takes plenty to lead a natural born bachelor to the altar. A former bachelor will get married for some of the doggonedest reasons, but quite the most superlatively doggonedest was the way little Louise Brett caught Carl Hansen.

  Carl met Louise at a cocktail party and they really took to each other. Carl’s a hard worker, interested in his job, and he likes to talk about it. Louise is intelligent, and made a very interested audience. Before they knew it they had chatted the party away, so of course he had to take her to dinner. And then a show. And then a supper-dance. It must have been at about that point that Louise made up her mind to lasso the lad.

  Now I’ve said she was intelligent. She could see Carl for what he was—an up and coming youngster with a taste for the finer things of life. She could see that he was perceptive and discriminating and fastidious. But above all she realized that he was a bachelor to the core, and she was going to have a hard time making him pop the question without frightening him away.

  How she found the answer I don’t know. But she found it all right.

  The third time they were out together he noticed her perfume. It grew on him during the evening, and at first he didn’t even realize that Louise owed her increased attractiveness to a scent, so subtle was it. There was something about her, though, something that stirred deep within him. She made him think of a succession of clean and sweet and pleasing things. Little pictures and impressions flickered through his mind as he talked to her and danced with her—mental photographs of the whiteness of washed enamel and the warm smell of home-cooked meals; blue checked aprons and bright curtains; fire glow and soft cushions. Louise exuded a magic all her own, completely original and completely devastating. She made Carl think of his mother—and when a woman achieves that, she has tied the binding knot, and needs only to pull it tight.

  After he left her in the wee small hours that morning, Carl drifted homeward in a rosy fog. This had never happened to him before, this hot-cold shivery feeling. The scientist calls it “emotional involvement” and the poet calls it “beatitude” and the swingster calls it “ickey.” But it’s love in any language—except a bachelor’s. Poor guy, he doesn’t know what to make of it.