Some of Your Blood

by Theodore Sturgeon

  So this is the story and it is all true and it is all I can remember. I done the best I could. I do not know why I am here or why I was shipped stateside here to this nut factory instead of the can for just hitting an officer. I am not crazy, anyone is who thinks so. All I want is out. I want out of here and I want out of the army, I had enough. All I want is to go back to my girl, we will get married and leave there or maybe farm some place. Or a store.

  Here is another of the letters with the letterhead discarded.

  Looneybin Lane O-R

  Orgonia, Ore. Feb 26

  Dear Phil, damnit:

  With all I’ve got to do I have been sitting here pulling on my lower lip and wondering what to say to you. I’m going to tell you right at the start that when I first got that bundle of paper from you and determined it wasn’t the Sunday Chronicle complete with the spring fashions supplement, I was mad as hell. And I suppose I still am. And I began by feeling that “George Smith” should be thrown out of that maniac’s motel of yours, and I wound up feeling the same way. But you made me laugh.

  Well of course, you stinking psychologist you. Anything you might have said to me I’d’ve spit in your eye for, after all this time. If I thought about you and “George” at all, I thought no news is good news and you’d finished with it. Then you send me his autobiography with no comment at all, just nothing.

  So ruefully, it is to laugh. I know what you’re up to. You want me to react, i.e., think. Now you know damn well an administrator doesn’t have time to think any more than he has time to plow through a testament like this. You also know me well enough to know I’d leaf through it and get hauled in and then go back and start over and hit every word. And be impressed by the effort that went into it, not excluding your pecking it all out on the typewriter. (What’s the matter—haven’t you got enough work to do?) (Seriously, Phil, I know you did it instead of sleeping and cut that out: I need you. You’re going to kill yourself.)

  Now about the biography. I am doubtless much more impressed by the pathetic horror of it than a case-hardened character like you. I am also impressed by this kid’s descriptive ability. I don’t know how a fourth-grade English teacher would parse some of his sentences (like his description of the weathered knot of wood in the boat’s side: “… you see things like that sometimes that though they do not move your eye keeps going into and out of and around and back again there are two spirals of hair on a cat’s back that way.”) but I never failed to get exactly what he meant. And aside from the one or two real insights he comes up with, as for example that discussion on sex and the machine-precise, almost delicate distinction he draws between Satisfy and Relieve, I am impressed by the completeness of his story. To this jaundiced eye he has left out nothing of significance; his portrait of himself is filled in to a substantial solid and contains no appreciable holes. What he has left out, like the exact details of his sex techniques with Anna, shouldn’t bother anyone except a grubby clinician like yourself who is beyond the reach of the chivalrous asterisk.

  I think there are a great many folks on the loose, people who would pass anyone’s sanity standards with flying colors, who are in themselves a lot sicker than this boy. He’s one of the few human beings I’ve ever heard of who seems to have placed sex in a genuinely wholesome perspective. He’s inordinately self-reliant; as long as he’s alone, he could no more be lost than a cat can be lost. And that brings up what to my mind is the real nature of his sickness, if any. And it isn’t his sickness.

  I said above that many certifiably sane people are in themselves sicker than “George.” Where we can raise an eyebrow at George is in matters which concern, not a person, but people. No human being, not even George, lives entirely alone. Interpersonal flux isn’t just fun, or convenient, or decent, or orthodox. It is essential, vital. Homo sap. is an interdependent species. He may not live alone. And it’s easy to describe how “George” relates to people: he doesn’t.

  Yet, in him, I don’t think it matters. He found Anna. There’s an odd aura about that relationship but whatever it is—and I’m not prying—it’s suitably convexo-concave, if you see what I mean. She sounds like a girl with pieces missing, but she has the ones he needs.

  To sum up I think this guy’s only sickness is scar tissue from a regrettable childhood, and his only real crime is in being a loner. It feels criminal to us gregarious souls because we don’t think we could do it. It’s—well, unfashionable. It makes us uneasy because of an in-the-cells certainty we all have that without our fellows we could not survive. In a herd-and-hive culture like ours, a solitary bent seems in a way immoral. Tsk tsk.

  All the foregoing (he said modestly) is of bull-session character; this isn’t my specialty, it’s yours. For all my irritation, I am grateful to you, old buddy, for a fascinating hour. Now for Christ’s sake turn him loose.

  as ever,

  Al

  P.S.: What in God’s name do you suppose was in that air letter that alerted the major?

  Here is the carbon copy of a letter.

  Lingam Lane O-R

  Catamite, Cal. Feb 28

  Dear Kernel, corps of the Nut:

  Delighted with your letter, your wisdom, your insight, your perspicacity. You’re wrong.

  1. There are appreciable holes in “George’s” narrative, and:

  2. His attitude toward sex is not wholesome. Having said which with such positiveness, I’ll have to be honest and say, for item One, that I don’t know what the holes are, just where they are. For item Two, I don’t think his sexual approach is wholesome but I do not affirm it is unwholesome either. This is not juggling with accepted norms, which are as you know pretty weird in places. It’s just that I don’t know what his sex-matrix is; I’m only sure it will bear investigation.

  Like yourself, I’ve been busy with several thousand other things while all this is going on, and I must remind you that this correspondence, for all these weeks, results just from his voluntary bio and our evaluation of it. I think it’s about time I scheduled some real time for him and started digging. I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks again for a grand letter.

  luv,

  Phil

  Here is a letter.

  Office of the Administrator

  Field Hospital HQ O-R

  Portland, Oregon March 2

  Phil:

  I’ll say this as gently as possible. Friendship, and off-the-record correspondence, as factors alpha and beta, are desirable as long as they do not interfere with gamma, that is, the job. Alpha and beta are absolutely wonderful where they help with the job. But if gamma is injured or slowed, beta will have to go and if necessary alpha. Because, old buddy, gamma is bigger than both of us. I’m using Greek letters because you’re an intellectual and I don’t want to insult you with ABC’s, but Phil, it really is that simple.

  I can say I suspect you’ve been working so hard (and well, I cordially add) that your judgment is wavering. And/or I can suggest that your really admirable preoccupation with your specialty has you chasing subtleties at a time when gross shovelling is piling up on you. This is to your personal credit but no good for the shop. I can even concede that you are right about this patient, but still insist that if he is tilted, it’s not enough to roll a marble; shunt him out and forget him. Or if you must, keep track of him and bring him some aspirin when you graduate to being a civilian.

  Or, finally, I can say, and you know damn well I will if I have to, that you have to take my orders, Sergeant Outerbridge, even if you know I am wrong. Even if you know I know I’m wrong.

  Give me credit for effort literally above and beyond the call of duty, on behalf of the above-mentioned alpha. It would cost me to lose it.

  Still your friend,

  Al

  Here is the carbon copy of a letter.

  Base Hospital #2

  Smithton Township, Cal. O-R

  Staff Office March 4

  Colonel, suh:

  I yield to superior numbers. And eagles. I am
as of above date drafting, as ordered, a sound-sounding diagnosis. I’m sorry you had to get stuffy about it, Al. I can see why, but I have to say I’m sorry you did. Oh well. Old Alpha can stand it, I guess.

  While I’m sounding (and I’m not dragging my feet on it, sir), here’s one thing for you to chew on in your idle moments:

  Exactly why did the fully filled-in, admirably portrayed GI blow his stack when asked that specific question by the major?

  yrs obediently,

  Phil

  Here is the answer.

  Sime plice O-R

  Sime stite. March 13

  Phil, you louse:

  You have the damndest way of slipping live ants under a man’s scalp. Aside from the fact that I have no idle moments, which you know, I made up my mind not to use them on any such dead issue. After four days it bothered me enough that I dug out “Smith’s” manuscript to find out exactly what it was the major asked him when he blew his top. It was, and I quote, “‘What do you hunt for, George? I mean, exactly what do you get out of it?’” And then bang.

  For two more days I made up my mind, quite often, to forget it. So now, not that it matters, but just for the sake of peace, peace, sweet, suffering peace: Mr Bones, why did the nice man blow his stack?

  Not that it matters, really. You don’t have to answer this.

  Al

  A carbon copy:

  Higgly Hatch O-R

  Covercrotch, Cal. March 15

  I dunno, Al.

  Shall I ask him?

  Phil.

  A letter:

  BaseHospHQ O-R

  Ptlnd Ore. March 16

  No!

  A.W.

  A telegram:

  SGT PHILIP OUTERBRIDGE

  BASEHOSP#2

  SMITHTON TOWNSHIP CAL MAR 16 6:12 PM

  SO ASK HIM.

  AL

  Another telegram:

  SGT PHILIP OUTERBRIDGE

  BASE H0SP #2

  SMITHTON TOWNSHIP CAL MAR 16 6:21 PM

  HAVE GUARD PRESENT THAT IS AN ORDER

  COL ALBERT WILLI AMS

  Vultures’ Vestry O-R

  Luna Park, Cal. March 17, begorrah

  Dear Al:

  I was really touched by your second wire to me last evening. Imagine, it’s the first time you actually pulled rank on me and here I am touched.

  Actually, your posture of command of recent date so chastened me that I sprang to obey on receipt of your first telegram, and did not get the second, heart-warming one until I came back downstairs.

  Work proceeds apace on the clever knowledgeable diagnosis and recommendation for medical discharge, and I imagine we will have it processed in the next few hours, or say 24.

  As ever,

  Phil

  P.S. Oh sure an’ you’ll be wanting to know phwat the man said. (March 17 always boots me right in the Erse.) He said—and with perfect calm, Colonel: he trusts me, you know, which he will not when (God willing) I get my silver bars, which should be about the time he leaves here. Man, it seems I have been waiting half my life for that commission. Tell me, Al, will I feel as good to get the lowly captain’s insignia as you did to get your lofty eagles? … but I digress. The man said, when I asked him why he blew up when the major asked him what he got out of hunting small game—you’ll remember, he stated in his manuscript that he disapproved of killing for killing’s sake, so it wasn’t that, and as for the obvious, I don’t think he once mentions hunger in connection with hunting; also, he frequently went for periods of months and even years without the slightest desire to hunt; anyway, what he answered was simply that he exploded because he thought the major had found out what it was. When I asked him why that should have bothered him, he explained carefully to me that he never was mad at the major; the major was a nice man; he was mad at himself because he had given himself away. The MPs grabbed him while he was mad, hence the donnybrook. Begorra. The major pitched in to help and got his nose in the way.

  He affirms that if nobody had grabbed him nothing would have happened but his cut hand when he squashed the water glass.

  I hope that answers your question, Al. Peace, peace, sweet suffering peace. He’ll be a civilian ere the dew drenches the shamrock or shortly thereafter.

  P.O.

  Base Hospital HQ O-R

  Portland, Ore. March 19

  Dear Phil:

  I see what you’re up to. To some degree. There’s a distinction between absolute and implicit obedience, forever discovered and rediscovered in the ranks and used to bug the officers. For all your light-hearted blarney (you see I’m not immune to the passing of Padraic) you’re still bleeding about my pulling rank on you. I can even see how you finagled me into asking just that question (Why did “George” blow his biscuit) when it was perfectly clear I was interested in the same thing the major was: what was his compulsion to hunt, if not for killing nor hunger?

  If he’s still around by the time you get this, see if you can find out.

  And look—just to forestall any of your neuron-prodding, puppet-pulling monkeyshines, let’s drop this explicit-answer-to-explicit-question bit. If you get an answer to this question don’t go giving it to me with a teaser on it for the next one.

  Oh God damn it to hell, Phil. You’re bound on this, aren’t you? If I don’t give you your head with this patient you’ll tweeze me to death with your niggling little pokes and pinches. And you know damn well I need you where you are, working as hard as you can, which I gather means working happy. My alternative is to pitch you in the stockade or transfer you out and you know I can’t.

  Okay, then, go ahead. But give everything you can to everything else. Either get results with him or kick him out.

  It’s lucky for you we’re friends. It’s lucky for me you know how to keep your trap shut. As for Nature Boy, I still think you are wrong. Hurry up and prove it.

  Al

  The Happy Hutch O -R

  Far Out, Cal. March 21

  Dear Al: Bless you, boy! I have everything lined up—Thematic Apperception, Rorschach, projective personality from profile to Patagonia. As for the other work, buddy, you got yourself a dynamo. You have never seen processing like you’ll see it now. Thanks thanks thanks and don’t ever ask me if I really did start a discharge for “George.”

  Gratefully,

  Phil

  Schizoid Center, O-R

  Splitconk, Ore. March 23

  Dear Phil:

  Don’t thank me, friend; and don’t worry, I won’t ask you if you really were processing that discharge. You have your dear old Colonel completely submissive and under your thumb, and willing to do anything to assist you. Like I’m holding up your commission until you’re quite finished with your authorial playmate, so your being an officer won’t upset him. A tough case, Phil, but I’ll go along with you if it takes years.

  Cordially,

  Al

  Here’s a sheaf of therapy notes, transcribed from shorthand. Q = Therapist. A = Patient. All notes refer to the case termed AX544.

  March 25.

  Morning: 3 hours.

  Q. Morning, George.

  A. Who—me? George? (Lying on cot. Sits.)

  Q. (Shrug.) A good name. You picked it.

  A. (Nods.) What I wrote…. It work?

  Q. Work?

  A. To get me out of here.

  Q. It works like a brick, George, building something. Part of a whole lot of things.

  A. All that. A brick.

  Q. That was two whole truckloads, George. That was a good job.

  A. (Lies down. Seems angered. Watches Q, eyes slitted. Respiration slow.)

  Q. (Turns back. Walks to window. Fills pipe slowly. Lights. Turns. A. now looking, off-focus, at ceiling.) It takes a lot of bricks. But it’s the only way.

  A. Okay.

  Q. No in-and-out this time, George. I’m here till lunch time. (Pause.) If you want me.

  A. (Shrugs slightly.)

  Q. Want to get to work, then?

 
; A. Doing what?

  Q. What I have to do mostly is get to know you real well.

  A. Asking questions.

  Q. That’s one way.

  A. Goddamn major sent me here … he ask too many questions.

  Q. (Recognizing warning: don’t pry.) Okay. Let’s try this, George. (Starts to lay out Wechsler on table. Curious, George gets up.)

  The Army Wechsler Mental scale consists of ten types of questions, some requiring good use of language; others, easy mathematical manipulation, still others solving simple picture puzzles. It is a standard intelligence test, not likely to stir up violent reactions.

  Q. (More than an hour later, halfway through tests.) You don’t talk much, do you, George? What happened: use up all your words writing?

  A. (Slipping from passivity to surliness.) Never did talk much….Quit callin’ me George.

  Q. Okay…. want me to use your real name? (It is Bela—a natural taunt for American juveniles.)

  A. Hell no….

  (On the Wechsler, he scored at a high average level when it came to understanding conventional meanings and ideas. That is, he knew what was expected of him by people around him. But when the test demanded intense concentration and abstract thinking he did less well. He could not apply his mind to a complex idea or situation. I judged that he was equipped to do it, but was unable—at the moment at least—to use the equipment. It seemed tied up in some other task. He was the figurative clam to the letter, the impenetrable valves open a crack, just sufficient to contact what was immediate, direct, simple, touchable.)

  Q. (Looking at watch.) Man, you’re movin! You know we’re all done with this and we have a whole hour left? You keep on at this rate….

  A. Yeah? (Drops passivity for a quick look at Q. Searching for sincerity. Unused to praise.)

  Q. Want to try more?

  A. (Dully.) Okay. (Here one could sense, rather than hear or see, a difference in the dullness. This differed from the genuinely, unstirred phlegmaticism. This was almost identical, but an act to conceal an increased awareness.)

  Q. This is called the Rorschach.