The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

by Robert Bloch

  He says, "So long I have worked, but soon they will not laugh at me any more. Soon the smart Americans, the men over here who call themselves Professors, will take note of my work. They did not believe me when I offered to show them my plans. They would not accept my basic theory. But I knew I was right. I knew I could do it. Part of it must be mechanical, yes. But the most important part is the mind itself. You know what I told them? To do this, and to do it right, you've got to have brains."

  He sort of chuckled, and poured another drink. "Yes. That is the whole secret. More than anything else, you need brains. Not mechanical formula alone. But when I spoke of harnessing the mind, powering it with mental energy rather than physical, they laughed. Now we'll see."

  I bought myself a drink, and I guess he realized I wasn't in on the pitch, because he says, "You don't understand, do you?"

  I shook my head.

  "What would you say, my friend, if I told you I have just successfully completed the construction of the first practical spaceship?" Oh-oh, I thought to myself. Mr. Goofy!

  "But not a model, not a theory in metal — an actual, practical machine for travel to the moon?"

  Mr. Goofy and his knife, I thought. Making a crazy thing out of old scrap iron. Mr. Goofy!

  "If I wish, I can go tonight," he said. "Or tomorrow. Any time. No astronomy. No calculus. Mental energy is the secret. Harness the machinery to a human brain and it will be guided automatically to its destination in a moment, if properly controlled. That's all it takes — a single instant. Long enough to direct the potential energy of the cortex."

  Maybe you think it's funny the way I can remember all those big words, but I'll never forget anything Mr. Goofy said.

  And he told me, "Who has ever estimated the power of the human brain — its unexploited capacity for performance? Using the machine for autohypnosis, the brain is capable of tremendous effort. The electrical impulses can be stepped up, magnified ten millionfold. Atomic energy is insignificant in comparison. Now do you see what I have achieved?"

  I thought about it for a minute or so — him sitting there all steamed up over his dizzy junk heap. Then I remembered what was happening to him tomorrow.

  I just didn't have the heart to let him go on and on about how his life-work was realized, and how he'd be famous in Europe and America and he'd reach the moon and all that crud. I didn't have the heart. He was so little and so whacky. Mr. Goofy!

  So I says, "Look, I got to tell you something. Stakowsky, he's bouncing you out tomorrow. That's right. He's gonna kick you and your machine into the street. He says he can't stand it around."

  "Machine?" says Mr. Goofy. "What does he know of my machine?"

  Well, I had to tell him then. I had to. About how we went upstairs and looked.

  "Before the sheath was on, you saw?" he asked.

  "That's the way it was," I told him. "I saw it, and so did Stakowsky. And he'll kick you out."

  "But he cannot! I mean, I chose this spot carefully, so I could work unobserved. I need privacy. And I cannot move the ship now. I must bring people to see it when I make the announcement. I must make the special arrangements for the tests. It is a very delicate matter. Doesn't he understand? He'll be famous, too, because of what happened in his miserable hole of a place — "

  "He's probably famous tonight," I said. "I'll bet he's down the street somewheres right now, blabbing about you and your machine, and how he's gonna toss you out."

  Mr. Goofy looked so sad I tried to make a joke. "What's the matter with you? You say yourself it works by brain power. So use your brain and move it someplace else. Huh?"

  He looked even sadder. "Don't you realize it is designed only for space travel? And properly, my brain must be free to act as the control agent. Still, you are right about that man. He is a wicked person, and he hates me. I must do something. I wonder if—"

  Then you know what he does, this Mr. Goofy? He whips out his pencil and notebook and starts figuring. Just sits there and scribbles away. And he says, "Yes, it is possible. Change the wires leading to the controls. It is only a matter of a few moments. And what better proof could I ask than an actual demonstration? Yes. It is fated to be this way. Good."

  Then he stood up and stuck out his mitt. "Goodbye, Jack," he says. "And thank you for your suggestion."

  "What suggestion?"

  But he doesn't answer me, and then he's out the door and gone. I closed up the joint about one-thirty. The boss wasn't around and I figured what the hell, it was a blizzard.

  There was nobody out on the street this time of night, not with the wind off the lake and the snow coming down about a foot a minute. I couldn't see in front of my face.

  I crossed the street in front of the Palace Rooms — it must have been quarter to two or thereabouts — and all of a sudden it happened. Whoom!

  Like that it goes, a big loud blast you can hear even over the wind and the blizzard. On account of the snow being so thick I couldn't see nothing. But let me tell you. I sure heard it.

  At first I thought maybe it was some kind of explosion, so I quick run across to the Palace and up the stairs. All the winos in the flops was asleep — those guys, they get a jag on and they'll sleep even if you set fire to the mattress. But I had to find out if anything was wrong.

  I didn't smell no smoke and my room was okay, and it was all quiet in the hall. Except that the back door leading to the attic was open, and the air was cold.

  Right away I figured maybe Mr. Goofy had pulled something off, so I ran up the stairs. And I saw it.

  Mr. Goofy was gone. The junk was still scattered all over the room, but he'd burned all his notes and he was gone. The great big machine, or spaceship, or whatever it was — that was gone, too.

  How'd he get it out of the room and where did he take it? You can search me, brother.

  All I know is there was a big charred spot burned away in the center of the floor where the machine had stood. And right above there was a big round hole punched smack through the roof of the loft.

  So help me, I just stood there. What else could I do? Mr. Goofy said he built a spaceship that could take him to the moon. He said he could go there in a flash, just like that. He said all it took was brains.

  And what do I know about this autohypnosis deal, or whatever he called it, and about electricity-energy and force fields, and all that stuff?

  He was gone. The machine or ship was gone. And there was this awful hole in the roof. That's all I knew.

  Maybe Stakowsky would know the rest. It was worth a try, anyhow. So I run down to Stakowsky's room.

  After that, things didn't go so good.

  The cops started to push me around when they got there, and if it hadn't been for my boss putting the old pressure on, they'd have given me a real rough time. But they could see I was sorta like out of my head — and I was, too, for about a week.

  I kept yelling about this Mr. Goofy and his crazy invention and his big knife and his trip to the moon, and it didn't make no sense to the cops. Of course, nothing ever made any sense to them, and they had to drop the whole case — hush it up. The whole thing was too screwy to ever let leak out.

  Anyhow, I felt rugged until I moved out of the Palace Rooms and got back to work. Now I scarcely ever think about Mr. Goofy any more, or Stakowsky — or the whole cockeyed mess.

  I don't like to think about the mess.

  The mess was when I ran down the stairs that night and looked for Stakowsky in his room. He was there all right, but he didn't care about Goofy or the trip to the moon or the hole in his loft roof, either.

  Because he was very, very dead.

  And Mr. Goofy s foot-long knife was laying right next to him on the bed. So that part was easy to figure out. Mr. Goofy come right back there from the tavern, and he killed him.

  But after that?

  After that, your guess is as good as mine. The cops never found out a bit — not even Mr. Goofys real name, or where he came from, or where he got this here theory about sp
aceships and power to run them.

  Did he really have a invention that would take him to the moon? Could he change some wires and controls and just scoot off through the roof with his mental energy hooked up?

  Nobody knows. Nobody ever will know. But I can tell you this.

  There was a mess, one awful mess, in Stakowsky's room. Mr. Goofy must have taken his knife and gone to work on Stakowsky's head. There was nothing left on top but a big round hole, and it was empty.

  Stakowsky's head was empty.

  Mr. Goofy took out what was inside and fixed his machine and went to the moon. That's all.

  Like Mr. Goofy says, you got to have brains....

  A Good Imagination

  I MAY HAVE MY FAULTS, but lack of imagination isn't one of them.

  Take this matter of George Parker, for example. It finally came to a head today, and I flatter myself that I handled it very well. That's where imagination counts.

  If it hadn't been for my imagination I probably never would have noticed George in the first place. And I certainly wouldn't have been prepared to deal with him properly. But as it was, I had everything worked out.

  He showed up, right on schedule, just after lunch. I was down in the basement, mixing cement, when I heard him rap on the back door.

  "Anybody home?" he called.

  "Down here," I said. "All ready to go."

  So he walked through the kitchen and came down the cellar stairs, clumping. George, the eternal clumper, banging his way through life; about as subtle as a steamroller. And with a steamroller's smug belief in its own power, in its ability to crush anything that didn't get out of its way.

  He had to stoop a bit here in the basement because he was so tall. Tall and heavyset, with the thick neck and broad shoulders that are the common endowment of outdoor men, movie stars, and adult male gorillas.

  Of course I'm being a bit uncharitable. George Parker couldn't be compared to a gorilla. Not with that boyish haircut and amiable grin of his. No self-respecting gorilla would affect either.

  "All alone?" he asked. "Where's Mrs. Logan?"

  "Louise?" I shrugged. "She's gone over to Dalton to close up the bank account."

  The grin vanished. "Oh. I was sort of hoping I'd get a chance to say goodbye to her."

  I'll bet he was. It almost killed him, realizing that he wasn't going to see her again. I knew. I knew why he'd come scratching on the door with his "Anybody home?" routine. What he really meant was, "Is the coast clear, darling?"

  How many times had he come creeping around this summer? I wondered. How many times had he called her "darling"? How many times during the long weekdays when I wasn't home — when I was slaving away in town, and she was alone up here at the summer house?

  Alone with George Parker. The steamroller. The gorilla. The ape in the t-shirt.

  In June, when we first came up, I had thought we were lucky to find somebody like George to fix things around the place. The house needed repairs and carpentry work, and a fresh coat of paint. The lawn and garden demanded attention, too. And since I could only get away on weekends, I congratulated myself on finding a willing worker like George.

  Louise had congratulated me too. "It was wonderful of you to discover such a jewel. This place needs a handyman."

  Well, George must have been handy. All summer long, Louise kept finding new things for him to do. Putting in a walk to the pier. Setting up trellises. The neighbors got used to seeing him come in three or four days a week. I got used to it, too. For better than two months, you'd have thought I didn't have any imagination at all. Then I began to put two and two together. Or one and one, rather. George and Louise. Together up here, day after day. And night after night?

  Even then, I couldn't be sure. It took a great deal of imagination to conceive of any woman allowing herself to become enamored of such an obvious ape. But then, perhaps some women like apes. Perhaps they have a secret craving for hairy bodies and crushing weight and panting animalism. Louise always told me she hated that sort of thing. She respected me because I was gentle and understanding and controlled myself. At least, that's what she said.

  But I saw the way she looked at George. And I saw the way he looked at her. And I saw the way they both looked at me, when they thought I wasn't aware.

  I was aware, of course. Increasingly aware, as the weeks went by. At first I contemplated getting rid of George, but that would have been too obvious. Firing him in midsummer, with work to be done, didn't make sense. Unless I wanted to force a showdown with Louise.

  That wasn't the answer, either. All I'd have gotten from her would've been a tearful denial. And before she was through, she'd have twisted things around so that I was to blame. I'd be the brute who penned her up here in the country all summer long and left her alone to suffer. After all, I couldn't really prove anything.

  So then I decided to sell. It wasn't difficult. Getting the place fixed up was a good idea; it added a couple of thousand to the value of the property. All I had to do was pass the word around to the realtor over at Dalton, and he did the rest. By the end of August there were three offers. I chose the best one, and it gave me a tidy profit.

  Of course, Louise was heartbroken when she heard about the deal. She loved it here, she was just getting settled, she looked forward to coming back next year — why, she had even meant to talk to me about having a furnace put in so we could stay the year round.

  She played the scene well, and I enjoyed it. All except the part about staying up here permanently. Did the little fool really think I was stupid enough to go for that? Staying in town alone all week, slaving away at the business, and then dragging up here weekends in the dead of winter to hear her excuses? "No, really, I'm just too bushed, honey. If you only knew how much work I've been doing around the place! I just want to sleep forever."

  I wanted to shout at her, then. I wanted to curse her. I wanted to spit it all out, tell her that I knew, then take her in my arms and shake her until her silly head spun. But I couldn't. Louise was too delicate for such brutality. Or so she had always intimated to me. She demanded gentle treatment. Gentle George, the gorilla.

  So I was gentle with her. I told her that selling the place was merely a matter of good business. We had a chance to realize a handsome profit. And next year we'd buy another. In fact, I had already arranged a little surprise for her. After Labor Day, on our way back to town, I'd show it to her, even though it was a day or so out of our way.

  "Out of our way?" She gave me that wide-eyed stare. "You mean you've got another place picked out, not around here?"

  "That's right."

  "Where? Tell me. Is it far?"

  I smiled. "Quite far."

  "But I — I'd like to stay here, on the river."

  "Wait until you see it before you decide," I said. "Let's not talk about it any more now. I imagine you're tired."

  "Yes. I think I'll sleep on the day bed, if you don't mind."

  I didn't mind. And we didn't talk about it any more. I just completed the sale and got Louise to start packing. There wasn't much to pack, because I'd sold the furniture, too.

  Then I waited. Waited and watched. Louise didn't know about the watching, of course. Neither did George.

  And now it was the last day, and George stood in the cellar with me and looked at the mixing trough.

  "Say, you do a pretty good job," he said. "Never knew you was so handy."

  "I can do anything if I set my mind to it." I gave him back his grin.

  "Is this the hole you want me to plug up?" he asked. He pointed to the opening underneath the cellar steps. It was a black shelf about two feet high and three feet wide, between the top of the basement blocks and the ceiling beams.

  "That's it," I told him. "Goes clear back to the shed, I think. Always bothered me to see it, and I'd like to cement it up for the new owners before I go."

  "Keep the mice out, eh?"

  And the rats," I said.

  "Not many rats around here," George muttered.<
br />
  "You're wrong, George." I stared at him. "There are rats everywhere. They creep in when you're not around to see them. They destroy your property. If you're not careful, they'll eat you out of house and home. And they're cunning. They try to work silently, unobserved. But a smart man knows when they're present. He can detect the signs of their handiwork. And a smart man gets rid of them. I wouldn't want to leave any opening for rats here, George. I'd hate to think of the new owner going through the same experience I did."

  "You never told me about the rats," George said, looking at the hole in the wall. "Neither did Lou — Mrs. Logan."

  "Perhaps she didn't know about them," I answered. "Maybe I should have warned her."

  "Yeah."

  "Well, it doesn't matter now. The cement will take care of them." I stepped back. "By the way, George, this is some new stuff that I got in town. I don't know if you've ever worked with it before. It's called Fast-seal. Understand it dries hard in less than an hour."

  "You got the instructions?" George stared at the coagulating mass.

  "Nothing to it. You use it the same way as the regular cement." I handed him the trowel and the boards. "Here, might as well get started. I'm going to dismantle this target range."

  He went to work then and I stepped over to the other side of the basement and took down my targets. Then I got the pistols out of their case and packed them. After that I took up the revolvers. I did a little cleaning before I laid them away.

  George worked fast. He had the energy for tasks like this; energy, coupled with lack of imagination. Physical labor never troubles people like George, because they're not plagued by thoughts while they work. They live almost entirely in the world of sensation, responding aggressively to every challenge. Show them a hole in the wall and they'll cement it, show them a woman and they'll —

  I steered my thoughts away from that and concentrated on oiling the last revolver. It was a big Colt, one I'd never used down here. Odd, that I collected weapons and used them so seldom. I liked to handle them, handle them and speculate upon their potential power. See, here in this tiny hole lurks death; from this minute opening comes a force big enough to burst the brain of idiot and emperor alike, to shatter the skull of sinner and of saint. With such a weapon one could even kill a gorilla at close range.