Baby Is Three

by Theodore Sturgeon

  “I’m not worried now.”

  “Yes you are.”

  He studied his hands. “Yeah,” he grunted. “You’re right about that.” He thought for a moment. “Those things I have to … go through. You mean like finding old Percival that way?”

  She nodded. “And everything else that’s happened since I walked in here.”

  “Sort of … staged?”

  “You can call it that.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood up, looming over her like a cliff. “Did you have something to do with it?”

  “Something.”

  “With what happened to Percival? To Garry?” His voice was rich with self-control.

  She looked up at him with perfect composure. “Percival volunteered.”

  “Volun—for that!”

  “He knew who you were. He’s known for years. He’s watched over you and guided you more than you’ll ever know. He knew what you were before I did—and I’ve known it for a long time. As for Garry, what happened to him had to happen, because you had to feel just that way about something. You’re in a bigger play than you think you are. Now, sit down and stop blowing up like a sea squab, or I’ll stick a pin in you and bust you.”

  Slowly, he sat down. “You better talk some more.”

  “I will. Lynn was in it for the same reason. Don’t you see? Percival was the symbol of a lot of large issues to you. I don’t have to draw you a diagram about them. They all came to a focus in him, and with his death they came front and center.”

  “Did he have to die that way?” growled Guinn.

  “He did.” She held up a commanding hand. “I told you—I’m ‘talking sense’, just as you asked me to. Damn you, you’ll hold still for it. Garry is something you protect and teach, and he matters very much to you on those terms. You saved his life by your quick thinking, taking the car down the mountain face that way, getting him to the hospital in time—”

  “You’ll remember I stopped on the way.”

  “That was on the agenda. You had a choice to make, and you gave it to Lynn. You let her danger be more important to you than either Mordi or Garry’s life.”

  “I suppose that strip act was part of it.”

  “Of course it was! You had to see how she reacted to you under circumstances that would have had her hysterical with anyone else. She trusted you because she could trust you—because you are you.”

  “Go on.” His eyes were closed, his vision turned inwards.

  “Cheryl,” said the girl. “Someone who cared. Doctor Jim. Someone you trusted. And the ritual of the oak. Something you had to see.”

  “Why that?”

  “Because, with a mind that refuses to see anything that isn’t straight cause and effect, you had to witness effects with causes you’ll never understand—and trust your own eyes! The same goes for the money and this liquor. Pour me some more, by the way.”

  There wasn’t much in the bottle—only a couple of fingers. Resignedly, he poured, and filled his own glass.

  “Miss Morgan,” he said carefully, “you are very beautiful and you have a great bag of tricks. But your story is as full of holes as a yard of cheesecloth. I don’t know what you’re after, but from where I sit you’re a rich bitch with a warped sense of humor and an army of spies. Shut up!” he barked as her extraordinary eyes flamed with indignation.

  “I still think Percival died because you’ve been wandering around yammering about some secret treasure he’s supposed to’ve been on to. That’s the kind of story that gets believed about eccentrics like him who’ve never given a hoot about money. I think you’re responsible for his murder because of it. I don’t know but what you hired Lynn to help you pull the wool over my eyes, to slip extra money into my wallet, to pull that fancy performance in the woods. I haven’t figured out yet how half this sleight-of-hand was pulled, but I will. I’ll sweat some of it out of Lynn and dope the rest out for myself.”

  “Why, you—”

  “If that fairy story of yours was true, that this whole thing was scripted out to put me through some paces, it’d mean outside circumstances that widen to where you couldn’t have had a damn thing to do with them. What about the timing of that lowboy trailer—was that arranged?”

  “Yes!”

  He snorted. “The effect that old Percival had on me when I was a kid?”

  “Yes!”

  Sarcastically, he said, “The old oak tree growing just there?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! All of it! How can I make you understand? Everything—the big things, like your being born when you were, like the building of the bridge just where it was, just that width—and the little things—like old Joe being asleep when you got here, so that even when you were tired you climbed the steps rather than bother him. Like the first phone call you made being an arrangement to take of Percival’s goats. You’re you, damn it; but today, you’ve had to be more you than ever before. In every way that’s important because you’ve got to realize who you are!”

  Her intensity was like the radiation from a cherry-red ingot, a thing to narrow the eyes, against which to throw up futile hands. He shook his head in bewilderment. “Why do you go on with this?” he asked in genuine curiosity. “What’s in it for you? Lady, how crazy can you get?”

  She wrung her hands. “I can’t tell you who you are,” she mourned. “I can’t, I can’t … because if I did, that little wrinkle in your silly head would kink up and switch out all the circuits. You’ve been holding that knowledge locked up in your stubborn skull for years, and you won’t look at it. You’re born to the part, bred to it, trained for it, and you won’t make the simple admission to yourself.” She knitted her brows. Her full lower lip sucked in and her white teeth came down on it. She lowered her head and sat tensely, and a crystal tear welled out under her long lashes and lay twinkling on her high dark cheekbone.

  He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had a tough time, Miss Morgan,” he said. His voice shook, and he realized with a shot of fury that her breakup had affected him more profoundly than he thought he was capable of.

  She took his hand and pressed it against her wet cheek. “You’re such a wonderful fool,” she said brokenly.

  He didn’t know how his hand slid from her cheek to her throat. Her head came up abruptly and he found his eyes inches away from hers. Down, down in her eyes something glowed and called and promised. In those incredible eyes was a hunger, a yearning, and an overwhelming gladness fighting, fighting to emerge.

  He stood like that for minutes. Finally he said hoarsely, “This won’t gain you a thing. It won’t make me believe a word of that.….of yours.” The word he used was filthy, viciously used.

  “I know,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter …”

  And so the full spectrum was completed, and he was himself more than he had ever been before.

  Lynn yawned. The office was swept. The files were in order, the furniture dusted, the waiting room davenport vacuumed and plumped, the paneling oiled. The bills were paid. The phone almost never rang, and when it did all she could do was note the caller’s name and promise that Mr. Guinn would call back when he returned.

  “Hey—Had! Are you—” There was a step.

  Lynn leapt to her feet, smoothed her hair, and ran to the waiting room.

  He was there, tall, stooped, a patch on his temple and a clump of bandage on his neck looking like a misplaced tuft of his cotton hair.

  “Garry! Garry—oh!”

  She was in his arms before he knew it. She hugged him until he grunted, put him away at arms’ length, ran eager rapid fingers over his lips and cheeks.

  “Wait a minute, hey—” he spluttered. He colored violently. “Lynn, I was hoping … I was thinking of some way to maybe see you again sometime … I didn’t figger that—Gee. Hey.”

  “You idiot, you fool you,” she crooned. “Darling, sit down. You must be tired. I thought you’d be in the hospital for another week. I’ve missed you
so! You don’t know, you just—oh, Garry, am I making a fool of myself? Am I?”

  “Gosh,” he said. “I don’t think so.” He put his hands awkwardly on her shoulders. “I think this is all right.”

  She spun in close to him, put her cheek on his chest. His heart was going like a riveting gun. They sat on the davenport and at last he kissed her.

  At length he came up for air. “Ain’t felt like this since I won the sack race at the county fair,” he said. “Where’s Had?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You working here now?”

  She nodded. “He wanted me to, since that day. You know. He told me to call him and I did and he wasn’t there. I felt real bad. And about ten in the morning old Sam came around. He brought me a note from Mr. Guinn and the keys. He said Mr. Guinn had sent him up to take care of Percival’s goats—”

  “He would,” said Garry.

  “Yes, and Mr. Guinn had come up early in the morning and told him to go.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “I’ll show you.” She skipped into the office, opened a file drawer and came out with a rumpled piece of paper. “I’ll read it.”

  “ ‘I’ve got some thinking to do. I’ll be back shortly after I arrive. Don’t look for me. Here are the keys. Straighten up the place for me. You’ll find money in the top drawer of the desk. If you find any bills, pay them. If you get any calls, stall them. Take fifty a week for yourself and give Garry anything he needs.’ Garry, I’m to give you anything you need.”

  “Haw!” grinned Garry. “He thinks of everything. That all?”

  “No. ‘If you see that Morgan girl, tell her I still don’t believe her, but …’ Here the writing gets all squiggly. ‘… but I’ll keep looking until I find what she’s after. And I almost think I might.’ That’s all.”

  “Have you seen the girl?”

  “No. She hasn’t so much as called. Who is she?”

  “The most …” He flushed. “I like you better,” he said lamely.

  “You just better!”

  “I bet I know where he is,” said Garry. “Though maybe he wouldn’t want to hang around there now. Still …”

  “Where?”

  “Still up there with the goats. He used to say that if ever he got mixed up in too much detail, that was the place to go. Said nobody could think little things up there.”

  “That’s where we’ll start looking,” said a voice, and it laughed.

  Garry and Lynn sprang apart, and then Lynn cowered up close against Garry.

  Standing in the doorway was a dark, spare man with cold black eyes. His left arm was in a splint, though not in a sling. His jacket was draped over his left shoulder, and its drape gave him a chilling, vampire look. In his right hand was a heavy automatic.

  “Mordi!”

  “The whole thing suits me fine,” said Mordi. “Nothing’s going sour this time, buster. I want to be the first to congratulate you. You got a chick that will look at you, and I got a gun that will look at the chick. There’s nothing you can do so fast that I can’t—” He described the process of shooting Lynn in terms that made Garry’s lips go white.

  “What do you want?”

  “Same thing your boss wants. Either I get it first or he does. If he does, I get it right afterward. Come on, lovebirds. We’re taking a trip.” His black eyes slitted. “And look, little smarty, you better just follow my instructions and not pull another fast one, because I’m not holding this gun for fun.”

  Garry took a step toward him and Lynn flung her arms around him. “Garry, don’t, don’t …”

  Guinn threw the old book aside and stretched. “Morning, Matty,” he smiled.

  The nanny stretched her long neck further inside the cave. “Eh-eh-eh!” she answered.

  “Okay, okay.”

  He rolled off the goat-hair mattress and stooped to go through the entrance. The nanny skipped away from him and stopped again a few feet out in the clearing. “Eh-eh.”

  “I’m coming, honey.”

  He followed the goat through the neck of woods to the meadow. “Oh, for Pete’s sake! Can’t you stay out of trouble? You want to grow up to be a detective?” He strode over to the ruins of an ancient fieldstone wall. Tangled in a whip-vine was a week-old kid. Its clumsy thrashings had brought it under a flat stone which had fallen across a rock and a stump in such a way that the little animal was caught, painlessly, but effectively, under the stone with its legs spraddled out and its silly head springing up out of the shrubbery like a barrage balloon. “Up you come,” said Guinn, heaving the rock away. He picked up the kid and freed its legs from the vine. It bawled shrilly, and the nanny fretted impatiently beside him. He set the kid down and it staggered to the nanny and hooked on to a teat with exaggerated smackings and droolings and a series of frantic, contented little grunts. Guinn chuckled and walked away.

  The mist was a sea which had turned the hills into a wind-borne archipelago. There had been sun up here for two hours, but the valleys were still submerged, asleep. Guinn breathed the good air and let his gaze reach and reach into the indeterminate area where mist and sky met. Eight days of this had brought a great peace and purpose to him, and for forty-eight hours now he had even forgotten that he was out of cigarettes.

  The goats were company and a modicum of trouble, anchoring him to a duty. The sky and the stars and the sun and rain were things he could drift in, but the goats never let him lose himself. It was a good place to be, a good way to be.

  And the books …

  “… There was a man spawned by the powers of darkness, born of a virgin, destined to be the antichrist. And the virgin Blaise told her confessor, who believed when others would not, and baptized the child, taking him from the control of his dark father …”

  “… asleep under a rock in Barenton in Brittany amongst the hawthornes. And when the rain fails them, then do the peasants call to him, and strike the rock, and he calls down succor for the thirsty land.”

  (What was it he had heard about Barenton? Oh yes; when that Morgan girl had first come in: “Reckon it’ll rain tomorrow?” and she had said, not in Barenton.” And he had asked, “Where’s Barenton?” and she had said “Sorry. Classical reference. There’s a hawthorne bush there.”)

  “… a precious stone is brought to earth by angels, and committed to the guardianship of a line of kings. It is self-acting and food-providing, and the light issuing from it extinguishes the light of candles. No man may die within eight days of beholding it, and the weeping maiden who bears it retains perennial youth …”

  (So if there’s a drought at Barenton, he’s no longer under the stone …)

  He went back into the cave to read some more. Lovely, lovely stuff, those legends. What had turned him from them?

  (The echoes in his mind, the jeering kids at school. The smug young substitute teacher who had labeled his desk after an absence “The Siege Perilous”—the old name given the empty place at a great table when a knight was out searching for the … for the …)

  Before noon he heard the scuttle of hooves and the sharp snort of the big billy called Bucko.

  He ran outside. Bucko was on the high bluff behind the cave. Guinn scrambled up the rocks. “Easy, Bucko,” he said. Bucko turned to him and back toward the forest, his great head high, his heavy horns curving down and back so that the tips all but touched his massive shoulders.

  Guinn stood up and peered. He could see nothing, hear nothing—wait; there was a sound. A distant groan, a complex sound.

  It was the whining of a car in low gear, travelling rough ground so that the driver’s foot bounced on the accelerator.

  The sound came closer. Guinn automatically reached for his armpit and cursed. His gun was in the cave with his clothes. He hadn’t had them on in four days; why bother? The goats didn’t mind …

  He turned to go down when a brilliant flash caught his eye—the sun on chrome. Then he knew that by the time he gained the cave again the car would be
in the clearing. Strangers or friends—fine. He could put something on and come out to greet them. But if this visitor were no stranger, and no friend …

  He’d take his chances out here in the open.

  The car pulled into the clearing. Guinn knelt behind the gray peak of rock that jutted up like a chimney, and froze. From the ground he would look like another conformation of the rocks silhouetted against the bright sky.

  The car door opened. It was a Nash sedan. Garry was driving. He got out and walked straight away from the car for perhaps ten feet when, at a low growl from the car, he stopped. He stood still, trembling. Even from that distance Guinn could see the sweat standing out on his forehead.

  The rear door opened. Lynn got out. Her face was chalky, and her red-gold hair was vivid against it. She was staring straight ahead, and her eyes were as round as an auger-hole.

  Behind her came Mordi, crouching, watchful. He kept an automatic steadily on the girl. Guinn could hear his voice clearly as it grated, echoed among the rocks.

  “All right, cottonhead. Peek inside. If he’s there, call him out.”

  Garry stood still, and the torment on his face was indescribable.

  The automatic barked, and a slug whined twice in a crazy double ricochet. Garry whirled. Lynn snatched at her skirt, whimpering. She fingered a bullet hole in her skirt, low on her hip. “No!” she cried to Garry. “It didn’t touch me!”

  “The next one will,” promised Mordi faithfully. “Go on, cottonhead.”

  Garry stalked forward like a zombie. Mordi closed with Lynn, putting the muzzle of his gun against her back. They followed.

  Garry stooped and disappeared in the cave. He was out in a moment. “He isn’t there.”

  “He’s been there,” said Mordi.

  “No.”

  “You’re a liar.” He shoved Lynn so hard with the gun that she stumbled. Mordi stood back until she was on her feet again. Then he snapped, “Inside, Sister!” He pushed her roughly into the opening. “You,” he said to Garry, “stand right where you are, where I can see you. One step any way, and I start shooting.” He ducked into the cave.