The Lost Master - The Collected Works

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  But suppose Nick weren't to die — she'd have abandoned him to his terrible doom, left him to face a situation far more ominous than any unknown terrors beyond death. She shook her head distractedly, and looked up to meet the eyes of Dr. Horker, who was watching her gravely in the doorway.

  "Come on, Pat," he said gently.

  She rose, followed him down the stairs and out into the morning light. The driver of the ambulance stared curiously at her dishevelled, bedraggled figure, but she was so weary and forlorn that even the effort of brushing away the black strands of hair that clouded her smoke-dark eyes was beyond her. She slumped into the seat of the Doctor's car and sighed in utter exhaustion.

  "Rush it!" Horker called to the driver ahead. "I'll follow you."

  The car swept into motion, and the swift cool morning air beating against her face from the open window restored some clarity to her mind. She fixed her eyes on the rear of the speeding vehicle they followed.

  "Is there any hope at all?” she queried despondently.

  "I don't know, Pat. I can't tell yet. When you closed your eyes, he half turned, dodged; the bullet entered his skull near the base, near the cerebellum. If it had pierced the cerebellum, his heart and breathing must have stopped instantly. They didn't, however, and that's a mildly hopeful sign. Very mildly hopeful, though."

  "Do you know now what that devil — what the attack was?”

  "No, Pat," Horker admitted. "I don't. Call it a devil if you like; I can't name it any better." His voice changed to a tone of wonder. "Pat, I can't understand that paralyzing fascination the thing exerted. I — any medical man — would say that mental dominance of that sort doesn't exist."

  "Hypnotism," the girl suggested.

  "Bah! Every psychiatrist uses hypnotism in his business; it's part of some treatments. There's nothing of fascination about it; no dominance of one will over another, despite the popular view. That's natural and understandable; this was like — well, like the exploded claims of Mesmerism. I tell you, it's not humanly possible — and yet I felt it!"

  "Not humanly possible," murmured Pat. "That's the answer, then, Dr. Carl. Maybe now you'll believe in my devil."

  "I'm tempted to."

  "You'll have to! Can't you see it, Dr. Carl? Even his name, Nick — that's a colloquialism for the devil, isn't it?”

  "And Devine, I suppose," said Horker, "refers to his angelic ancestry. Devils are only fallen angels, aren't they?”

  "All right," said Pat wearily. "Make fun of it. You'll see!"

  "I'm not making fun of your theory, Honey. I can't offer a better one myself. I never saw nor heard of anything similar, and I'm not in position to ridicule any theory."

  "But you don't believe me."

  "Of course I don't, Pat. You're weaving an intricate fairy tale about a pathological condition and a fortuitous suggestiveness in names. Whatever the condition is — and I confess I don't understand it — it's something rational, and those things can be treated."

  "Treated by exorcism," said the girl. "That's the only way anyone ever succeeded in casting out a devil."

  The Doctor made no answer. The wailing vehicle ahead of them swung rapidly out of sight into an alley, and Horker halted his car before the gray facade of Briggs General.

  "Come in here," he said, helping Pat to alight. "You'll want to wait, won't you?”

  "How long," she queried listlessly, "before — before you'll know?”

  "Perhaps immediately. The only chance is to get that bullet out at once — if there's still time for it."

  She followed him into the building, past a desk where a white-clad girl regarded her curiously, and up an elevator. He led her into a small office.

  "Sit here," he said gently, and disappeared.

  She sat dully in the chair he had indicated, and minutes passed. She made no attempt to think; the long, cataclysmic night had exhausted her powers. She simply sat and suffered; the deep scratches of fingernails burned in the flesh of her back, her cheek pained from the violent slap, and her head and jaw ached from that first blow, the one that had knocked her unconscious last evening. But these twinges were minor; they were merely physical, and the hurts of the demon had struck far deeper than any physical injury. The damage to her spirit was by all odds the more painful; it numbed her mind and dulled her thoughts, and she simply sat idle and stared at the blank wall.

  She had no conception of the interval before Dr. Horker returned. He entered quietly, and began rinsing his hands at a basin in the corner.

  "Is it over?” she asked listlessly.

  "Not even begun," he responded. "However, it isn't too late. He'll be ready in a moment or so."

  "I wish it were over," she murmured. "One way or the other."

  "I too!" said the Doctor. "With all my heart, I wish it were over! If there were anyone within call who could handle it, I'd turn it to him gladly. But there isn't!"

  He moved again toward the door, leaning out and glancing down the hall.

  "'You stay here," he admonished her. "Don't try to find us; I want no interruptions, no matter what enters that mind of yours!"

  "You needn't worry," she said soberly. "I'm nut fool enough for that." She leaned wearily back in the chair, closing her eyes. A long interval passecr, she was vaguely surprised to see the Doctor still standing in the doorway when she opened her eyes. She had fancied him already in the midst of his labor.

  "What will you do?" she asked.

  "About what?”

  "I mean what sort of operation will it need ? Probing or what?"

  "Oh," he said. "I'll have to trephine him. Must get that bullet."

  "What's that — trephine?"

  He glanced down the hall. "They're ready," he said, and turned to go. At the door he paused. "Trephining is to open a little door in the skull. If your devil is in his head, we'll have it out along with the bullet."

  His footsteps receded down the hall.

  32

  Revelation

  S IT OVER NOW?” QUERIED PAT TREMULOUSLY as the Doctor finally reappeared. The interminable waiting had left her even more worn, and her pallid features bore the marks of strain.

  "Twenty minutes ago," said Horker. His face too bore evidence of tension; moreover, there was a puzzled, dubious expression in his eyes that frightened Pat. She was too apprehensive to risk a question as to the outcome, and simply stared at him with wide, fearful, questioning eyes.

  "I called up your home," he said irrelevantly. "I told them you left with me early this morning. Your mother's still in bed, although it's after ten." He paused. "Slip in without anyone seeing you, will you, Honey? And rumple up your bed."

  "If I haven't lost my key," she said, still with the question in her eyes.

  "It's in the mail-box. Magda found it on the porch this morning. I talked to her."

  She could bear the uncertainty no longer. "Tell me!" she demanded.

  "It's all right, I think."

  "You mean — he'll live?”

  The Doctor nodded. "I think so." He turned his puzzled eyes on her.

  "Oh!" breathed Pat. "Thank God!"

  "You wanted him back, Honey, didn't you?” Horker's tone was gentle.

  "Oh, yes!"

  "Devil and all?”

  "Yes — devil and all!" she echoed. Suddenly she sensed something strange in the other's manner. She perceived the uncertainty in his visage, and felt a rising trepidation. "What's the matter?” she queried anxiously. "You're not telling me everything! Tell me, Dr. Carl!"

  "There's something else," he said. "I'm not sure, Pat, but I think — I hope — you've got him back without the devil!"

  "He's cured?” Her voice was incredulous; she did not dare accept the Doctor's meaning.

  "I hope so. At least I located the cause."

  "What was it?” she demanded, an unexpected vigor livening her tired body. "What was that devil? Tell me! I want to know, Dr. Carl!"

  "I think the best name for it is a tumor," he said slowly. "I told th
em in there it was a tumor. I wish I knew myself."

  "A tumor! I don't understand!"

  "I don't either, Pat — not fully. It's something on or beyond the border of medical knowledge. I don't think any living authority could classify it definitely."

  "But tell me!" she cried fiercely. "Tell me!"

  "Well, Honey — I'll try." He paused thoughtfully. "Cancers and tumors — sarcomas — are curious things, Dear. Doctors aren't at all sure just what they are. And one of their peculiarities is that they sometimes seem to be trying to develop into separate entities, trying to become human by feeding like parasites on their hosts. Do you understand?”

  "No," said the girl. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carl, but I don't."

  "I mean," he continued, "that sometimes these growths seem to be trying to develop into — into organisms. I've seen them, for instance — every surgeon has — with bones developing. I've seen one with a rather perfect jaw-bone, and little teeth, and hair. As if," he added, "it were making a sort of attempt to become human, in a primitive, disorganized fashion. Now do you see what I mean?”

  "Yes," said the girl, with a violent shudder. "Dr. Carl, that's horrible!"

  "Life sometimes is," he agreed. "Well," he continued slowly, "I opened up our patient's skull at the point where the fluoroscope indicated the bullet. I trephined it, and there, pierced by the shot, was this—" He hesitated, "— this tumor."

  "Did you — remove it?”

  "Of course. But it wasn't a natural sort of brain tumor, Honey. It was a little cerebrum, apparently joined to a Y-shaped branch of the spinal cord. A little brain, Pat — no larger than your small fist, but deeply convoluted, and with the pre-Rolandic area highly developed."

  "What's pre-Rolandic, Dr. Carl?”asked Pat, shivering.

  "The seat of the motor nerves. The home, you might say, of the will. This brain was practically all will — and I wonder," he said musingly, "if that explains the ungodly, evil fascination the creature could command. A brain that was nothing but pure willpower, relieved by its parasitic nature of all the distractions of a directing body! I wonder —" He fell silent.

  "Tell me the rest!" she said frantically.

  "That's all, Honey. I removed it, and I guess I'm the only surgeon in the world who ever removed a brain from a human skull without killing the patient! Luckily, he had two of them!"

  "Oh God!" murmured the girl faintly. She turned to Horker. "But he will live?”

  "I think so. Your shot killed the devil, it seems." He frowned. "I said it was a tumor; I told them it was a tumor, but I'm not sure. Perhaps, just as some people are born with six fingers or toes on each member, he was born with two brains. It's possible; one developed normally, humanly, and the other — into that creature we faced last night. I don't know!"

  "It's what I said," asserted Pat. "It's a devil, and what you've just told me about tumors proves it. They're devils, that's all, and some day some student is going to cut one loose and raise it to maturity outside a human body, and you'll see what a devil is really like! And go ahead and laugh!"

  "I'm not laughing, Pat. I'd be the last one to laugh at your theory, after facing that thing last night. It had satanic powers, all right — that paralyzing fascination! You felt it too; it wasn't just a mental lapse on my part, was it?”

  "I felt it, Dr. Carl! I'd felt it before that; I was always helpless in the presence of it."

  "Could it," he asked, "have imposed its will actively on yours? I mean, could it have made you actually do what it asked there at the end, just before I recovered enough sense to let out that bellow?”

  "To take off — my dress?” She shivered. "I don't know, Dr. Carl. — I'm afraid so." She looked at him appealingly. "Why did I yield to it so?” she cried. "What made me find such a fierce pleasure in its kisses — in its blows and scratches, and the pain it inflicted on me? Why was that, Dr. Carl?”

  "Why," he countered, "do gangsters' girls and apache women enjoy the cruelties perpetrated on them by their men? There's a little masochism in most women, and that — creature was sadistic, perverted, abnormal, and somehow dominating. It took an unfair advantage of you, Pat; don't blame yourself."

  "It was — utterly evil!" she muttered. "It was the ultimate in everything unholy."

  "It was an aberrant brain," said Horker. "You can't judge it by human standards, since it wasn't actually human. It was, I suppose, just what you said — a devil. I didn't even keep it," he added grimly. "I destroyed it.''

  "Do you know what it meant by saying it was a question of synapses?” she asked.

  "That was queer!" The Doctor's voice was puzzled. "That remark implies that the thing itself knew what it was. How? It must have possessed knowledge that the normal brain lacked."

  "Was it a question of synapses?”

  "In a sense it was. The nerves from the two rival brains must have met in a synaptic juncture. The oftener the aberrant brain gained control, the easier it became for it to repeat the process, as the synapse, so to speak, wore thin. That's why the attacks intensified so horribly toward the end; the habit was being formed."

  "Last night was the very worst!"

  "Of course. As the thing itself pointed out, I made the mistake of drugging the normal brain and giving the other complete control of the body. At other times, there'd always been the rivalry to weaken whichever was dominant."

  "Does that mean," asked Pat anxiously, "that Nick's character will be changed now?”

  "I think so. I think you'll find him less meek, less gentle, than heretofore. More spirited, perhaps, since his energies won't be drained so constantly by the struggle."

  "I don't care!" she said. "I'd like that, and anyway, it doesn't make a bit of difference to me as long as he's just — my Nick."

  The Doctor gave her a tender smile. "Let's go home," he said, pinching her cheek in his great hand. "Can you leave him?"

  "I'll run back after a while, Honey. I think he'll do." He took her hand, drawing her after him. "Don't forget to slip in unseen, Pat, and rumple up your bed."

  "Rumple it!" She gave him a weary smile. "I'll be in it!"

  "Good idea. You look a bit worn out, Honey, and we can't have you getting sick now, or even pull a temporary faint like that one last night."

  "I didn't faint!"

  "Maybe not," grinned Horker. "Perhaps the proceedings grew a little boring, and you just lay down on the couch for a nap. It was a dull evening.

  Notes: This version (1.0) was scanned by a very generous scanner from Pulpscans, from a Fantasy Press first edition, and proofed by Gorgon776 from the tiffs. The inconsistencies in the chapter numbering, and titles, and the occasional archaic spelling are true to the DT edition.

  The cover came from somewhere on the net, and was the best scan I could find. Enjoy.

  THE DICTATOR

  CHAPTER I

  STEEL JEFFERS, PRESIDENT OF America, was not a large man. But no one thought of size, when confronted with his fiery eyes, his thin implacable lips, and his firm jaw.

  At the moment, however, as he sat at his desk in the bay window of the Blue Room of the White House, he permitted himself to relax a little, and his face lost some of its grimness. No one else was present except his athletic military aide, Lieutenant Jack Adams, in the trim black uniform of the Federal Guards; and the hawk-faced, bearded Secretary of State, James Dougherty. Two soldiers were pacing up and down on the sunlit lawn outside.

  President Jeffers passed a tired hand across his eyes, then looked up inquiringly at the scowling Dougherty. 'Do you, really think, Mr. Secretary, that I should sign the death warrant of those two young men?' he asked, with a touch of sadness. 'They thought they were influenced by patriotism. Isn't there some other way in which we can maintain our regime, without putting to death everyone who plots against us?'

  Lieutenant Adams tensed. These men awaiting sentence had been closely associated with him — secretly, of course. For Adams was an important cog in the conspiracy to rid the country of its undemocratic Pres
ident. Was there nothing he could do to save his pals?

  'Excellency,' he ventured eagerly, 'would not a little mercy–'

  'Nonsense!' snapped Secretary Dougherty, his red lips leering through his black beard. 'Mercy, bah! What mercy would this rabble show to us, if they ever got the upper hand? Excellency, we must be firm.'

  The President sighed. 'I suppose you are right; but, even so, I hate to do it.'

  A white-coated, bullet-headed man, with thick-lensed glasses, appeared in the doorway of the Blue Room, and announced with a Teutonic accent, 'Excellency, your medicine.'

  'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said President Jeffers, rising with what Adams could almost swear was a trapped expression, and stepping out into the hall.

  Adams had witnessed the rubbing-out of a number of patriots in the two years during which he had served as personal aide to this autocratic President. And to think that he himself had been one of the large number of young enthusiasts who only four years ago had helped elect Steel Jeffers to the presidency, as a reaction to the autocracy of President Hanson!

  The rise of Steel Jeffers had been spectacular. Elected Governor of Iowa in the same election at which John R. Hanson had been made President, Jeffers was among the first to protest against Hanson's attempted increase in executive powers. Meanwhile his astute campaign manager, State Senator Dougherty, had been building political fences. In the election Of 1956, Jeffers defeated Hanson on this issue of executive usurpation, and had carried into office scores of yesmen — Senators, Congressmen, Governors, and minor officials — all carefully handpicked because of their subserviency.

  Two years later, in the Congressional election of 1958, opposition candidates were intimidated or bought off, or else mysteriously disappeared. Vacancies in the judiciary, as they occurred, were filled with willing tools. The pay of the Army was raised, its size increased, and the ranks gradually padded with high grade mercenaries. The F.B.I. was disbanded; and the Intelligence Service of the Army expanded, to an extent unknown because they now went about dressed as civilians.

  Yet, because of his espousal of popular causes and his ingratiating personality, Steel Jeffers had retained and increased his hold on the proletariat; for he had carefully studied his predecessors, adopting their outstanding characteristics — from the charming manner and pseudo-liberalism of Roosevelt, to the inflexible and ruthless egotism of Hanson.