Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  "Hand please," requested the one on Thad's side. He had a fine dusting of snow on his cheeks, shoulders and chest. His metal hand was ice cold.

  A small cone extended itself, with a raspy click, out of the robot's palm. A tiny blue light at the cone's end scanned the tips of Thad's fingers. The robot let go, saying, "Agrees."

  A second later Dr. Rosenfeld's robot repeated the procedure and said the same thing.

  The car windows shut, the machine rolled ahead.

  "That—that was to check our finger—fingerprints, friend," said the doctor.

  "I figured."

  Dr. Rosenfeld had his hands back atop his head. "They—they like to be able to see your hands."

  Thad was scratching his crotch with his counterfeit fingertips. "I think I'm going to have to make a few

  changes around the old homestead," he said. "A half century hasn't made Johnny any less of a fuss-budget." That last word was one which had been current fifty years before.

  "You—you can't talk . . ." Dr. Rosenfeld stopped, remembering who Thad was supposed to be. "Yes, friend, you can certainly talk to J.P. about that. Although, as I've told you, the world hasn't improved—improved measurably since you were alive last. There's even more need for security today."

  "I suppose Johnny is up to his ass in government work still," said Thad.

  "I—I believe so, yes," answered Rosenfeld, watching Thad through slightly narrowed eyes. "Though I'm only one of several—several family doctors and I'm not in on any family secrets."

  After the landcar climbed two low hills the buildings became visible—a complex of six enormous white saltbox-type houses, connected by see-through tunnels.

  Stretching away behind the houses were acres of real trees, maples and birches, all bare and thin in the cold light.

  "Johnny's expanded a lot, I see," said Thad. "In my day we made do with only one house, the farthest one on the left, and about thirty acres."

  "Fifty years of nothing—nothing but success can—"

  "What are those new saltboxes Made of?"

  "Walbrook nearwood I imagine."

  "Since my time," said Thad. "I've got a lot of new products to get myself filled in on."

  Their car was jerked off the roadway into a wide circular clearing beside the big square house Thad was pretending to remember.

  Two more robots, chrome-plated this time, helped them out of the landcar. "House One, please," said the robot who took Thad's arm.

  "We should be taken in to see your—your brother now," said Dr. Rosenfeld.

  "Looking forward to it." Thad allowed himself to be guided to the door of the first house.

  In the foyer of the big white house a large blond man stood. "You're the alleged Walbrook, huh?"

  "You're not kin." Thad turned to the doctor. "I thought Johnny was ready to see me."

  "This," said Rosenfeld, "is—is Mr. Gunder, with the United States Government."

  "Agent Lyle Gunder," the large man amplified, "with the Total Security Agency. I serve as a liaison between Walbrook Enterprises and the Government. I screen people." He strode up to Thad. "Before you go any further I'm going to run a few tests on you."

  "What—what's this all about?" demanded the doctor, "I conducted—"

  "The old guy himself ordered it." Gunder jerked his head at Thad. "You'll have to come to House Two. By the way, what was your favorite vegetable as a kid?"

  "Crooked-neck squash." Thad began to roam around the white room. "All the pictures have been moved."

  "What was the name of your favorite stuffed toy when you were three?" asked the big TSA agent.

  "Doggie," said Thad.

  "Which knee did you—"

  "Don't let them wear you down, Unc." A tall, smiling young man came in through a side door. He was about Thad's age and looked something like Thad, the altered, worked-over Thad. But he was thicker and there was a difference about the upper part of his face. "I believe in you. Purely on faith, since I wasn't even born until long after they stuck you on ice."

  "It wasn't ice," corrected Dr. Rosenfeld.

  "I know, Doc," said the young man. "I'm Lon Walbrook, Unc." He clutched Thad around the shoulders. "Bob II's boy. You remember my dad, don't you?"

  "A shadowy little boy," said Thad. "He used to like to suck on the tips of felt markers."

  "That sounds like Pop for sure, Unc. Except he's less shadowy now," said Lon. "He's really developed balls in the last few years. He's down in South Amer—"

  "Stop hugging this alleged great-uncle of yours," said Gunder. "I've got to get him over to the research rooms right now."

  "Is this any way to treat the walking dead, Gunny?" Lon stood back while Gunder led Thad away

  toward another door. "I'll see you again up in J.P.'s lair later, Unc. I'm afraid you'll find poor Gramps hasn't held up as well as you."

  "I've had a lot more rest," said Thad.

  Lon laughed. "I can see I inherited my sense of humor from you, Unc."

  "What was your best subject in junior high?" asked the large Gunder. He opened the door and stepped through.

  "Paddle tennis." Thad followed the TSA man down an orange-tinted plastic tubeway.

  Dr. Rosenfeld brought up the rear, saying, "I'm—I'm still darned if I can see why you have to—"

  Gunder grabbed open the door at the tubeway's end. "Why the hell are you here?"

  When Thad stepped into the domed anteroom of House Two, he saw a lanky, sandy-haired man smiling tentatively at him from far across the room.

  The man held a bulky plyofolder tight against his chest. "Hello," he said across the hollow distance. "Hello, I'm . . . uh ... well, hello, Father."

  Thad grinned, walked over to the tentative man. "You must be my boy, my son Alex." He reached out a hand to the fifty-five-year-old Alex Walbrook.

  "Yes . . . uh . . . that's who I am, Father." He shifted the folder up toward his armpit. He lost control and it dropped, flapping, scattering microcards. "Sorry . . . uh . . . this is all rather awkward, isn't it? Encountering my own father again after so long . . . and ... uh . . . here you are younger than I am." He started to bend toward the fallen materials.

  Thad caught his hand and shook it. "It's good to see you, Alex. You've turned out well."

  "Oh . . . uh . . . I really don't know, Father," said the son of Robert I. "If you'd been around . . . uh . . . I think I might . . ."

  "Get that crap gathered up," said Gunder, joining them. "What are you moping around down here for anyhow?"

  On his knees, Alex replied, "Well, Lyle, I was . . . uh . . . I was in the files."

  "There's an extensive amount of information filed here in House Two," said Dr. Rosenfeld.

  "Several—several file rooms down that blue corri—"

  "Enough chitchat," said Gunder. "I want to get this guy in where we can check him out real good. Fingerprints, eye patterns, the works."

  Alex rose lopsidedly, leaving most of the tiny file cards on the plastic mosaic floor. "Well, I'm ... uh . . . happy that you're back, Father."

  "So am I." Thad patted the lanky man on the shoulder.

  "Save your hugging and kissing until we figure out who this guy is for sure."

  "You . . . uh . . . ought to remember, Gunder, that I'm . . . uh . . . part of the Walbrook family."

  "Uh . . . oh . . . uh . . . really?" chuckled the TSA agent.

  Thad took hold of Gunder's arm, pressed. "Let's take our tests."

  "I feel this is redundant," said Dr. Rosenfeld, trailing the two of them toward the wide yellow door of the test rooms.

  During the next hour six machines, two robots, three human lab technicians and a Negro-tinted android examined Thad. After that, Gunder asked him to wait in an alcove off the enormous gray metal test lab.

  "This is quite a setup," remarked Thad as Gunder slid the accordian door shut. "Built it just to run me through?"

  "We can do a lot of things down here." The blue accordian door closed tight.

  Thad slou
ched in a rubber chair, watching the gray unadorned ceiling. He rubbed at his naked backside.

  About ten minutes later Gunder returned. "Come on out here, buddy."

  Thad strolled barefooted back into the larger room, followed Gunder around assorted mechanisms.

  "Show this thing your hands again." Gunder jerked a thumb at the large tank-shaped machine which had tested Thad's fingerprints and palm patterns earlier.

  Swallowing, Thad thrust both hands into the waist-high slots. He hoped the Opposition Party technicians had done as good a job as Crosby Rich claimed.

  The tank whirred, hummed, then made a faint whistling sound from someplace around back.

  "Well?" demanded Gunder.

  "Perfect match," said the speaker grid of the machine. "This man and Robert Walbrook I have identical prints."

  With lips pressed tight together, Gunder took a deep breath. "Then why did you want to check him out again?"

  "Well, actually he has a fascinating life line. I'd predict he's going—"

  "Oh, shit." Gunder jerked Thad's hands free of the machine.

  "Do I pass?" grinned Thad. Gunder turned his back, gathered up Thad's clothes from a nearby chair top. "So far, buddy. So far, but I got a lot more tests in mind for you." He threw the clothes at Thad. "Some you won't even be aware of."

  "Sock," said Thad.

  "What?"

  "You left one of my socks on the chair there."

  Gunder snorted, went striding away.

  V

  Thad, Lon and Dr. Rosenfeld moved through nearglass tunnels and saltbox houses, finally reaching House Six.

  A chubby pink man with an aluminum right arm was awaiting them at the second-floor landing, shuffling almost imperceptibly on the thick flowered carpeting. "I am Badjett, sir," he said to Thad.

  Lon asked, "Badj, aren't you going to hug the prodigal?"

  "I am only in my very early fifties, Mr. Lon," answered Badjett. "Therefore I never had the pleasure of serving Mr. Robert I. Come this way, sir."

  Lon followed. "We're all going to call on Gramps."

  Badjett raised his left eyebrow. He stopped in front of a real oak door, inserted a metal finger in the keyhole. The door swung inward.

  The first person Thad saw was not old John Phillips Walbrook but a slim young girl. She was standing beside a high window, a dark girl with long black hair. The glare of the declining sun on the snow outside made a blue haze all around her. When she turned to face Thad he couldn't see her clearly, yet he knew there was something special about her. The way she held herself, the way she moved toward him.

  "Uncle Robert," she said in her gentle voice. "We're all so very glad you've returned to us." She was about twenty-four and very pretty, in a quiet, delicate way.

  "Company manners today, Sis?" laughed Lon. "This is my sister Jean-Anne, Unc. What are you calling yourself of late, Sis? Have you gone back to Walbrook?" He patted Thad on the shoulder. "You're in luck today. I stayed home from Walbrook Enterprises to greet you and Sis is here between marriages. It's too bad Dad couldn't get back from South America in time."

  "Won't you come this way, Uncle Robert," said the lovely dark girl. "Grandfather is very anxious to see you."

  "This is her lady act, Unc," said Lon. "Fools all and sundry until they—"

  Thad took hold of Lon's arm just above the elbow and squeezed. "I suggest you adopt a respectful silence in the presence of your elders."

  Seated in front of an empty fireplace was a bent old man in his eighties. He sat far forward, holding tight to the arms of his soft black chair. "We still haven't been able to do anything about age," he said to Thad. "I have a whole lab full of halfwits, overpaid halfwits, working on the problem."

  Lon said, "Defense work pays better."

  "We even have halfwits in the family now," said J. P. Walbrook.

  "It's good to see you again, Johnny," said Thad down at the old man.

  "Is it?" The old man studied Thad's face. "If only I . . . well. So you're back, Bob? I apologize for imposing even more tests today, but . . . Dr. Rosenfeld's told us most of your story, and of course I had it thoroughly checked by my security people. Still, I'd like to hear the details from you."

  "Dr. Rosenfeld knows more than I do," began Thad. "Apparently—I don't quite know how yet—I woke up when the rioting destroyed the vaults in Grosse Pointe. I have a feeling a couple of other guys who were stored there did, too." He shook his head, which was now a good replica of the real Robert I. "From then on until a few months ago . . . well, I'm not very clear. I must have wandered around from place to place, not knowing who I was."

  "Yes," said the old man, "we were always afraid of that. The storage affecting the memory cells of the brain."

  "Only temporarily, fortunately," said Dr. Rosenfeld from behind the old man's big black chair. "He began to remember who he was five months ago and—"

  "I went to a doctor," said Thad. "I was living in a ghetto area known as Cleveland, when I started getting glimpses, pieces of memory coming back. I knew a doctor who was working with the down-and-outs, a man I could trust with what I figured might only be some kind of delusions."

  "Fortunately," said the doctor, "the doctor was a man I know."

  "All those conventions you hit do pay off, Doc."

  "This colleague contacted me," continued Rosenfeld. "I began to do some checking, finally went out to Cleveland myself. I told no one in the family at first. I wanted to be relatively certain this young man was actually Robert B. Walbrook I. As you know, Mr. Walbrook, I made numerous tests before I even—"

  "Yes, I saw all that material, Rosenfeld," cut in J.P. "And, Bob, what about the leukemia?"

  "You remember we didn't know what all the side effects of the pseudodeath process would be. Johnny," said Thad. "There seems to have been a total remission."

  "That's true, as I reported to you," reminded the doctor.

  "Glory be," said Lon, "a miracle. And we're not even certain Walbrook Enterprises had anything to do with it."

  "You and your sister can leave us now," ordered the old man in a slow voice. "You as well, Doctor."

  When the three were gone Thad sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace. It was a characteristic Robert I posture.

  The old man continued watching him. At last he said, "You can have your old rooms in the first house again." He held out his hand. "Welcome home, Bob."

  VI

  It was two days before Thad got a chance to prowl. Christmas Eve and everyone seemed preoccupied. From the window of his suite in the original house he could see the snow falling heavier down through the darkness, swirled by a harsh wind. He left his floating see-through chair and hurried across the room.

  Only silence in the hallway. He moved quietly sideways out through the doorway. So far none of the material on Walbrook Enterprises he'd been given to go through had contained one mention of the Hellhound Project. Today all the microcards and wordspools had dealt with the pharmaceutical division of Walbrook.

  Since they wouldn't bring any defense and weaponry material to him, Thad decided he'd go looking for it on his own. He got safely down to the foyer. He could hear the kitchen robots now, laughing and rattling, joking with the imported French android chef.

  Thad let himself into the tube tunnel leading to House Two. He'd seen Gunder take off in a family aircruiser at twilight, so he wouldn't have to worry about the bulky TSA agent.

  The blue corridor leading to the file rooms was dimly lit with hanging twists of lightstrip. Seasonal music was flowing out of the tiny speakers planted along the floor.

  "Very festive," said Thad. He pushed open a door marked File Room A.

  It was long and narrow and smelled of metal. Two walls were made up of metal-doored cubicles. At the rear was a row of retrieval machines and six four-legged microreaders.

  Thad had been briefed by OP on how all these mechanisms worked. He located the central index box, which was built into the wall behind the retrieval machines. Squatting,
since the control panel was set in low, he studied the face of the box. The Hellhound stuff may not be stored in this room, he thought to himself, but I should at least be able to find out where it is.

  He was reaching out for the punch-buttons when something touched the back of his neck.

  "Nobody should work on Christmas Eve."

  It was Jean-Anne, dark and pretty, standing with one warm hand outstretched. He grinned up at her. "You move very circumspectly."

  "I guess I do. I saw you heading this way from my room," she said. "I wanted to invite you to see the tree get trimmed."

  "Aren't all the trees trimmed by now?"

  "We always leave the one in the living room here in House Two for tonight," said the girl. "It's an old family custom."

  "Relatively old," said Thad, starting to get up.

  Jean-Anne slid a hand under his arm. "Let me help you, Uncle Robert."

  "Hey," said Thad. "Even though I was born nearly eighty years ago, I'm not really feeble."

  The girl let go, smiling. "You're my great-uncle, though," she said. "I can't help thinking of great-uncles as venerable old souls. A lifetime of conditioning."

  "I'm probably one of the few youthful great-uncles around," admitted Thad as they left the file room.

  "Word is getting out, by the way, about you," said Jean-Anne. "Inquiring people from the Conglomerate News Network, the Fairpress and Time-Life have been knocking at the gates."

  "All to be turned away?"

  "Oh, yes. Grandfather doesn't like interviews of any kind and you . . . well, you he wants to handle especially carefully."

  The living room was lit only by globes of pale orange light floating up near the domed ceiling. In the center of the room stood a six-foot-tall Christmas tree, its strong pine smell filling the big room.

  Thad asked, "One of ours?"

  "Yes, a Walbrook nearwood longlife tree," answered the girl. "You can tell by the smell, too piney to be real."

  "I haven't gotten to our lumber business yet. Also, I can't find anything on the defense . . ."