The Branch

by Mike Resnick

  “Just a minute,” said Moira, finally catching up to Moore. “Isn’t Krebbs supposed to be missing an eye?”

  Moore stared at the old man’s two eyes in surprise.

  “Maybe the eyepatch was a disguise,” he said.

  “How about his hand?”

  Moore reached out and grabbed the old man’s right hand. It possessed a thumb and four fingers.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” said Moira.

  He shook his head savagely. “This is Krebbs, all right. I can’t explain his hand or his eye, but this is the man.”

  “You must be wrong,” persisted Moira. “The eyepatch may have been a disguise, but people don’t grow fingers upon request.”

  “I’m telling you this man is Krebbs! Call Ben and tell him to have Abe Bernstein in my office in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay—but I think you’re crazy.”

  “Then humor me!” he snarled, leading the old man to the nearest monorail as his security men made sure he wasn’t interfered with.

  He reached his office in fifteen minutes and gestured to the old man to sit down. The old man remained on his feet, staring expressionlessly at a wall.

  Bernstein arrived a few minutes later.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Abe,” said Moore. “We’ve got a little problem on our hands.”

  Bernstein took an ophthalmoscope from his bag and shone the light into the old man’s eyes. Finally he looked up at Moore.

  “Correction: you’ve got a big problem here. What happened to this man, Solomon?”

  “I was hoping you’d be able to help me find out.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Krebbs,” said Moore.

  “The old man who tried to set you up?” asked Bernstein. “I was told he was—”

  “Missing an eye and some fingers. I know.”

  “Have you any reason to believe that you might have been mistaken about that?” asked Bernstein.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then this man can’t be Krebbs.”

  “He’s Krebbs,” said Moore firmly.

  “What makes you think so, Solomon?”

  “I don’t think so. I know so. Hell, I’m not likely to forget what he looked like.”

  “A lot of old men look alike,” suggested Bernstein.

  “This isn’t a lot of old men,” snapped Moore. “This is one particular old man—an old man named Krebbs, who happens to be my only link to Jeremiah!”

  “Why don’t you pick up the phone, call the nearest hospital, and ask them when was the last time they had a case of digital regeneration in a human being?” said Bernstein in exasperation.

  “A little less patronizing and a little more medicine,” said Moore. “I say he’s Krebbs, you say he isn’t. Fine. We’ll let it pass for the moment. Can you tell me what’s wrong with him?”

  “On the spur of the moment?”

  “If not sooner.”

  Bernstein examined the old man again, checking pulse, heartbeat, respiration, and reflexes. Finally he stepped back and sighed deeply.

  “You’ve come to the wrong kind of doctor, Solomon. For a man of his age, he’s in excellent health. I’d say you need a good psychiatrist, and I emphasize the word ‘good.’”

  “Why?”

  “Dr. Freud, may he rest in peace, would say that this is a classic case of hysteria. Since the word has come to mean screaming and ranting, I would amend it to say that he is suffering from extreme shock.”

  “How extreme?”

  “Bluntly, it seems to have blown every neural circuit in his brain. This, of course, is only my own semiskilled opinion. Possibly a man versed in the field would totally disagree and bring him out of it in five minutes’ time.”

  “How long will it take you?” asked Moore.

  “I don’t think you understand,” said Bernstein. “Curing, or even diagnosing, mental cases isn’t my field.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Moore. “Look—this man is no use to me like this. You’ve got to find a way to make him rational. A couple of minutes is all I need.”

  “First, I am not a psychiatrist. And second, this man is not Krebbs.” Bernstein paused. “I don’t know how you can be so sure about something that is so obviously wrong.”

  “Either you believe in your instincts and your judgment, or you don’t. I do.”

  “But—”

  “You’re still not helping me,” said Moore impatiently. “I know a psychiatrist would be better, but I don’t happen to have any on my payroll, and I don’t have any time to waste. Now, what’s the best way to bring him out of this trance?”

  “You’re asking me to do something very unethical, Solomon.”

  “Wrong,” said Moore. “I’m telling you to.”

  Bernstein looked back at the old man, grimaced, and shook his head.

  “I’m just not well versed enough in the field. Let me call in someone who is.”

  “All right,” Moore assented. “Get him here with everything he’ll need in thirty minutes.”

  Bernstein walked to the phone, made a quick call, and hung up the receiver.

  “All right,” he announced. “I’ve called in Neil Procyon. He’s on the staff of the Elgin Mental Hospital, and from what I hear he’s pretty good with shock therapy.”

  “Do you know him personally?” asked Moore.

  “Socially,” answered Bernstein. “He and my son go skiing together up in Michigan.”

  “Well,” said Moore ominously, “let’s hope he knows his stuff.”

  Procyon showed up some twenty-five minutes later, carrying a small plastic case under his arm. He was a young man, intense and unsmiling, with the body of an athlete and the drawn face of a man who didn’t know when to stop working. He greeted Bernstein formally, allowed himself to be introduced to Moore, and walked briskly to the old man.

  He conducted a brief but thorough examination, and then turned to Moore.

  “What caused this man’s condition?” he asked.

  “I don’t know—but there’s a blank check waiting for you if you can snap him out of it.”

  “I’ll send a team from the hospital out here to pick him up later this afternoon,” said Procyon.

  “Now,” said Moore coldly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t send any teams, Doctor. Cure him now.”

  “What makes you think you can give orders to me?” demanded Procyon hotly.

  Moore made no reply, but pressed a button on his intercom console.

  Two armed security guards immediately entered the office and stationed themselves by the doorway, their weapons drawn.

  “Dr. Bernstein, what the devil is going on here?” demanded Procyon.

  Bernstein shrugged. “I’d suggest that you attempt to bring the old man out of his daze here and now, Neil. Mr. Moore is not known for playing practical jokes.”

  “And, knowing that, you called me in?”

  “I would surely have killed the patient,” said Bernstein. “You might not.”

  “I intend to make a full report of this as soon as I get back to Elgin.”

  “As you like,” said Moore. “But in the meantime …” He gestured toward the old man.

  “All right,” said Procyon. “I just want it clearly understood that I am doing this under threat of death, and for no other reason.”

  Moore fumed to one of the security men. “Get Moira and Ben in here. I want them to hear anything Krebbs might say.”

  “If he says anything at all,” commented Bernstein, “It’ll probably be that his name isn’t Krebbs, and that he’s been a wino or a junkie for the past five years.”

  “We’ll see,” said Moore.

  “I’ll need some help,” announced Procyon.

  “Anything you wish,” said Moore, as Moira and Pryor entered the office.

  “I want this man tied securely—and I mean securely—to his chair.”

  The security men, at a signal from Moore, hol
stered their weapons and carried out Procyon’s instructions. The young doctor then unlocked the small case he had brought along and withdrew four transistorized devices, each about the size of a penny. He affixed one on each of the old man’s temples, one over the heart, and the fourth on the roof of the man’s mouth. He then withdrew a tiny control panel from the case.

  “Stand away from him,” he ordered. Then he turned to Moira. “You may want to avert your eyes.”

  “Fat chance,” muttered Pryor.

  Procyon pressed a button on the panel, and the old man’s body began jerking spasmodically. A few seconds later the doctor removed his finger from the button, and the old man sagged limply in his bonds.

  Bernstein walked over to the old man, lifted an eyelid, took his pulse, and measured his respiration.

  “Well, he’s still alive,” he announced at last. “But that’s about all I can say for him.”

  “Do it again,” said Moore.

  “But Mr. Moore …” protested Procyon.

  “Again.”

  Procyon pressed the button, and the old man’s body almost flew out of the chair.

  “No reaction,” said Bernstein, after examining him again.

  “Once more,” said Moore.

  “Solomon, it’ll kill him!” said Bernstein.

  “You heard me,” said Moore to Procyon.

  The young doctor started to object, then took another look at the security men, sighed, and pressed the button again.

  This time, after twitching furiously, the old man opened his eyes and glanced about the room, the total absence of expression giving way to a look of bewilderment.

  “Krebbs, can you hear me?” said Moore, kneeling down beside the chair.

  “Krebbs? Krebbs?” repeated the old man, mouthing the word uncomprehendingly.

  “Where is Jeremiah?”

  “Jeremiah?” said the old man, his face puzzled.

  “Yes, Jeremiah!” snapped Moore. “Where is he?”

  “Krebbs? Jeremiah?”

  “You’re Krebbs, and you tried to set me up for Jeremiah,” said Moore. “I’ll let you off the hook, but you’ve got to tell me where Jeremiah is!”

  “Hook? Hook?” The old man repeated the word as if it were a name he couldn’t quite recall.

  “Give him a little time to recover,” urged Bernstein. “He’s awfully weak right now.”

  “Five minutes, no more,” said Moore. “Unstrap him.”

  Bernstein untied the old man, then helped him to sit up more comfortably. A shock of white hair, wet with perspiration, fell onto the old man’s forehead, and he reached up with his right hand to brush the hair back. As the hand came within his field of vision he stared at it with growing confusion, wiggling each finger in succession.

  “Oh my God,” he muttered.

  “What is it, old man?” asked Bernstein.

  “Oh my God!” he repeated, staring at his fingers.

  “Where is he, Krebbs?” persisted Moore.

  The old man gingerly raised his left hand and touched first one eye and then the other.

  “Oh my God!” he shouted. “JEREMIAH!”

  With a shriek of pure terror, he toppled off the chair and fell heavily to the floor. As quick as Moore and Bernstein were, Moira was even quicker, and was instantly kneeling over him.

  “Is he alive?” asked Moore.

  “No,” answered Moira, her face flushed with excitement.

  “Damn!” said Moore. “Just when he was getting cogent enough to tell us something!”

  “I wouldn’t say he was cogent,” interjected Bernstein. “I’d say he was scared out of his wits, and I mean that quite literally. I think he died of fear.”

  “What scared him?” asked Moira, lovingly stroking the dead man’s face and hair.

  “I’m almost afraid to think about it,” said Bernstein. He bent over and examined the old man’s right hand closely. “There are no scars of any kind.”

  “What does that imply?” asked Moore.

  “Let’s allow Dr. Procyon to take his leave first,” suggested Bernstein. “Then we can all speak a little more freely.”

  Moore signaled the security men to escort Procyon out of the office.

  “I’ll need the body for my report,” said the young doctor, visibly shaken.

  “No!” said Moira suddenly. “I want it.”

  “What on earth for?” asked Procyon, curious in spite of himself.

  “She’s kind of a collector,” said Pryor with a grin.

  “Very funny,” muttered Procyon. “Now will you please have someone help me transport it back to the hospital?”

  “That wasn’t a joke,” said Moore. “The lady is keeping the body.”

  Procyon took two steps toward the corpse, found his way blocked by the security men, then turned on his heel and left.

  “He’s going to get you in a hell of a lot of trouble, Solomon,” said Bernstein.

  “It’s nothing we can’t handle,” said Moore, dismissing the subject.

  “What were you saying about his hand?”

  “There are no signs of any skin grafting,” said Bernstein. He lifted each eyelid in turn. “Neither eyeball is artificial, either. Let me ask you once more: could you possibly have been mistaken about his eye or his hand?”

  “Absolutely not,” replied Moore. “Ben, have this man’s fingerprints checked out and see what we can dig up on him—and when you’re through, have Moira show you where she wants you to stash the body.”

  Pryor nodded and summoned two more men to help with the fingerprinting, while Moore seated himself behind the desk.

  “Well, Abe,” he said, “are you finally willing to admit he was Krebbs?”

  “I lean in that direction,” replied Bernstein. “Tell me a little more about this Jeremiah. Moira made him sound like just another grifter, and not very bright at that.”

  “A little more is all that I can tell you. He’s a normal-looking young man in his early twenties, or so I’m told. He’s a con artist and a ladies’ man. He’s been known to frequent Karl Russo’s place down in Darktown, but he’s probably not an addict. He did his damnedest to set me up for a mugging, he’s dumb as all get-out, and he’s the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across.”

  “How so?”

  “Five of my men cornered him in a room and fired at him at point-blank range. He not only came out of it alive, but managed to escape as well.”

  “Why does he want to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. In fact, Moira is of the opinion that he’s just trying to scare me.”

  “And why do you say he’s stupid?”

  Moore launched into his explanation, and by the time he was done Pryor was back in the room with a computer readout clutched in his hand.

  “That was fast,” remarked Moore.

  “Ex-cons are a little easier to identify than most,” replied Pryor.

  “What do you have on him?”

  “Plenty,” said Pryor, looking at the readout. “His name is Willis Comstock Krebbs, Caucasian male, age sixty-three, born in Tucson, Arizona. He served time for rape, arson, extortion, blackmail, bigamy, and second-degree murder.”

  “Nice fellow,” commented Moore dryly.

  “I’m not finished,” said Pryor. “His identifying marks are as follows: he lost his left eye during a prison brawl in 2027, and lost the thumb and portions of two fingers of his right hand in a monorail accident in 2031.”

  “That’s all?” asked Moore.

  “So far.”

  “Okay, Abe, you’re the expert—just what the hell are we dealing with here?”

  “I’m not at all sure I want to know,” said Bernstein.

  “Could Krebbs have been a mutant?”

  “Not a chance,” replied Bernstein.

  “You’re sure?”

  Bernstein nodded. “First of all, most mutations—well over ninety-nine percent of them—are so small and meaningless as to go completely unnoticed. And the remainde
r, almost without exception, don’t make the mutant any more viable. They might consist of an extra finger, or one less vertebra in the spine, or a hair color that wasn’t in the gene pool. Only writers dream up mutants who can control minds or breathe underwater; nature hasn’t gotten that far yet. Furthermore, if Krebbs had the power of regeneration, why did he go twenty years without an eye and sixteen without a couple of fingers before he decided to grow them back?”

  “How about Jeremiah?” asked Moira, finally looking up from the body. “Could he be the mutant?”

  Bernstein shook his head. “Once and for all, forget about mutants. The two of you keep assuming that a mutant would have the power to regrow lost organs and limbs, and I assure you that it just isn’t so. And certainly no mutant, even if he possessed that power, could will regeneration upon someone else.”

  “Could Jeremiah be an alien?” suggested Moira.

  “You’ve been watching too many bad television shows,” said Bernstein. “I very much doubt that an alien would bear such a resemblance to us, and I find it just a little difficult to believe that an alien would spend all his time swindling our men and fornicating with our women.”

  He paused and smiled. “I can also give you half a hundred sound scientific reasons to support my position, if you would care to hear them.”

  “Could a mutant—or a man, if you prefer—be able to control random chance, to make his own luck?” asked Moore.

  “No more than you can,” said Bernstein. “Whatever the reason for Jeremiah’s escape from your men, it wasn’t because he consciously or unconsciously willed them to miss him.”

  “Have you got a better explanation?”

  “Not yet,” admitted Bernstein. “At the moment, I’m much more concerned with how Krebbs regrew his missing parts than with Jeremiah.”

  “Don’t be so sure that the two aren’t related,” said Moore. “After all, he screamed Jeremiah’s name after he saw that he was whole again.”

  “That doesn’t mean there’s a connection,” said Bernstein doggedly.

  “It doesn’t mean there’s not, either,” responded Moore.

  “Jeremiah once told me that the ancient Egyptians had all kinds of magical healing arts,” offered Moira. “Maybe he found out what they did and did it to Krebbs.”

  “Horseshit!” snapped Bernstein. “There’s never been a case of regeneration in the history of humanity. What does a carnival grifter know about Egypt, anyway?”