“He surely did!” retorted Pat. “And he hardly said a word the whole evening.”
“He wouldn’t have to, if they’re all like Billy! What’s this prodigy’s specialty?”
“He writes. I think—laugh if you want to!—I think perhaps he’s a genius.”
“Well,” said Doctor Horker, “even that’s possible. It’s been known to occur, but rarely, to my knowledge, in your generation.”
“Oh, we’re just dimmed by the glare of brilliance from yours.” She swung her legs to the floor, facing the Doctor. “Do you psychiatrists actually know anything about love?” she queried.
“We’re supposed to.”
“What is it, then?”
“Just a device of Nature’s for perpetuating the species. Some organisms manage without it, and do pretty well.”
“Yes. I’ve heard references to the poor fish!”
“Then they’re inaccurate; fish have primitive symptoms of eroticism. But below the vertebrates, notably in the amoeba, I don’t recall any amorous habits.”
“Then your definition doesn’t explain a thing, does it?”
“Not to one of the victims, perhaps.”
“Anyway,” said Pat decisively, “I’ve heard of the old biological urge before your kind analysis. It doesn’t begin to explain why one should be attracted to this person and repelled by that one. Does it?”
“No, but Freud does. The famous Oedipus Complex.”
“That’s the love of son for mother, or daughter for father, isn’t it? And I don’t see how that clears up anything; for example, I can just barely remember my father.”
“That’s plenty. It could be some little trait in these swains of yours, some unimportant mannerism that recalls that memory. Or there’s that portrait of him in the hall—the one under the mellow red light. It might happen that you’d see one of these chaps under a similar light in some attitude that brings the picture to mind—or a hundred other possibilities.”
“Doesn’t sound entirely convincing,” objected Pat with a thoughtful frown.
“Well, submit to the proper treatments, and I’ll tell you exactly what caused each and every one of your little passing fancies. You can’t expect me to hit it first guess.”
“Thanks, no! That’s one of these courses where you tell the doctor all your secrets, and I prefer to keep what few I have.”
“Good judgment, Pat. By the way, you said this chap was odd. Does that mean merely that he writes? I’ve known perfectly normal people who wrote.”
“No,” she said, “it isn’t that. It’s—he’s so sweet and gentle and manageable most of the time, but sometimes he has such a thrilling spark of mastery that it almost scares me. It’s puzzling but fascinating, if you grasp my import.”
“Huh! He’s probably a naturally selfish fellow who’s putting on a good show of gentleness for your benefit. Those flashes of tyranny are probably his real character in moment of forgetfulness.”
“You doctors can explain anything, can’t you?”
“That’s our business. It’s what we’re paid for.”
“Well, you’re wrong this time. I know Nick well enough to know if he’s acting. His personality is just what I said—gentle, sensitive, and yet—It’s perplexing, and that’s a good part of his charm.”
“Then it’s not such a serious case you’ve got,” mocked the doctor. “When you’re cool enough to analyze your own feelings, and dissect the elements of the chap’s attraction, you’re not in any danger.”
“Danger! I can look out for myself, thanks. That’s one thing we mindless moderns learn young, and don’t let me catch you puttering around in my romances! In loco parentis or just plain loco, you’ll get the licking instead of me!”
“Believe me, Pat, if I wanted to experiment with affairs of the heart, I’d not pick a spit-fire like you as the subject.”
“Well, Doctor Carl, you’re warned!”
“This Nick,” observed the Doctor, “must be quite a fellow to get the princess of the North Side so het up. What’s the rest of his cognomen?”
“Nicholas Devine. Romantic, isn’t it?”
“Devine,” muttered Horker. “I don’t know any Devines. Who are his people?”
“Hasn’t any.”
“How does he live? By his writing?”
“Don’t know. I gathered that he lives on some income left by his parents. What’s the difference, anyway?”
“None. None at all.” The other wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. “There was a colleague of mine, a Dr. Devine; died a good many years ago. Reputation wasn’t anything to brag about; was a little off balance mentally.”
“Well, Nick isn’t!” snapped Pat with some asperity.
“I’d like to meet him.”
“He’s coming over tonight.”
“So’m I. I want to see your mother.” He rose ponderously. “If she’s not playing bridge again!”
“Well, look him over,” retorted Pat. “And I think your knowledge of love is a decided flop. I think you’re woefully ignorant on the subject.”
“Why’s that?”
“If you’d known anything about it, you could have married mother some time during the last seventeen years. Lord knows you’ve tried, and all you’ve attained is the state of in loco parentis instead of parens.”
CHAPTER 3
Psychiatrics of Genius
“How do you charge—by the hour?” asked Pat, as Doctor Horker returned from the hall. The sound of her mother’s departing footsteps pattered on the porch.
“Of course, Young One; like a plumber.”
“Then your rates per minute must be colossal! The only time you ever see Mother is a moment or so between bridge games.”
“I add on the time I waste with you, my dear. Such as now, waiting to look over that odd swain of yours. Didn’t you say he’d be over this evening?”
“Yes, but it’s not worth your rates to have him psychoanalyzed. I can do as well myself.”
“All right, Pat. I’ll give you a sample analysis free,” chuckled the Doctor, distributing his bulk comfortably on the davenport.
“I don’t like free trials,” she retorted. “I sent for a beauty-culture book once, on free trial. I was twelve years only, and returned it in seven days, but I’m still getting sales letters in the mails. I must be on every sucker list in the country.”
“So that’s the secret of your charm.”
“What is?”
“You must have read the book, I mean. If you remember the title, I might try it myself. Think it’d help?”
“Dr. Carl,” laughed the girl, “you don’t need a book on beauty culture—you need one on bridge! It’s that atrocious game you play that’s bothering Mother.”
“Indeed? I shouldn’t be surprised if you were right; I’ve suspected that.”
“Save your surprise for when I’m wrong, Doc. You’ll suffer much less from shock.”
“Confident little brat! You’re apt to get that knocked out of you some day, though I hope you never do.”
“I can take it,” grinned Pat.
“No doubt you can, but you’re an adept at handing it out. Where’s this chap of yours?”
“He’ll be along. No one’s ever stood me up on a date yet.”
“I can understand that, you imp! Is that the famous Nick?” he queried as a car purred to a stop beyond the windows.
“No one else!” said the girl, glancing out. “The Big Thrill in person.”
She darted to the door. Horker turned casually to watch her as she opened it, surveying Nicholas Devine with professional nonchalance. He entered, tall, slender, with his thin sensitive features sharply outlined in the light of the hall. He cast a quick glance toward the Doctor; the latter noted the curious amber-green eyes of the lad, set wide in the lean face, deep,
speculative, the eyes of a dreamer.
“Evening, Nick,” Pat was bubbling. The newcomer gave her a hasty smile, with another glance at the Doctor. “Don’t mind Dr. Carl,” she continued. “Aren’t you going to kiss me? It irks the medico, and I never miss a chance.”
Nicholas flushed in embarrassment; he gestured hesitantly, then placed a hasty peck of a kiss on the girl’s forehead. He reddened again at the Doctor’s rumble of “Young imp of Satan!”
“Not very good,” said Pat reflectively, obviously enjoying the situation. “I’ve known you to do better.” She pulled him toward the arch of the living room. “Come meet Dr. Horker. Dr. Carl, this is the aforesaid Nicholas Devine.”
“Dr. Horker,” repeated the lad, smiling diffidently. “You’re the psychiatrist and brain specialist, aren’t you, Sir?”
“So my patients believe,” rumbled the massive Doctor, rising at the introduction, and grasping the youth’s hand. “And you’re the genius Patricia has been raving about. I’m glad to have the chance of looking you over.”
Nick gave the girl a harassed glance, shifting uncomfortably, and patently at a loss for a reply. She grinned mischievously.
“Sit down, both of you,” she suggested helpfully. She seized his hat from the reluctant hands of Nick, sailing it carelessly to a chair.
“So!” boomed the Doctor, lowering his great bulk again to the davenport. He eyed the youth sitting nervously before him. “Devine, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew a Devine once. Colleague of mine.”
“A doctor? My father was a doctor.”
“Dr. Stuart Devine?”
“Yes, sir.” He paused. “Did you say you knew him, Dr. Horker?”
“Slightly,” rumbled the other. “Only slightly.”
“I don’t remember him at all, of course, I was very young when he—and my mother too—died.”
“You must have been. Patricia claims you write.”
“I try.”
“What sort of material?”
“Why—any sort. Prose or poetry; what I feel like writing.”
“Whatever inspires you, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.” The lad flushed again.
“Ever have anything published?”
“Yes, sir. In Nation’s Poetry.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It has a large circulation,” said Nick apologetically.
“Humph! Well, that’s something. Whom do you like?”
“Whom do I like?” The youth’s tone was puzzled.
“What authors—writers?”
“Oh.” He cast another uncomfortable glance at Pat. “Why—I like Baudelaire, and Poe, and Swinburne, and Villon, and—”
“Decadents, all of them!” sniffed the Doctor. “What prose writers?”
“Well—” He hesitated—“Poe again, and Stern, and Rabelais—”
“Rabelais!” Horker’s voice boomed. “Well! Your taste can’t be as bad as I thought, then. There’s one we agree on, anyway. And I notice you name no moderns, which is another good point.”
“I haven’t read many moderns, sir.”
“That’s in your favor.”
“Cut it!” put in Pat with assumed sharpness. “You’ve taken enough whacks at my generation for one day.”
“I’m glad to find one of your generation who agrees with me,” chuckled the Doctor. “At least to the extent of not reading its works.”
“I’ll teach him,” grinned Pat. “I’ll have him writing vess libre, and maybe even dadaism, in a week.”
“Maybe it won’t be much loss,” grunted Horker. “I haven’t seen any of his work yet.”
“We’ll bring some around sooner or later. We will, won’t we, Nick?”
“Of course, if you want to. But—”
“He’s going to say something modest,” interrupted the girl. “He’s in the retiring mood now, but he’s apt to change any moment, and snap your surly head off.”
“Humph! I’d like to see it.”
“So’d I,” retorted Pat. “You’ve had it coming all day; maybe I’ll do it myself.”
“You have, my dear, innumerable times. But I’m like the Hydra, except that I grow only one head to replace the one you snap off.” He turned again to Nicholas. “Do you work?”
“Yes, sir. At my writing.”
“I mean how do you live?”
“Why,” said the youth, reddening again in embarrassment, “my parents—”
“Listen!” said Pat. “That’s enough of Dr. Carl’s cross examination. You’d think he was a Victorian father who had just been approached for his daughter’s hand. We haven’t whispered any news of an engagement to you, have we, Doc?”
“No, but I’m acting—”
“Sure. In loco parentis. We know that.”
“You’re incorrigible, Pat! I wash my hands of you. Run along, if you’re going out.”
“You’ll be telling me never to darken my own door again in the next breath!” She stretched forth a diminutive foot at the extremity of a superlatively attractive ankle, caught Nick’s hat on her toe, and kicked it expertly to his lap. “Come on, Nick. There’s a moon.”
“There is not!” objected the Doctor huffily. “It rises at four, as you ought to know. You didn’t see it last night, did you?”
“I didn’t notice,” said the girl. “Come on, Nick, and we’ll watch it rise tonight. We’ll check up on the Doctor’s astronomy, or is it chronology?”
“You do and I’ll know it! I can hear you come home, you imp!”
“Nice neighbor,” observed Pat airily, as she stepped to the door. “I’ll bet you peek out of the window, too.”
She ignored the Doctor’s irritated rumble as she passed into the hall, where Nick, after a diffident murmur of farewell to Horker, followed. She caught up a light cape, which he draped about her shoulders.
“Nick,” she said, “suppose you run out to the car and wait. I think I’ve stepped too hard on Dr. Carl’s corns, and I want to give him a little cheering up. Will you?”
“Of course, Pat.”
She darted back into the living room, perching on the arm of the davenport beside the Doctor.
“Well?” she said, running her hand through her grizzled hair. “What’s the verdict?”
“Seems like a nice kid,” grumbled Horker reluctantly. “Nice enough, but introverted, repressed, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find him anti-social. Doesn’t adjust easily to his environment; takes refuge in a dream world of his own.”
“That’s what he accuses me of doing,” grinned Pat. “That all you’ve got against him?”
“That’s all, but where’s that streak of mastery you mentioned? You lead him around on a leash!”
“It didn’t show up tonight. That’s the thrill—the unexpectedness of it.”
“Bah! You must’ve dreamed it. There’s no more aggressiveness in that lad than in KoKo, your canary.”
“Don’t you believe it, Dr. Carl! The trouble is that he’s a genius, and that’s where your psychology falls flat.”
“Genius,” said the Doctor oracularly, “is a sublimation of qualities—”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow how sublime the qualities are,” called Pat as she skipped out of the door.
CHAPTER 4
The Transfiguration
The car slid smoothly along a straight white road that stretched ahead into the darkness like an earth-bound Milky Way. In the dim distance before them, red as Antares, glowed the tail-light of some automobile; except for this lone evidence of humanity, reflected Pat, they might have been flashing through the cosmic depths of interstellar space, instead of following a highway in the very shadow of Chicago. The colossal city of the lake-shore was invisible behind them, and the clustering suburbs with it
.
“Queer, isn’t it?” said Pat, after a silence, “how contented we can be with none of the purchased amusement people crave—shows, movies, dancing, and all that.”
“It doesn’t seem queer to me,” answered Nick. “Not when I look at you here beside me.”
“Nice of you!” retorted Pat. “But it’s never happened to me before.” She paused, then continued, “How do you like the Doctor?”
“How does he like me? That’s considerably more to the point, isn’t it?”
“He thinks you’re nice, but—let’s see—introverted, repressed, and ill-adjusted to your environment. I think those were the points.”
“Well, I liked him, in spite of your manoeuvers, and in spite of his being a doctor.”
“What’s wrong with being a doctor?”
“Did you ever read ‘Tristram Shandy’?” was Nick’s irrelevant response.
“No, but I read the newspapers!”
“What’s the connection, Pat?”
“Just as much connection as there is between the evils of being a doctor and reading ‘Tristram Shandy’. I know that much about the book, at least.”
“You’re nearly right,” laughed Nick. “I was just referring to one of Tristram’s remarks on doctors and lawyers. It fits my attitude.”
“What’s the remark?”
“Well, he had the choice of professions, and it occurred to him that medicine and law were the vulture professions, since lawyers live by men’s quarrels and doctors by men’s misfortunes. So—he became a writer.”
“And what do writers live by?” queried Pat mischievously. “By men’s stupidity!”
“You’re precious, Pat!” Nick chuckled delightedly. “If I’d created you to order, I couldn’t have planned you more to taste—pepper, tabasco sauce, vinegar, spice, and honey!”
“And to be taken with a grain of salt,” retorted the girl, puckering her piquant, impish features. She edged closer to him, locking her arm through his where it rested on the steering wheel.
“Nick,” she said, her tones suddenly gentle, “I think I’m pretty crazy about you. Heaven knows why I should be, but it’s a fact.”
“Pat, dear!”
“I’m crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I’m fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really, Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener.”
The 27th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 3