The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  Half an hour later Toffee and Marc let themselves out of the room by the back way and walked along the corridor toward the street.

  “I’m hungry as an abandoned babe,” Toffee said.

  Marc regarded her from beneath drooping eyelids. “I don’t know if I can stay awake long enough to feed you,” he said. Then he stopped and nodded worriedly back the way they’d come. “Are you sure you ought to leave them all groaning around in there like that?”

  “Until after the fireworks tonight,” Toffee said. “When it comes to backing out on your word those boys could face to the rear and win the Olympic races without straining a nerve. Besides, suffering has a cleansing effect on the soul, they tell me, and that mob in there has the grimiest set of souls I’ve ever seen. I informed the lot of them that if they welched on this deal they’d stay that way the rest of their lives and would have to be buried in round coffins. We can come back and turn them loose later.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Marc said. “Right now, I’ve got to have a pot of coffee before I pass out.”

  By now they had reached the sidewalk and luckily spotted a cab. Waving for the driver’s attention, they hurried forward.

  It was just as Mac reached for the door of the cab that he suddenly stumbled. All at once his weariness became too great to be borne further; it reached to his very bones and turned them to sawdust. As he went down to his knees the blackness swam in around him. He reached out a hand to steady himself, but there was nothing to cling to. He was vaguely aware of falling ...

  “Well, now, how’d you like a dame like that!” the cab driver exclaimed, climbing out of the car. “She takes a powder just because the guy gets a snootful and passes out!” He looked down at Marc who, sprawled on the sidewalk, was tuning up for a good solid snore. “I wonder where he belongs?”

  WHEREVER he belonged, Marc at that very moment was lounging in a state of quiet bliss on one of the rising slopes in the valley of his mind. He turned to regard Toffee whose costume had once again become the transparent tunic, and to reflect that Paris would have to go a long way to stitch up anything half as becoming. Toffee smiled back at him and propped herself up lazily on one elbow.

  “Well” she said. “It was something of a whirl, wasn’t it? I mean it leaves one a trifle dizzy.”

  “Whirl?” Marc asked. “How do you mean?” Recent events had slipped from his mind in the interval between awareness and slumber.

  “The bombs,” Toffee said. “The politicians—” she held up her hand and displayed the ring “—and this.”

  Memory jarred back into place. “Oh, my gosh!” Marc cried “all those congressmen! And the President! They’re all back there ...! And you’re here ...! How’ll you ever get them straightened out?”

  Toffee laughed. “I won’t. There’s going to be a terrific run on the Washington doctors for a while, that’s all. Anyway, it’ll do the old tubs good, give them something to think about next time they start getting gay with the public’s time—and redheaded women.”

  “Anyway,” Marc said. “At least it proves that a well-placed jolt in the right place is a lot more powerful than any bomb. I was right in the first place. When warfare gets personal it loses its attraction. I suppose they’ll be busy developing more and worse bombs as soon as the shock wears off, but at least people in the world will have another chance to try and prevent them.

  Toffee shrugged lightly. “It just goes to show that world politics are really childishly simple when someone comes along with a firm hand.”

  “Are you going to keep the ring?” Marc asked.

  Toffee shook her head. “I think I’ll just dematerialize it; I never did care about gems.” She regarded him slowly from the corner of her eye. “I have just one use for it first.”

  “Yes?” Mac asked with a note of apprehension. “What’s that?”

  “Just this,” Toffee said. She slid her arms around his neck and drew him close. “One twitch of resistance and I’ll double you up like a pretzel.”

  Marc sighed helplessly. “When you put it that way, what can I do? he asked, and submitted unflinchingly to her kiss.

  It was just as she drew away, just as she brushed her hand over his shoulder, that the ring exploded.

  Actually it was only a burst of vibrant green light, but it was so intense that it blinded Marc, blocking Toffee and the valley from sight. Marc squinted against the brilliance and waited for it to die. But when it did there was only an infinite blackness where it had been.

  “Toffee?” Marc called tentatively. “Toffee, where are you?”

  “Goodbye, Marc,” Toffee’s voice said through the darkness. “Goodbye, you old reprobate.”

  MARC moved a bit to one side and felt of the softness beneath him before he opened his eyes. Then he opened them half fearfully, wondering where he was. He looked about slowly, then suddenly sat upright. He was home, in his own room, in his own bed.

  But it was dark outside, and the lamp was on. He had passed out on a street in Washington, if he remembered correctly. He was sure that was right, but he couldn’t think how he had gotten home. Then he held his thoughts in abeyance and listened; there was the sound of a voice—a man’s voice—and it seemed to be coming from downstairs ...

  “As each bomb bursts and casts out its power for destruction the burden becomes just so much lighter in the hearts of men all over the world. Tonight the bombs send out their light against the darkness, not as instruments of death and hate, but as multi-beamed beacons pointing the way to world peace. This is one of the greatest nights in human history!”

  Marc leaped from the bed, drew on his robe which was lying across the bed, and ran out into the hallway. He was nearly to the head of the stairs when he stopped to listen again.

  “The mystery surrounding the House of Congress since early today when the order for demobilization was issued from there by the President remains unsolved. Guards have been placed by presidential order at all entrances and exits, and no one, not even the President, has left the inner chamber. The press and other officials have been strenuously barred from entry, even at gun point in some instances. However a number of physicians have received calls from within the chamber and have been escorted into the room. A rumor persists that one of the members—Congressman Wright of Maine—was stricken with the mumps during today’s session, placing the entire Congress in quarantine ...”

  Marc hurried down the stairs and into the living room. He stopped short at the sight of her.

  “Julie ...!” he cried

  SHE rose quickly from her chair and switched off the radio.

  “I had it fixed,” she said. “I was so ashamed.” Then her face lighted with joy. “Oh, darling, there’s the most wonderful wonderful news! The President ordered ...!”

  “I know,” Marc said. “I ... uh ... I heard it just now coming down the stairs.” He went to her and drew her into his arms, and for a moment they were both still, just holding each other.

  “Julie ...?” Marc said, and she nodded. “When did you come back?”

  “The same night I left, of course,” Julie smiled. “I only got as far as the station and I got to thinking that if anything happened ... and we weren’t together ... Anyway, I turned right around and came back. I was nearly frantic when you weren’t here. I just sat here and cried and blamed myself.”

  “I see,” Marc said. “And ... uh ... how did I get back?”

  The taxi driver brought you. He found your address in your wallet.”

  “All the way from Washington?”

  “He said there was a young lady he wanted to see here anyway, and he only charged half fare.” She put her hand to his cheek. “Oh, I was so relieved when I found out you’d only been on a bender. In fact I was a little flattered that you were that desperate without me.” She drew closer. “Oh, darling, we both behaved so childishly. We deserved just what we got—a good swift kick in the ...”

  But Marc kissed her quickly—and for a long time—until he was sure a
new topic for conversation had come into her mind ...

  NO TIME FOR TOFFEE

  Life was Marc’s oyster, but subversives had shot him—a ghost was ready to haunt his corpse—and Toffee was loving him to death!

  JUST as he stepped to the microphone Marc caught sight of the swarthy man. He saw the red scar across the left eyebrow, the dull flash of metal in the large hairy hand. By then it was too late even to cry out. In the next instant the glass panel in the control booth shattered.

  Marc felt an explosion of hot pain deep inside his chest. He was aware of looking around dumbly at Dick Drewson and seeing Drewson’s face register shocked disbelief. Then the scene—the room, Drewson and the others—disappeared, engulfed in a blinding sheet of flame—and Marc knew he was falling ...

  SOMEWHERE, in a place where time and space didn’t exist, grey mists began to seeth and swirl, and with-all there was an ominous rumbling. The High Council was almost in session.

  In a sense, the High Council was already in session, for the Heads of the Council had developed their intellects to such an inconceivable degree that when a meeting of the Council was imminent they could send their thoughts on ahead of them and get the meeting under way even before putting in an appearance. There was an exchange of views and information long before the Heads accomplished the mundane and troublesome business of materialization. Thus it was that the mists of Limbo now rumbled with thought, counter thought and—on this particular occasion—downright aggravation, even before the arrival of the Supreme Head in the vapored chambers. There was an air of foreboding.

  Having declined all vanities in the pursuit of the Ultimate intelligence, the Heads had allowed themselves to evolve into literal representations of their titles. Directing all their energy and development to the brain and its encasement, their bodies had suffered proportionately so that now they were little more than a group of preposterously large craniums, shaggy with cerebration, bearing faces weighted with the ponderous woe of Life, Death, Eternity and other such mental ballast. Five in all, they made up a company to be avoided whatever the cost.

  THE Supreme Head cleared his throat and Eternity rattled with phlegmy discontent. Baleful glances were exchanged all around.

  “Well,” said the Supreme Head, after a pause for attention. “I suppose you all know the reason for this meeting by now?”

  The Second Head, a bald party with large ears, nodded sadly. “You say this blighted Pillsworth has gone and got himself shot this time?”

  “Precisely,” the Supreme Head affirmed. “In a broadcasting studio, if you please. There’s simply no keeping that man out of trouble.”

  “But why should we want to keep him out of trouble?” the Third Head, an elongated customer with eye pouches, wanted to know. “That’s hardly our responsibility.”

  “There’s George Pillsworth,” the Supreme Head said fatefully. “Surely you haven’t forgotten about George?”

  A hush fell over the Council, a hush of horror.

  “Not George again?” the Second Head shuddered. “We don’t have to face him again, do we?” He looked around beseechingly at the others. “After all, Pillsworth’s only injured, isn’t he? He’s not dying?”

  The Supreme Head looked for a moment as though he wished he had shoulders so he might shrug them hopelessly. “The vibrations are confused again,” he sighed. “I don’t know what the interference is around Pillsworth, but the call never comes through clearly. All we know is that he’s gotten himself into another mess of some sort and is either dead or dying.”

  “It seems that the subversives are still strongly active in the United States, and of course Pillsworth couldn’t stay out of it like a good citizen. He was approached by some men delegated by government authority to take control of national advertising. The theory was that American advertising could be used as a strong combative propaganda weapon against the enemy propaganda already circulating through the country. A committee was delegated to secure the cooperation of the nation’s leading advertising agencies. Naturally, since Pillsworth is the nation’s leading advertising executive, they contacted him first.”

  “Then Pillsworth is a subversive?” the First Head enquired. “That’s how he got into trouble?”

  “Not at all,” said the Supreme Head. “That’s just it. Pillsworth wasn’t subversive, but the government committee was.”

  “Eh?”

  “Exactly. It turned out that the program was one of the cleverest propaganda schemes ever devised. Actually, their aim was to insert alien ideals into the nation’s advertising.”

  “But you said the plan had government approval.”

  “That’s the really clever part of it. The method of presentation, while seeming on the surface to denounce the foreign creed and uphold the American one, actually was designed to win support for the enemy. The sales psychology employed was of the negative.”

  “Negative?”

  “That’s correct. It’s the old principle of telling people they don’t want a thing until they develop a feeling of defiance and decide they are going to have it. It’s an extremely subtle approach, but almost infallible if properly developed. Knowing this, these men had a perfect plan, so subtle that even the government didn’t recognize it. Also, they had help from within. A certain Congressman Entwerp pushed through the legislation.”

  “But Pillsworth saw through it?”

  “INSTANTLY,” the Supreme Head nodded. “It was a principle he had been using assiduously for years, in fact the very one through which he achieved his success. The whole plot was as clear as a May morn the moment he heard it. That’s when the trouble started. He contacted Congressman Entwerp.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Indeed. Entwerp responded by holding Pillsworth up to ridicule.”

  “But Pillsworth had logic on his side.”

  The Supreme Head smiled tolerantly. “That’s the Earth for you every time,” he said. “Show a human a bit of logic and he gets truculent on the spot. Pillsworth was denounced as a witch hunter and instructed under penalty of law to cooperate to the fullest.”

  “Shocking,” the Third Head said. “I begin to feel sorry for this Pillsworth,”

  “Pillsworth was similarly shocked. But he didn’t feel sorry for himself. Despite his inclination for the quiet conservative life, he fought back.”

  “Good,” the Fourth Head put in. “I’m glad; it gives the story zip.”

  “My thought in telling you this,” the Supreme Head said caustically, “is merely to inform, not entertain.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The Head nodded acknowledgment. “But to get on, Pillsworth presented his case to a news broadcaster and asked to be allowed to recite his story to the nation in the interests of national security. He was shot. By whom we do not know; the fellow got away. But the fact we must hold in mind is that he definitely was shot.”

  “Then it really is serious,” the Third Head said. “We may have to interview this deadly George. after all.”

  “It’s unavoidable,” the Supreme Head sighed. “There’s no way around it.”

  “But we’re not positive Pillsworth is dead yet. Couldn’t we wait and be sure?”

  “His vibrations have been broken,” the Supreme Head said. “Actually we have no cause to hesitate.” He sighed. “I suppose we might as well get it over with.”

  The others nodded in reluctant agreement. There was an oppressive silence.

  “But didn’t we banish George?” the First Head said. “We must have after his last excursion to Earth.”

  “That’s right,” the Second Head agreed. “I remember distinctly. He attempted to fire poor Pillsworth off into outer space without a pressure suit. We banished him to the Void to sing bass in the Moaning Chorus.”

  “We certainly picked the right party for the job,” the First Head reflected. “There isn’t a more base spirit in all Limbo. Has he been summoned?”

  THE Supreme Head coughed regretfully. “I issued the call through
Message Center before I announced the council.”

  “Oh, dear,” the First Head murmured, “then the stinker is practically on the sloop at this very moment.”

  “The stinker is crossing the sloop even now,” the Supreme Head amended, his gaze fastened hauntedly on a disturbance in the outer mists. “Here he comes.”

  “Secure your valuables,” the Second Head said morosely. “And keep your hands in your pockets.”

  Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth’s long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the moiling vapors. It grew to full stature; rounded out at the shoulders, extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant pause, but nothing further developed.

  “The rotter’s ashamed to face us,” the First Head observed sourly.

  “Little wonder,” the Third Head muttered. “After the way he’s blotted the haunting profession, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.”

  “George Pillsworth,” the Supreme Head intoned with exasperation, “spiritual projection of the mortal entity, Marc Pillsworth, approach the Council. And put on your head, you fool.”

  George stirred, and his head, working from the chin upward, materialized, revealing the face of Marc Pillsworth. All in all, as faces go, Marc’s—and consequently also George’s—hit very close to average. It was a nice face, a pleasant face, for all its lack of distinction. On George, therefore, it was a misleading face. With its lean plainness, its serious grey eyes and its shock of sandy hair, it failed utterly to express even a whit of George’s unprincipled temperament.

  “Is that better, sir?” George asked, edging warily forward.

  “Hardly that,” the Supreme Head groused. “The less of you the better. However it helps us somewhat to get a clue to the inner festerings of that depraved mind of yours.” He gazed at George for a long, reflective moment, then made a sad, clucking sound. “I simply cannot imagine what Marcus Pillsworth must have thought when he discovered that his spiritual entity was a tacky, ebony-hearted, feather-headed wretch like you. Why aren’t you more like your mortal source?”