“Here,” said Warfield, handing him a glass. “Bottoms up.”
Robin rose, accepted the glass, bowed from the waist, and said, “Well, here’s to champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends. Exit wastrel.” And he drained the glass.
“Now if you’ll rope him and throw him,” said Warfield, approaching with a hypodermic.
Robin sat, quite relaxed, as the needle sank into his arm.
“Never felt a thing,” he said briskly, and then collapsed on the floor. Peg caught his head before it could strike, and lowered it gently. Kneeling beside him, she took his wrist. His pulse felt as if it had lost its flywheel.
“Post-pituitary syncope,” said Warfield. “I half expected that. He’ll be all right. It’s compensated for. There just isn’t any way of slowing down neopituitrin. Watch what happens when the pineal starts kicking up.”
Peg suddenly clutched at the limp wrist. “He’s… he’s—Oh Mel, it’s stopped.”
“Hang on, Peg. Just a few more seconds, and it should—”
Under Peg’s desperate fingers, the pulse beat came in full and strong, as suddenly as if it had been push button tuned. With it, Peg began to breathe again. She saw Warfield wipe his eyes. Sweat, probably.
Robin’s eyes opened slowly, and an utterly beatific expression crossed his face. He sighed luxuriously. “Beautiful,” he said clearly.
“What is it, Robin?”
“Did you see it? I never thought of that before. It’s the most perfectly functional, aesthetically balanced thing produced by the mind of man.” Sheer wonder suffused his face. “I sawone!”
“What was it?”
“A baseball bat!”
Warfield’s chin came up. “Well I’ll be… Peg, don’t laugh.” Peg was hardly likely to. “You know, he’s about right?”
“I’ll think about aesthetics later,” said Peg with some heat. “Is he going to be all right?”
“That’s all of the immediate reactions that I suspected. There’ll be some accelerated mental states—melancholia and exuberance alternating pretty rapidly and pretty drastically. He’ll have to have some outlet for stepped-up muscular energy. Then he’ll sleep.”
“I’m glad it’s over.”
“Over?” said Warfield, and went out. She called after him, but he went straight out the office door.
~ * ~
Robin sat up and shook his head violently. “How did—”
Peg took his upper arm. “Sit up, Robin. Up and go.” She raised him, but instead of regaining the chair he rose and pulled away from her. He paced rapidly down the laboratory, turned and came back. His face held that pitiable, puzzled look, with the deep crease between his brows. He walked past her, his eyes distant; then he whirled suddenly on her. His smile was brilliant. “Peg!” he shouted. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” His eyes drifted past her face, gazed over her shoulder, and he turned and looked around the walls. “Where, incidentally, is ‘here’?”
“Dr. Warfield’s. Mel’s laboratory.”
“Mel. Oh… Mel. Yes, of course. I must be getting old.”
“Perhaps you are.”
He put his hand on his chest, just below his throat. “What would my thymus be doing about now? Trying to think of something quotable to say as its last words?”
“It may be some time,” she smiled. “But I imagine it’s on its way out. Get your coat on. I’ll go home with you.”
“What on earth for?”
She considered, and then decided to tell him the truth. “You’re full of sterones and hormones and synthetic albuminoids, you know. It isn’t dangerous, but glandular balance is a strange thing, and from the treatment you just got you’re liable to do anything but levitate—and knowing you,” she added, “even that wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Gosh. I didn’t realize that I might be a nuisance to people.”
“You didn’t realize… why, there was a pretty fair list of possibilities of what might happen to you in that release you signed.”
“There was? I didn’t read it.”
“Robin English, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.”
“Haven’t you already done it?” He shrugged. “What’s the odds? Mel said I’d have to sign it, and I took his word for it.”
“I wish,” said Peg fervently, “that I could guarantee the change in your sense of values the way I can the change in your hormone adjustment. You’re going to have to be educated! And let this be the first lesson—never sign anything without reading it first! What are you laughing at, you idiot?”
“I was just thinking how I would stall things if I go to work for some big outfit and have to sign a payroll,” he chuckled.
“Get your coat,” said Peg, smiling. “And stop your nonsense.”
~ * ~
They took a taxi, after all. In spite of Robin’s protests, Peg wouldn’t chance anything else after Robin:
Nearly fainted on the street from a sudden hunger, and when taken to a restaurant got petulant to the point of abusiveness when he found there was no tabasco in the place, advancing a brilliant argument with the management to the effect that they should supply same to those who desire it even if what the customer had ordered was four pieces of seven-layer cake.
Ran half a block to give a small boy with a runny nose his very expensive embroidered silk handkerchief.
Bumped into a lamp-post, lost his temper and swung at it, fracturing slightly his middle phalanx annularis.
Indulged in a slightly less than admirable remorseful jag in which he recounted a series of petty sins—and some not so petty at that—and cast wistful eyes at the huge wheels of an approaching tractor-trailer.
Went into gales of helpless laughter over Peg’s use of the phrase “Signs of the times” and gaspingly explained to her that he was suffering from sinus of the thymus.
And the payoff—the instantaneous composition of eleven verses of an original song concerning one “Stella with the Springy Spine” which was of a far too questionable nature for him to carol at the top of his voice the way he did. She employed a firmness just short of physical force and at last managed to bundle him into a cab, in which he could horrify no one but the driver, who gave Peg a knowing wink which infuriated her.
After getting in his rooms—a feat which required the assistance of Landlady Gridget’s passkey, since he had lost his, and the sufferance of a glance of wild surmise from the good lady—Robin, who had been unnaturally silent for all of eight minutes shucked off his coat and headed for the studio couch in one continuous movement. He rolled off his feet and onto the couch with his head buried in the cushions.
“Robin—are you all right?”
“Mm-m-m.”
She looked about her.
Robin’s two-and-kitchenette was a fantastic place. She had never dreamed that the laws of gravity would permit such a piling-up of miscellany. There were two guitars on an easy-chair, one cracked across the head. A clarinet case with little holes punched in it lay on the floor by the wall. Curious, she bent and lifted the lid. It was lined with newspaper, and in it were two desiccated bananas and a live tarantula. She squeaked and dropped the cover.
Leaning against the far wall was a six-foot square canvas, unfinished, of a dream-scape of rolling hills and pale feathery trees. She looked away, blinked, and looked back. It could have been a mistake. She sincerely hoped that it was; but it seemed to her that the masses of those hills, and the foliage, made a pretty clear picture of a… a—
“No,” she whispered. “I haven’t got that kind of a mind!”
~ * ~
There was a beautifully finished clay figurine standing proudly amongst a litter of plasticine, modeling tools, a guitar tuner and a flat glass of beer. It was a nude, in an exquisitely taut pose; a girl with her head flung back and a rapt expression on her face, and she was marsupial. On the bookcase was a four-foot model of a kayak made of whalebone and sealskin. Books overflowed the shelves and every table and ch
air in the place. There were none in the sink; it was too full of dishes, being sung to by a light cloud of fruit flies. It was more than she could stand. She slipped out of her coat, moved a fishbowl with some baby turtles in it, and an 8 mm projector, off the drainboard and went to work. After she had done all the dishes and reorganized the china closet, where ivy was growing, she rummaged a bit and found a spray gun, with which she attacked the fruit flies. It seemed to be a fairly efficient insecticide, although it smelled like banana oil and coagulated all over the sink. It wasn’t until the next day that she identified the distinctive odor of it. It was pastel fixatif.
She tiptoed over to the arch and looked in at Robin. He had hardly moved. She knew he was probably good for twelve hours sleep.
She bent over him and gently pushed some of his rough hair away from his eyes. She had never seen eyes, before, which had such smooth lids.
Robin smiled while he slept. She wished she knew why.
Carefully she removed his shoes. She had to step very close to the couch to do it, and something crunched under her foot. It was a radio tube. She shook her head and sighed, and got a piece of cardboard—there was no dustpan—and a broom and swept up the pieces. Among them she found a stuffed canary and a fifty-dollar bill, both quite covered with “Aug,” or dust whiskers. She wondered how many times Robin had sat on that couch, over that bill, eating beans out of the can and thinking about some glorious fantasy of his own.
She sighed again and put on her coat. As she reached the door she paused, debating whether, if she left a note anywhere in this monumental clutter, he would find it. She wanted him to call her as soon as he awoke, so she could have an idea as to his prognosis. She knew well that in his condition, with his particular treatment, that the imbalances should be all adjusted within twelve hours. But still—
Then why not wake him and remind him to call?
She suddenly realized that she was afraid to—that she was glad he was asleep and… and harmless. She felt that she could name what it was she was afraid of if she tried. So she didn’t try.
“Blast!” she, said half aloud. She hated to be hesitant, ever, about anything. She hated to be puzzled, or afraid.
She would leave word with the landlady to wake him early in the morning, she decided abruptly.
She felt like a crawling coward.
She turned to the door, and Robin said brightly, “Good-by, Peg darlin’. Thanks for everything. You’ve been swell. I’ll call you when I wake up.”
“You young demon!” she ejaculated. “How long have you been awake?”
“I haven’t been asleep,” he said, coming to the archway. He chuckled. “I’m sorry to say you are right about the canvas. I forgot about the disgusting thing’s being so conspicuous.”
“Oh, that’s all… why did you pretend to be asleep?”
“I felt something coming and didn’t want it to.”
“I… don’t know what you mean; but why didn’t you let it come?”
He looked at her somberly. Either it was something new, or she had never noticed the tinge of green in his eyes. “Because you wouldn’t have fought me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The lower half of his face grinned. “You like most of the things I do,” he said. “I like you to humor me in those things. Those things are”—he put his fingertips to his chest, then flung them outward—”like this—fun, from here out. I don’t want to be humored from here in.”
Over his shoulder she saw the big canvas. From this distance it was even more specific. She shuddered.
“Good-by, Peg.”
It was a studied dismissal. She nodded, and went out, closing the door softly behind her. Then she ran.
~ * ~
Dr. Margaretta Wenzell was highly intelligent, and she was just as sensitive. Twice she appeared at Mel Warfield’s laboratory at the hour appointed for Robin’s succeeding treatments. Once Robin did not speak to her. The second time she went, Robin did not show up. On inquiry, she learned from the information desk at the medical center that Robin had been there, had asked if she were in Dr. Warfield’s office, and having been told that she was, had turned around and walked out. After that she did not go again. She called up Warfield and asked him to forward Robin’s case history and each progress report. Mel complied without asking questions; and if Dr. Wenzell spent more time poring over them than their importance justified, it was the only sign she gave that it mattered to her.
It mattered—very much. Never had Peg, in consultation or out, turned a patient over to another doctor before. And yet, she was conscious of a certain relief. Somehow, she was deeply certain that Robin had not ceased to like her. Consciously, she refused to give any importance to his liking for her, but in spite of that she derived a kind of comfort from an arduously-reached conclusion that Robin had reasons of his own for avoiding her, and that they would come out in good time.
She was astonished at the progress reports. She could deduce the probable changes in Robin from the esoteric language of the reaction-listings. Here a sharp drop in the 17-kesteroids; there a note of an extraordinary effect of the whole metabolism, making it temporarily immune to the depressing effect of the adrenal cortices in colossal overdoses. An entry in the third week of the course caused Peg two sleepless nights of research; the pituitrin production was fluctuating wildly, with no apparent balancing reaction from any other gland—and no appreciable effect on the patient. A supplementary report arrived then, by special messenger, which eased her mind considerably. It showed a slight miscalculation in a bio-chemical analysis of Robin’s blood which almost accounted for the incredible activity of the pituitaries. It continued to worry her, although she knew that she could hardly pretend to criticize Mel Warfield’s vast experience in the practice of hormone therapy.
But somehow, somewhere deep inside, she did question something else in Mel. Impersonality had to go very closely with the unpredictable psycho-somatic and physiological changes that occurred during gland treatments; and in Robin’s case, Peg doubted vaguely that Mel was able to be as detached as might be wished. She tried not to think about it, and was bothered by the effort of trying. And every time she felt able to laugh it off, she would remember Mel’s odd statement in the laboratory that day—but then, he had taken such a quick and warm liking to the boy. Could he possibly resent him on her behalf? Again she felt that resurgence of fury at Mel—and at herself; and again she wished that she could be left alone; she wanted to laugh at herself in the rôle of femme fatale, but laughter was out of order.
The progress reports were by no means the only source of information about Robin, however. In the tenth day of his treatment, she noticed an item in the “Man About Town” column in the Daily Blaze:
Patrons of the Goose’s Neck were treated to a startling sight this a.m. when Vincent (The Duke) Voisier came tearing into the place, literally bowling over a table-full of customers—and their table—in the process of hauling Vic Hill, song writer extraordinary, out to the curb. The center of attention out there seemed to be a tousle-headed character by the name of Robin English, who told this snooper mildly that Mr. Voisier was going to produce his show. At that moment The Duke and Hill came sailing out of the bistro, scooped up this Robin English and hurled him into a taxicab, leaving your reporter in a cloud of carbon monoxide and wild surmise. Now followers of this column know that Brother Voisier is usually as excitable as the occupant of Slab 3 at the City Morgue. My guess is missed if show business isn’t about to be shown some business. Voisier is a rich man because of his odd habit of taking no wild chances…
And then there was a letter from a book publisher tactfully asking for a character reference prior to giving one Robin English an advance on an anthology of poems. She answered immediately, giving Robin an A-l rating, and only after sending it off did she realize that a few short weeks ago she would not have considered such a thing. Robin’s reliability was a strange and wonderful structure, and his record likewise
.
At long last, then, came his phone call.
“Peg?”
“Wh… oh, Robin! Robin, how are you?”
“Sharp as a marshmallow, and disgustingly productive. Will you come over?”
“Come over?” she asked stupidly. “Where?”
“Robin’s Roost,” he chuckled. “My McGee hall closet and bath. Home.”
“But Robin, I… you—”
“Safe as a tomb,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t intimate anything otherwise,” she said as sharply as she could; but something within her rose delightedly at the overtones of amusement in his voice.
“I’m a big grown-up man now,” he said. “Restrained, mature, reliable and thoroughly unappetizing. Come over and I won’t be anything but repulsive. Impersonal. Detached. No… say semi-detached. Like a brownstone front. A serious mein. Well, if it’s before dinner I’ll have a chow mein.”
6 Great Short Novels of Science Fiction Page 39