“Please sit down,” motioned Kane.
“No, I won’t.”
“Cutshaw, why not?”
“There is quicksand all around me. Think I’m a child? Think I’m a Kane? Think that I’d fall for that dumb trick? Next you’ll say, ‘Look at the submarine!’ and then you’ll squirt me with a water gun!” The astronaut leaped onto the desk, sitting with folded arms and legs, confronting Kane like a Delphic leprechaun. “Lieutenant Zook thinks you’re P. T. Barnum,” he said. “I thought him to be in error at first and declared him excommunicate, but perhaps I overextended. I see on your brow the Mark of the Beast.”
“What?” Kane subtly stiffened.
“Have you ever killed a lamb?”
“No.”
“Barnum slaughtered a thousand. He set up a cage at one of his sideshows, put in a lion and a lamb. Side by side. Lion and lamb. And there was never any trouble. Hud, the public just went lollypops. ‘Look, a lion and a lamb,’ they said, ‘and they never even argue! Hell, they never even discuss!’ It was spookier than plastic figs. But what the public didn’t know was that it was never the same lamb. It was always the same lion, though, one with regular eating habits, always at intermission. Ate a lamb every day for almost three hundred days. Then they shot him for asking for mint sauce. As for myself, I would have shot Barnum.”
“I have never killed a lamb,” said Kane, his tongue thick in his mouth.
“Why should anyone kill a lamb? It isn’t the killing, it’s the suffering. Why should any animal suffer?”
Kane said softly, “Why should man?”
“None of that, you frockless seducer. Human suffering admits of answers. ‘Pie in the sky’ and other inanities of the same stupid kidney. But animals get no pie in the sky. Let’s talk about them and avoid the piosities, Hud. Why should animals suffer?”
Kane said simply, “Man must eat.”
“Let ’em eat cake!” roared Cutshaw abruptly. “Anyway, who ever ate a vulture? Why do vultures have to suffer!”
“Pain is a necessary evil. Not evil at all, in fact, but a warning device that acts for the good of the body.”
“That is bullcrap, pure and simple. That has nothing to do with vultures. Hell, a man can thrive on mother’s milk, on wheat germ, on grass! Why eat meat? Why does he have to? For cholesterol and a heart attack? Why have animals at all if they’ve got to gore each others’ stomachs just to live, Colonel Fiasco! Is there an afterlife for animals? A balance for the pain? Would you say that pain makes vultures ‘noble’? Gives them ‘character’? Crap like that? If there is a Foot and he made panthers, then he surely must have bunions! I can’t believe in such a Foot!”
“How do you know,” Kane reasoned quietly, “that an animal’s experience of pain is anything like what it is for man? Isn’t pain more intense with cognition? With memory of what it is like?”
Cutshaw glared for a moment in silence. Then reached out his hand and cuffed Kane’s ear. “After an answer so zestfully fatuous, I feel I must terminate this discussion. You are a donkey without peer and totally useless, to me, useless.”
Cutshaw nimbly leaped from the desk, whipped a document from his pocket and spread it flat in front of Kane. “Kindly sign this confession so we can all get a little peace. Please do not sign it ‘Calvin Coolidge’ or any such subtle attempt at forgery. Fun is fun but we’ve had enough. Do you drink Coke?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Colonel Ryan was a Mormon. He drank Coke and thought he sinned heinously.”
“What is the point?” asked Colonel Kane.
“How should I know?” yipped the astronaut. “I never pretended that I know everything! Now sign. A simple ‘A’ will do. ‘A’ for Attila the Hun.”
Kane looked at Cutshaw intently. “Why do you call me ‘Attila the Hun’?”
“Why do you call me Manfred Cutshaw? Everyone knows I’m Warren Beatty. Come, now, sign, I’m through protecting you.”
“Let’s talk,” said Kane.
“Indeed. I propose that we talk about my uncle. Now he’s a general in the Air Force. Sits twenty-four hours in a Pentagon basement with his fingers twitching near buttons and a bright-red meltproof phone. Still naked as a jaybird, Hud, but hell, he gets no visitors, so I figure, what’s the harm. Sign the confession.”
“Let’s talk about God.”
“Not with you. All your knowledge is pure Quinsana. Now make your ‘A’; I’m getting restless.”
Kane glanced at the paper, then up at Cutshaw. “What do you know?” he asked him cryptically.
“That I can walk like a fly.” Cutshaw abruptly flew at a wall, making several earnest attempts at running straight up the side of it while singing an aria from Carmen. After his fifth abortive attempt, he cast an accusing look at Kane. “There’s something wrong with this wall,” he glared, then crouched, like Richard the Third, out of the office with a glide. “We are watching!” he warned from the doorway, and melted away like morning mist.
Kane turned over the blank confession form, stared at a penciled sketch depicting two peering eyes. And felt the first faint pulsations of an imminent migraine headache.
Cutshaw leaned out of a dormitory window, deep in brood. Zook stood beside him, training binoculars on the school next door. Clydene Sloop, he had long since discovered, was a shameless exhibitionist who did most of her studying naked with her window blinds up full. No doubt it improved her concentration, thought Zook, who was rarely inclined to be cynical. He was purely and simply inclined, and accepted whatever heaven sent without question. However, at the moment Clydene was not in, and all he could find was Mary Jo Mawr, pensively brooding out her window like dark-eyed Bess, the innkeeper’s daughter.
“That phone-book trick,” muttered Cutshaw. “Wish I’d seen it for myself.”
“Starting to doubt?”
“Let’s shake him up. Really press him. Maybe—maybe he’ll lose his grip. Suppose one of us grabbed him by surprise when we’ve really got him going?”
“Leave him alone,” said Zook.
The astronaut softly uttered, “I can’t.” Then he turned to Zook with fresh attack. “Come on, you start it. Get on him right now.”
“Now?”
“Now!”
Zook was torn. Clydene had appeared. But her slink was no match for Cutshaw’s command. Zook put away the binoculars and moved toward the dormitory door, muttering of fardels and Cutshaw’s contumely.
Kane was in the hall. Captain Groper had approached him with deference, suggesting the men had “too much freedom” and needed a far “firmer hand.” Kane cited Ryan’s experience, his head aching unbearably, and advised the captain not to “meddle.” Groper was leaving as Zook approached.
“Herod Agrippa, where is my belt! Where is my Buck Rogers flying belt!”
“It’s coming,” lied Kane; “it’s coming; it’s coming.”
“Why is it gone?” Zook suddenly shrieked. Then leaned in his head conspiratorially, speaking in almost a whisper. “The brain named Cutshaw,” he advised the Colonel, “says you’re not a brain at all.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. That’s what he said. He said that your name is Sybilline Books. On the level, now, tell me—is it true?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Dammit, who can I believe!” bawled Zook. Then again he lowered his voice. “Listen, he offered me a deal,” he rasped. “He said if I gave him the map coordinates of the factory on my planet that manufactures all those Beatle wigs, he’d get me back the belt. But I was loyal. Understand? I told him no, that you’d feel hurt. No, no, no, no, I cannot lie; I cannot lie to you, kindly brain, kindly compassionate giant brain. Yes, I’ll admit that at first I was weak. Yes! At first, I’ll admit, I said, ‘Deal!’ But as soon as I said, ‘Deal!’ he added on another condition. Know what he wanted? That filth? He wanted ‘secret information on who Orphan Annie sleeps with’! Yes! Orphan Annie! How did he know about Orphan Annie? Did you pick my brain and tell him?”
“Who can I trust!” shrieked Dorian Zook. Then he eyed Kane levelly, spoke in a flat expressionless voice. “Orphan Annie does not sleep. She’s a cartoon, just a cartoon. I give you that information gratis as a token of my goodwill.”
“Very good of you.”
“Nothing. Hell, I’d do it for an Earthman. Now reciprocate, you bastard, or I’ll make the deal with Cutshaw!” The pilot’s voice grew loud and shrill. “I might find a way to kill you; give you ultimate migraine headache! Where’s the belt!”
“It’s on order.”
“Order from where? Sears and Roebuck? Make a movement, idiot brain, and pull your tentacles out of your fanny! We’re on Venus, the planet Venus! What do you take me for, a stoop? Why do you think my government picked me? Because I see real good in space? I’ve had all the crap and hocus-pocus I can take! Understand? Produce the belt in twenty-four hours or you’re in horribly deep trouble! Now go and wrap yourself in fronds or whatever you do when you have to sleep! I am sealing off my mind!”
Zook departed, leaving Kane drained, his head now throbbing even more painfully. Kane took dinner in his office. Floating atop his alphabet soup, glued together farinaceously, were the letters c-o-n-f-e-s-s. He could not finish the soup.
Kane went to his room and found on a wall, smeared in mustard, the message: “Hud! We Can Be Lenient!” Still another was on a mirror: “There Is Foot Powder in Heaven for Those Who Repent!” Kane went to his bathroom, wet a towel, quickly wiped away the messages. Then he stripped to his shorts, slid into bed and tried to make his mind a blank. His lips moved incessantly, forming words without utterances. He slipped to the edge of dreams. Fragments … the Mona Lisa … Bemish’s hammer circled by atoms … Kane sat upright with a start. He looked at his hands; they were trembling. His body was soaked with sweat. Then he heard rapping at the door.
Kane whipped aside his blanket, climbed out of bed and went to the door. He opened it, saw Fell. And imagined he saw, peripherally, the long trailing folds of a woman’s black gown disappearing around a corner.
Kane abruptly remembered Fell. The medic was dressed in immaculate uniform, a dossier in his hands. He was staring at Kane in his shorts. “I see Fromme has decided to promote himself,” he said, his words somewhat slurred.
“Where have you been?” asked Kane. He hadn’t seen the doctor in days.
“Oh, here and there; hither and yon.” Fell was unequivocally weaving, striving desperately for aplomb.
“Did you see a woman a moment ago? Someone wearing a black gown?”
“No,” said Fell, “but I have seen mermaids. A common delusion of lonely men.” Then he flourished the dossier. “Here’s the file on an incoming kook. I think he’s due to arrive tonight.”
“What is the time?” asked Kane.
“Nine-ish.”
“Come in.”
Fell followed him into the room. Kane snatched cigarettes from a nightstand, quickly lit one and inhaled; inhaled very deeply. His back was to Fell as he moved to a window. Abruptly he froze as he saw a message on the slat of the Venetian blind: “Who the Hell Are You, Colonel Spook!” Kane flipped the blinds, only to find, on the other side, another message: “Hud, Be Reasonable! Manfred Cutshaw Saves and Satisfies!” Kane yanked the blinds upward as Fell moved in behind him, muttering, “One if by land and two if by sea. Baby, don’t mix them up; there was hell to pay the last time.” Kane turned and faced him.
Fell looked Kane up and down. “For a guy who’s spent most of his life with his nose in a book, you’re a pretty rugged brute,” he said. “Where did you get those scars?”
Kane looked blank. “What scars?”
“The ones on your leg. They’re rather deep.”
Kane dredged up a smile; it was a greeting card edged in black. “Rose thorns,” he uttered softly.
For a moment Fell made no answer. Then, “If a woman ever asks you, tell her you got ’em in a knife fight. Grabs ’em every time.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Kane. “What’s in the file?”
Fell traced some lines with a finger, then stopped, cleared his throat of phlegm, and read: “… Minutes before reaching the fail-safe point, the co-pilot, Captain Hooker, reported hydraulic malfunction, and at this precise moment subject officer reportedly stood up, ripped off his goggles, and then his helmet, and announced in a very clear voice: ‘This is a case for Superman!’ Subject officer then embarked upon a spirited but abortive attempt to completely strip away his flight suit, causing temporary loss of control of the aircraft…” Fell looked up at Kane. “Want to hear any more?”
“That’s quite enough.”
“I guess. Yeah, I guess.” Fell closed the dossier. “How’s it coming?”
“All right. Yes. All right.”
Fell eyed him for a moment and seemed about to speak, but then apparently decided against it. “Goodnight,” he said. And left.
Outside in the hall, Kane heard him trip and fall; and then his voice, slurred and muttery: “Confounded shoes! Why don’t they make them so people don’t keep falling all over them!” Then footsteps, erratic, fading.
Kane leaned against the door, when from below came a clapping of hands, the voices of inmates all singing together. The song they were singing was, “I’m Confessin’.” Kane’s head began to pound. The singing grew louder, the clapping more frenzied. Kane cupped his hands against his ears, then opened the door and went outside.
Captain Groper was at the balustrade, staring down at the dormitory door. Kane came beside him. Groper looked at him. “Keeping my distance like you said, sir.” He smirked and walked away.
Kane hustled down the stairs, tried the dormitory door and found it locked. He knocked. The singing stopped. After a moment the door swung wide and he stood confronting Zook. “If you came without the belt, sweetheart, turn around and go back!”
Kane eased past him. The inmates all sat on their cots, hunched over cards. Manfred Cutshaw stood by the fireplace, cranking a round wire basket, wooden balls clicking within it. Cutshaw extracted one of the balls and called out: “O-sixty-seven.”
“Bingo!” yelped Fairbanks, racing to Cutshaw with his card. Some of the other men said “Shit!” while the remainder muttered and mumbled. Cutshaw eyed them sternly.
“Now, now, children, it’s only a game,” he said, serene as a nun at matins. Then suddenly he looked to Kane, threw up his hands in wild surprise. “Wait! He’s come!” he cried. “He’s come! Children, it’s Hud! He’s seen the light!” Shoving Fairbanks aside, Cutshaw rushed toward Kane, calling, “Pen and paper, quickly! We’ll take his confession while repentance still rages in his bowels!” En route, he leaned over Spoor, instructing, “Check Fairbanks’ card! He cheats!” Spoor moved forward.
Kane waited, arms akimbo, by the dormitory door, until Cutshaw was upon him, pen and paper in hand. “Heaven be praised!” wailed the astronaut. “Sign and all is forgiven!”
“No more singing. I want you all quiet. No more of these games,” instructed Kane.
“But Mystery Colonel, we have to sing! We sing when a man gets ‘Bingo’! It’s the prize! It’s all we’ve got!” Cutshaw turned and bawled at the inmates, “Children, let’s give Fairbanks his song: ‘Nearer My Foot to Thee,’ number eighty-three on your cards.” Then he whirled back at Kane as the men began to sing. “Now, then, sign!” he demanded harshly.
Both men turned at the crash of the hammer. Bemish was soberly demolishing a wall as Corfu kept a pace ahead of him, painting bull’s-eyes for him to aim at, urging, “Punch, lunatic, punch! Punch! Punch! Make a Swiss cheese!”
Spoor’s dog began to howl and bark as Fairbanks menaced his master with his sword, shouting, “How dare you accuse me of cheating! Churlish knave! Beg forgiveness or I will slit you! Yes, I will slit you high and wide!”
Spoor cried, “Sic ’im, Julius, sic ’im! He’s Brutus! He’s Brutus!”
Rip Torn leaped at Fairbanks, dripping jaw
s clamping his ankle. “Call off your dragon!” roared Fairbanks. “Call him off! Call him off!”
Spoor looked to Zook, pointing imperiously at Fairbanks. “Guard,” he bawled, “seize him!”
The dog was snarling, Bemish was pounding and the inmates had segued from “I’m Confessin’” into “Fly Me to the Moon.” Kane ran a hand across his eyes, vaguely aware that it was trembling, vaguely aware that his back was arched.
Nammack moved behind him, preparing, as planned, to seize him. Neither Nammack nor Colonel Kane saw the newcomer at the door. He was a tall, bespectacled captain toting a duffel bag over his shoulder. He dropped the bag, removed his glasses, smoothly folded and tucked them away. Before Nammack could move he’d stepped in to Kane, murmuring, “This is a case for Superman!”
Kane’s first awareness of the Captain was of an arm hooked around his neck. And without thinking, without knowing, Kane hurled the Captain over his shoulder, sent him flying twenty feet forward, sent him crashing against a cot, the cot slamming back into still another. The Captain slumped, semi-conscious, his head propped up against a mattress. Corfu stopped painting, Bemish stopped pounding, Fairbanks stopped feinting with his sword. And abruptly the inmates stopped singing. They slowly stood up, awed and transfixed as they gaped at the new arrival. Then they gradually turned to Kane. He was rigid, staring at the Captain.
Fairbanks lowered his sword, breathing, “Great day in the morning! I believe we have had an event!”
Everyone froze in tableau. In the pulsing, incredulous silence, the new arrival, a Captain Alterman, shook the thunder from his head, mumbling, “Kryptonite, yes, it was Kryptonite. Helpless against it; helpless. Never fear, boys and girls, I always come back. I always—” He stopped, seeing Kane. A look of doubt, then of wonder, then of blazing recognition leaped to his face. “Holy Toledo!” gasped Captain Alterman. “No wonder! ‘Killer’ Kane!”
Chapter 9
At age nineteen he’d flown a bomber, plastering cities in World War II. Before that he’d been an orphan, raised by gentle Franciscan brothers in San Mateo, California. The rule of charity still clung to his neck like a weeping white monkey as he opened bomb-bay doors. Once he had wanted to be a priest. In a dream he’d seen Christ beckoning warmly, telling him, “Come, follow Me.” The dream exploded with Pearl Harbor.
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