“The tree that nourished you during infancy, and well into puberty, if my theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the goricae stifled your necessary rejection of the feem desire. This in turn gave rise to your present urge to dwark someone in a vlendish manner.”
“No tree nourished me.”
“You cannot recall the experience?”
“Of course not. It never happened.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“Not even the tiniest bit of doubt?”
“No! No goricae ever nourished me. Look, I can break off these sessions at any time, right?”
“Of course,” the Regenerator said. “But it would not be advisable at this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your rigidly summary rejection—”
“Nuts,” said Caswell, and pulled off the headband.
The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and massaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming black machine and gave it a long leer.
“You couldn’t cure me of a common cold,” he told it.
Stiffly he walked the length of the living room and returned to the Regenerator.
“Lousy fake!” he shouted.
Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver was still on the table, gleaming dully.
Magnessen! You unspeakable treacherous filth! You fiend incarnate! You inhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you, Magnessen! Someone....
Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomless depths of Magnessen’s depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lust for power.
Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely, the knowledge brought him no pleasure.
After all, Magnessen was his friend.
He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into his right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearly six- thirty. Magnessen would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinning over his plans.
This was the perfect time to take him.
Caswell strode to the door, opened it, started through, and stopped.
A thought had crossed his mind, a thought so tremendously involved, so meaningful, so far-reaching in its implications that he was stirred to his depths. Caswell tried desperately to shake off the knowledge it brought. But the thought, permanently etched upon his memory, would not depart.
Under the circumstances, he could do only one thing.
He returned to the living room, sat down on the couch and slipped on the headband.
The Regenerator said, “Yes?”
“It’s the damnedest thing,” Caswell said, “but do you know, I think I do remember my goricae!”
John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideo and was put into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned man with watchful eyes.
“Alcoholism?” Mr. Bemis repeated, after the problem was explained. Unobtrusively, he turned on his tape recorder. “Among our employees?” Pressing a button beneath his foot, Bemis alerted Transit Security, Publicity, Intercompany Relations, and the Psychoanalysis Division. This done, he looked earnestly at Rath. “Not a chance of it, my dear sir. Just between us, why does General Motors really want to know?”
Rath smiled bitterly. He should have anticipated this. NYRT and GM had had their differences in the past. Officially, there was cooperation between the two giant corporations. But for all practical purposes—
“The question is in terms of the Public Interest,” Rath said.
“Oh, certainly,” Mr. Bemis replied, with a subtle smile. Glancing at his tattle board, he noticed that several company executives had tapped in on his line. This might mean a promotion, if handled properly.
“The Public Interest of GM,” Mr. Bemis added with polite nastiness. “The insinuation is, I suppose, that drunken conductors are operating our jetbuses and helis?”
“Of course not. I was searching for a single alcoholic predilection, an individual latency—”
“There’s no possibility of it. We at Rapid Transit do not hire people with even the merest tendency in that direction. And may I suggest, sir, that you clean your own house before making implications about others?”
And with that, Mr. Bemis broke the connection.
No one was going to put anything over on him.
“Dead end,” Rath said heavily. He turned and shouted, “Smith! Did you find any prints?”
Lieutenant Smith, his coat off and sleeves rolled up, bounded over. “Nothing usable, sir.”
Rath’s thin lips tightened. It had been close to seven hours since the customer had taken the Martian machine. There was no telling what harm had been done by now. The customer would be justified in bringing suit against the Company. Not that the money mattered much; it was the bad publicity that was to be avoided at all costs.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Haskins said.
Rath ignored him. What next? Rapid Transit was not going to cooperate. Would the Armed Services make their records available for scansion by somatotype and pigmentation?
“Sir,” Haskins said again.
“What is it’“
“I just remembered the customer’s friend’s name. It was Mag- nessen.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Absolutely,” Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in hours. “I’ve taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book, sir. There’s only one Manhattan listing under that name.”
Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows. “Haskins, I hope you are not wrong about this. I sincerely hope that.”
“I do too, sir,” Haskins admitted, feeling his knees begin to shake.
“Because if you are,” Rath said, “I will...Never mind. Let’s go!”
By police escort, they arrived at the address in fifteen minutes. It was an ancient brownstone and Magnessen’s name was on a second-floor door. They knocked.
The door opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so many uniforms, but held his ground.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“You Magnessen?” Lieutenant Smith barked.
“Yeah. What’s the beef? If it’s about my hi-fi playing too loud, I can tell you that old hag downstairs—”
“May we come in?” Rath asked. “It’s important.”
Magnessen seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Follansby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnessen turned to face them, bewildered, defiant and more than a little awed.
“Mr. Magnessen,” Rath said, in the pleasantest voice he could muster, “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. Let me assure you, it is in the Public Interest, as well as your own. Do you know a short, angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?”
“Yes,” Magnessen said slowly and warily.
Haskins let out a sigh of relief.
“Would you tell us his name and address?” asked Rath.
“I suppose you mean—hold it! What’s he done?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what you want him for?”
“There’s no time for explanations,” Rath said. “Believe me, it’s in his own best interest, too. What is his name?”
Magnessen studied Rath’s ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind.
Lieutenant Smith said, “Come on, talk, Magnessen, if you know what’s good for you. We want the name and we want it quick.”
It was the wrong approach. Magnessen lighted a cigarette, blew smoke in Smith’s direction and inquired, “You got a warrant, buddy?”
“You bet I have,” Smith said, striding forward. “I’ll warrant you, wise guy.”
“Stop it!” Rath ordered. “Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your assistance. I won’t need you any longer.”
Smith left sulkily, taking his platoon with him.
Rath said, “I apologize for Smith’s over-eagerness. You h
ad better hear the problem.” Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer and the Martian therapeutic machine.
When he was finished, Magnessen looked more suspicious than ever. “You say he wants to kill me?”
“Definitely.”
“That’s a lie! I don’t know what your game is, mister, but you’ll never make me believe that. Elwood’s my best friend. We been best friends since we was kids. We been in service together. Elwood would cut off his arm for me. And I’d do the same for him.”
“Yes, yes,” Rath said impatiendy, “in a sane frame of mind, he would. But your friend Elwood—is that his first name or last?”
“First,” Magnessen said tauntingly.
“Your friend Elwood is psychotic.”
“You don’t know him. That guy loves me like a brother. Look, what’s Elwood really done? Defaulted on some payments or something? I can help out.”
“You thickheaded imbecile!” Rath shouted. “I’m trying to save your life, and the life and sanity of your friend!”
“But how do I know?” Magnessen pleaded. “You guys come busting in here—”
“You can trust me,” Rath said.
Magnessen studied Rath’s face and nodded sourly. “His name’s Elwood Caswell. He lives just down the block at number 341.”
The man who came to the door was short, with red hair and red-rimmed eyes. His right hand was thrust into his coat pocket. He seemed very calm.
“Are you Elwood Caswell?” Rath asked. “The Elwood Caswell who bought a Regenerator early this afternoon at the Home Therapy Appliances Store?”
“Yes,” said Caswell. “Won’t you come in?”
Inside Caswell’s small living room, they saw the Regenerator, glistening black and chrome, standing near the couch. It was unplugged.
“Have you used it?” Rath asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
Follansby stepped forward. “Mr. Caswell, I don’t know how to explain this, but we made a terrible mistake. The Regenerator you took was a Martian model—for giving therapy to Martians.”
“I know,” said Caswell.
“You do?”
“Of course. It became pretty obvious after a while.”
“It was a dangerous situation,” Rath said. “Especially for a man with your—ah—troubles.” He studied Caswell covertly. The man seemed fine, but appearances were frequently deceiving, especially with psychotics. Caswell had been homicidal; there was no reason why he should not still be.
And Rath began to wish he had not dismissed Smith and his policemen so summarily. Sometimes an armed squad was a comforting thing to have around.
Caswell walked across the room to the therapeutic machine. One hand was still in his jacket pocket; the other he laid affectionately upon the Regenerator.
“The poor thing tried its best,” he said. “Of course, it couldn’t cure what wasn’t there.” He laughed. “But it came very near succeeding!”
Rath studied Caswell’s face and said, in a trained, casual tone, “Glad there was no harm, sir. The Company will, of course, reimburse you for your lost time and for your mental anguish—”
“Naturally,” Caswell said.
“—and we will substitute a proper Terran Regenerator at once.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It won’t?”
“No.” Caswell’s voice was decisive. “The machine’s attempt at therapy forced me into a complete self-appraisal. There was a moment of absolute insight, during which I was able to evaluate and discard my homicidal intentions toward poor Magnessen.”
Rath nodded dubiously. “You feel no such urge now?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Rath frowned deeply, started to say something, and stopped. He turned to Follansby and Haskins. “Get that machine out of here. I’ll have a few things to say to you at the store.”
The manager and the clerk lifted the Regenerator and left.
Rath took a deep breath. “Mr. Caswell, I would strongly advise that you accept a new Regenerator from the Company, gratis. Unless a cure is effected in a proper mechanotherapeutic manner, there is always the danger of a setback.”
“No danger with me,” Caswell said, airily but with deep conviction. “Thank you for your consideration, sir. And good night.”
Rath shrugged and walked to the door.
“Wait!” Caswell called.
Rath turned. Caswell had taken his hand out of his pocket. In it was a revolver. Rath felt sweat trickle down his arms. He calculated the distance between himself and Caswell. Too far.
“Here,” Caswell said, extending the revolver butt-first. “I won’t need this any longer.”
Rath managed to keep his face expressionless as he accepted the revolver and stuck it into a shapeless pocket.
“Good night,” Caswell said. He closed the door behind Rath and bolted it.
At last he was alone.
Caswell walked into the kitchen. He opened a bottle of beer, took a deep swallow and sat down at the kitchen table. He stared fixedly at a point just above and to the left of the clock.
He had to form his plans now. There was no time to lose.
Magnessen! That inhuman monster who cut down the Caswell goricae! Magnessen! The man who, even now, was secretly planning to infect New York with the abhorrent feem desire! Oh, Magnessen, I wish you a long, long life, filled with the torture I can inflict on you. And to start with....
Caswell smiled to himself as he planned exactly how he would dwark Magnessen in a vlendish manner.
PROTECTION
There’ll be an airplane crash in Burma next week, but it shouldn’t affect me here in New York. And the feegs certainly can’t harm me. Not with all my closet doors closed.
No, the big problem is lesnerizing. I must not lesnerize. Absolutely not. As you can imagine, that hampers me.
And to top it all, I think I’m catching a really nasty cold.
The whole thing started on the evening of November seventh. I was walking down Broadway on my way to Baker’s Cafeteria. On my lips was a faint smile, due to having passed a tough physics exam earlier in the day. In my pocket, jingling faintly, were five coins, three keys, and a book of matches.
Just to complete the picture, let me add that the wind was from the northwest at five miles an hour, Venus was in the ascendancy and the moon was decidedly gibbous. You can draw your own conclusions from this.
I reached the corner of 98th Street and began to cross. As I stepped off the curb, someone yelled at me, “The truck! Watch the truck!”
I jumped back, looking around wildly. There was nothing in sight. Then, a full second later, a truck cut around the corner on two wheels, ran through the red light and roared up Broadway. Without the warning, I would have been hit.
You’ve heard stories like this, haven’t you? About the strange voice that warned Aunt Minnie to stay out of the elevator, which then crashed to the basement. Or maybe it told Uncle Joe not to sail on the Titanic. That’s where the story usually ends.
I wish mine ended there.
“Thanks, friend,” I said and looked around. There was no one there.
“Can you still hear me?” the voice asked.
“Sure I can.” I turned a complete circle and stared suspiciously at the closed apartment windows overhead. “But where in the blue blazes are you?”
“Gronish,” the voice answered. “Is that the referent? Refraction index. Creature of insubstantiality. The Shadow knows. Did I pick the right one?”
“You’re invisible?” I hazarded.
“That’s it!”
“But what are you?”
“A validusian derg.”
“A what?”
“I am—open your larynx a little wider please. Let me see now. I am the Spirit of Christmas Past. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. The Bride of Frankenstein. The—”
“Hold on,” I said. “What are you trying to tell me—that you’re a ghost or a creature from another planet?”<
br />
“Same thing,” the derg replied. “Obviously.”
That made it all perfectly clear. Any fool could see that the voice belonged to someone from another planet. He was invisible on Earth, but his superior senses had spotted an approaching danger and warned me of it.
Just a plain, everyday supernormal incident.
I began to walk hurriedly down Broadway.
“What is the matter?” the invisible derg asked.
“Not a thing,” I answered, “except that I seem to be standing in the middle of the street talking to an invisible alien from the farthest reaches of outer space. I suppose only I can hear you?”
“Well, naturally.”
“Great! You know where this sort of thing will land me?”
“The concept you are sub-vocalizing is not entirely clear.”
“The loony bin. Nut house. Bug factory. Psychotic ward. That’s where they put people who talk to invisible aliens. Thanks for the warning, buddy. Good night.”
Feeling lightheaded, I turned east, hoping my invisible friend would continue down Broadway.
“Won’t you talk with me?” the derg asked.
I shook my head, a harmless gesture they can’t pick you up for, and kept on walking.
“But you must, “the derg said with a hint of desperation. “A real sub-vocal contact is very rare and astonishingly difficult. Sometimes I can get across a warning, just before a danger moment. But then the connection fades.”
So there was the explanation for Aunt Minnie’s premonition. But I still wasn’t having any.
“Conditions might not be right again for a hundred years!” the derg mourned.
What conditions? Five coins and three keys jingling together when Venus was ascendant? I suppose it’s worthy of investigation—but not by me. You never can prove that supernormal stuff. There are enough people knitting slipcovers for straitjackets without me swelling their ranks.
“Just leave me alone,” I said. A cop gave me a funny look for that one. I grinned boyishly and hurried on.
“I appreciate your social situation,” the derg urged, “but this contact is in your own best interests. I want to protect you from the myriad dangers of human existence.”
I didn’t answer him.
“Well,” the derg said, “I can’t force you. I’ll just have to offer my services elsewhere. Goodbye, friend.”
Pilgrimage to Earth Page 11