The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Stoles’ last words brought his attention sharply to what was going on around him, not because he understood them—they meant very little to him, though they were fraught with horror—but because of the stir of approval and anticipation which went around the table.

  The pressure of Cynthia’s hand in his increased faintly. “What are they going to do, Teddy?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know, darling.”

  “The man, of course,” Parker commented.

  Stoles looked at him. Randall had a feeling that Stoles had intended the—whatever it was that was coming!—for the man, for him, until Parker had suggested it. But Stoles answered, “I’m always grateful for your advice. It makes it so easy to know just what one should do.” Turning to the others he said, “Prepare the woman.”

  “Now,” thought Randall. “It’s got to be now.” Summoning all the will he possessed he attempted to raise himself up from the table—rise up and fight!

  He might just as well not have made the effort.

  He let his head sink back, exhausted by the effort. “It’s no use, kid,” he said miserably.

  Cynthia looked at him. If she felt any fear, it was masked by the concern she showed for him. “Chin up, Brain,” she answered with the mere suggestion of increased pressure of her hand in his.

  Printemps stood up and leaned over her. “This is properly Potiphar’s job,” he objected.

  “He left a prepared bottle,” Stoles answered. “You have it, Mr. Phipps?”

  Phipps answered by reaching into his brief case and producing it. At a nod from Stoles he passed it over; Printemps accepted it. “The wax?” he added.

  “Here you are,” Phipps acknowledged, dipping into his brief case again.

  “Thank you, sir. Now, if someone will get that out of the way”—indicating Randall as he spoke—“we seem to be ready.” Half a dozen savagely willing hands manhandled Randall to the extreme far edge of the table; Printemps bent over Cynthia, bottle in hand.

  “One moment,” Stoles interrupted. “I want them both to understand what is happening and why. Mrs. Randall,” he continued, bowing gallantly, “in our short interview earlier I believe I made you understand that the Sons of the Bird will brook no interference from such as you two. You understood that, did you not?”

  “I understood you,” she answered. But her eyes were defiant.

  “Good. Be it understood that it is our wish that your husband have nothing more to do with…a certain party. In order to ensure that result we are about to split you into two parts. The part that keeps you going, that which you rather amusingly call the soul, we will squeeze into this bottle and keep. As for the rest, well, your husband may have that to keep with him, as a reminder that the Sons of the Bird have you in pawn. You understand me?”

  She ignored the question. Randall tried to answer, found that his throat was misbehaving again.

  “Listen to me, Mrs. Randall; if you are ever to see your husband again it is imperative that he obey us. He must not, on pain of your death, see his client again. Under the same penalty he must hold his tongue concerning us and all that has transpired. If he does not—well, we will make your death very interesting, I assure you.”

  Randall tried to cry out that he would promise anything they wanted to spare her, but his voice was still silenced—apparently Stoles wanted to hear from Cynthia first. She shook her head. “He’ll do as he thinks wise.”

  Stoles smiled. “Fine,” he said. “That was the answer I wanted. You, Mr. Randall—do you promise?”

  He wanted to agree, he was about to agree—but Cynthia was saying, “No!” with her eyes. From her expression he knew that her speech was now being blocked. Inside his head, clear as speech, he seemed to hear her say, “It’s a trick, Brain. Don’t promise!”

  He kept quiet.

  Phipps dug a thumb into his eye. “Answer when you are spoken to!”

  He had to squint the injured eye in order to see Cynthia, but her expression still approved; he kept his mouth shut.

  Presently Stoles said, “Never mind. Get on with it, gentlemen.”

  Printemps stuck the bottle under Cynthia’s nose, held it against her left nostril. “Now!” he directed. Another of them pressed down on her short ribs vigorously, so that her breath was expelled suddenly. She grunted.

  “Teddy,” she said, “they’re pulling me apar—Ugh!”

  The process had been repeated with the bottle at the other nostril. Randall felt the soft warm hand in his suddenly relax. Printemps held up the bottle with his thumb over its top. “Let’s have the wax,” he said briskly. Having sealed it he passed it over to Phipps.

  Stoles jerked a thumb toward the big mirror. “Put them back,” he directed.

  Phipps superintended the passing of Cynthia back through the glass, then turned to Stoles. “Couldn’t we give him something to make him remember us?” he inquired.

  “Help yourselves,” Stoles answered indifferently, as he stood up to go, “but try not to leave any permanent marks.”

  “Fine!” Phipps smiled, and hit Randall a backhanded swipe that loosened his teeth. “We’ll be careful!”

  He remained conscious through a considerable portion of it, though, naturally, he had no way of judging what proportion. He passed out once or twice, only to come to again under the stimulus of still greater pain. It was the novel way Phipps found of holding a man down without marking him which caused him to pass out for the last time.

  He was in a small room, every side of which was a mirror—four walls, floor, and ceiling. Endlessly he was repeated in every direction and every image was himself—selves that hated him but from which there was no escape. “Hit him again!” they yelled—he yelled—and struck himself in the teeth with his closed fist. They—he—cackled.

  They were closing in on him and he could not run fast enough. His muscles would not obey him, no matter how urgently he tried. It was because he was handcuffed—handcuffed to the treadmill they had put him on. He was blindfolded, too, and the handcuffs kept him from reaching his eyes. But he had to keep on—Cynthia was at the top of the climb; he had to reach her.

  Only, of course, there is no top when you are on a treadmill.

  He was terribly tired, but every time he slowed down the least little bit they hit him again. And he was required to count the steps, too, else he got no credit for it—ten thousand ninety-one, ten thousand ninety-two, ten thousand ninety-three, up and down, up and down—if he could only see where he was going.

  He stumbled; they clipped him from behind and he fell forward on his face.

  WHEN HE WOKE HIS FACE was pressed up against something hard and lumpy and cold. He shifted away from it and found that his whole body was stiff. His feet did not work as they should—he investigated by the uncertain light from the window and found that he had dragged the sheet half off the bed and had it tangled around his ankles.

  The hard cold object was the steam radiator; he had been huddled in a heap against it. He was beginning to regain his orientation; he was in his own familiar bedroom. He must have walked in his sleep—he hadn’t pulled that stunt since he was a kid! Walked in his sleep, tripped, and smashed his head into the radiator. Must ’a’ knocked him silly, colder’n a coot—damn lucky he hadn’t killed himself.

  He was beginning to pull himself together, and to crawl painfully to his feet, when he noticed the one unfamiliar thing in the room—the new big mirror. It brought the rest of his dream back with a rush; he leaped toward the bed. “Cynthia!”

  But she was there where she belonged, safe and unharmed. She had not awakened at his outcry, of which he was glad; he did not want to frighten her. He tiptoed away from the bed and let himself quietly into the bathroom, closing the door behind him before he turned on the light.

  A pretty sight! he mused. His nose had been bloodied; it had long since stopped bleeding and the blood had congealed. It made a gory mess of the front of his pajama jacket. Besides that, he had apparently lain with the right si
de of his face in the stuff—it had dried on, messily, making him appear much more damaged than he was, as he discovered when he bathed his face.

  Actually, he did not seem to be much damaged, except that—Wow!—the whole right side of his body was stiff and sore—probably banged it and wrenched it when he fell, then caught cold in it. He wondered how long he had been out.

  He took off the jacket, decided that it would be too much effort to try to wash it out then, rolled it into a ball and chucked it behind the toilet seat. He didn’t want Cyn to see it until he had had a chance to explain to her what had happened. “Why, Teddy, what in the world have you done to yourself?” “Nothing, kid, nothing at all—just ran into a radiator!”

  That sounded worse than the old one about running into a door.

  He was still groggy, groggier than he had thought—he had almost pitched on his head when he threw the jacket down, had been forced to steady himself by grabbing the top of the tank. And his head was pounding like a Salvation Army drum. He fiddled around in the medicine cabinet, located some aspirin and took three tablets, then looked thoughtfully at a prescription box of Amytal Cynthia had obtained some months before. He had never needed anything of the sort before; he slept soundly—but this was a special case. Nightmares two nights running and now sleepwalking and damn near breaking his silly neck.

  He look one of the capsules, thinking as he did so that the kid had something when she thought they needed a vacation—he felt all shot.

  Clean pajamas were too hard to find without turning on the bedroom light—he slipped into bed, waited a moment to see if Cyn would stir, then closed his eyes and tried to relax. Inside of a few minutes the drugs began to take hold, the throbbing in his head eased up, and soon he was sound asleep.

  VII

  Sunlight in his face woke him up; he focused one eye on the clock on the dressing table and saw that it was past nine o’clock, whereupon he got out of bed hastily. It was, he found, not quite a bright thing to do—his right side gave him fits. Then he saw the brown stain under the radiator and recalled his accident.

  Cautiously he turned his head and took a look at his wife. She was still sleeping quietly, showing no disposition to stir. That suited him; it would be better, he thought, to tell her what had happened after he had dosed her with orange juice. No point in scaring the kid.

  He groped on his slippers, then hung his bathrobe around him, as his bare shoulders felt cold and the muscles were sore. His mouth tasted better after he had brushed his teeth; breakfast began to seem like a good idea.

  His mind dwelt absent-mindedly on the past night, fingering his recollections rather than grasping them. These nightmares, he thought as he squeezed the oranges—not so good. Maybe not crazy, but definitely not so good, neurotic. Got to put a stop to ’em. Man couldn’t work if he spent the night chasing butterflies, even if he didn’t fall over his feet and break his neck. Man had to have sleep—definitely.

  He drank his own glass of juice, then carried the other into the bedroom. “Come on, bright eyes—reveille!” When she did not stir at once he began to sing. “Up with the buttercup, come on, get up, get up! Here comes the sun!”

  Still she did not budge. He set the glass down carefully on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulder. “Wake up, kid! They’re movin’ hell—two loads have gone by already!”

  She did not move. Her shoulder was cold.

  “Cyn!” he yelled. “Cyn! Cyn!” He shook her violently.

  She flopped lifelessly. He shook her again. “Cyn darling—Oh, God!”

  Presently the shock itself steadied him; he blew his fuses, so to speak, and was ready, with a sort of ashy dead calmness to do whatever might be necessary. He was convinced without knowing why, nor yet fully appreciating it, that she was dead. But he set about making sure by such means as he knew. He could not find her pulse—perhaps he was too clumsy, he told himself, or perhaps it was too weak; all the while a chorus in the back of his mind shouted, “She’s dead…dead…dead—and you let her die!”

  He placed an ear over her heart. It seemed that he could hear her heart beat, but he could not be sure; it might have been only the pounding of his own. He gave up presently and looked around for a small mirror.

  He found what he wanted in Cynthia’s handbag, a little make-up glass. He polished it carefully on the sleeve of his robe and held it to her half-opened mouth.

  It fogged faintly.

  He took it away in a bemused fashion, not letting himself hope, polished it again, and put it back to her mouth. Again it fogged, lightly but definitely.

  She was alive—she was alive!

  He wondered a moment later why he could not see her clearly and discovered that his face was wet. He wiped his eyes and went on with what he had to do. There was that needle business—if he could find a needle. He did find one in a pincushion on her dressing table. He brought it back to the bed, took a pinch of skin on her forearm, and said, “Excuse me, kid,” in a whisper, and jabbed it in.

  The puncture showed a drop of blood, then closed at once—alive. He wished for a fever thermometer, but they had none—they were both too healthy. But he did remember something he had read somewhere, something about the invention of the stethoscope. You rolled up a piece of paper—

  He found one of suitable size and rolled it into a one-inch tube which he pushed against the bare skin just over her heart. He put his ear to the other end and listened.

  Lubadup—lubadup—lubadup—lubadup—Faint, but steady and strong. No doubt about it this time; she was alive; her heart was beating.

  He had to sit down for a moment.

  RANDALL FORCED HIMSELF TO CONSIDER what to do next. Call a doctor, obviously. When people were sick, you called a doctor. He had not thought of it up to this time because Cyn and he just never did, never needed to. He could not recall that either one of them had had occasion to do so since they had been married.

  Call the police and ask for an ambulance maybe? No, he’d get some police surgeon more used to crash cases and shootings than anything like this. He wanted the best.

  But who? They didn’t have a family physician. There was Smyles—a rum dum, no good. And Hartwick—hell, Hartwick specialized in very private operations for society people. He picked up the phone book.

  Potbury! He didn’t know anything about the old beezer, but, he looked competent. He looked up the number, misdialed three times, then got the operator to call it for him.

  “Yes, this is Potbury. What do you want? Speak up, man.”

  “I said this is Randall. Randall. R-A-N-D-A-double L. My wife and I came to see you yesterday, remember? About—”

  “Yes, I remember. What is it?”

  “My wife is sick.”

  “What is the trouble? Did she faint again?”

  “No…yes. That is, she’s unconscious. She woke up unconscious—I mean she never did wake up. She’s unconscious now; she looks like she’s dead.”

  “Is she?”

  “I don’t think so—but she’s awful bad off, doctor. I’m scared. Can you come over right away?”

  There was a short silence, then Potbury said gruffly, “I’ll be over.”

  “Oh, good! Look—what should I do before you get here?”

  “Don’t do anything. Don’t touch her. I’ll be right over.” He hung up.

  Randall put the phone down and hurried back to the bedroom. Cynthia was just the same. He started to touch her, recalled the doctor’s instructions, and straightened up with a jerk. But his eye fell on the piece of paper from which he had improvised a stethoscope and he could not resist the temptation to check up on his earlier results.

  The tube gave back a cheering lubadup; he took it away at once and put it down.

  Ten minutes of standing and looking at her with nothing more constructive to do than biting his nails left him too nervous to continue the occupation. He went out to the kitchen and removed a bottle of rye from the top shelf from which he pou
red a generous three fingers into a water glass. He looked at the amber stuff for a moment, then poured it down the sink, and went back into the bedroom.

  She was still the same.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he had not given Potbury the address. He dashed into the kitchen and snatched the phone. Controlling himself, he managed to dial the number correctly. A girl answered the phone. “No, the doctor isn’t in the office. Any message?”

  “My name is Randall. I—”

  “Oh—Mr. Randall. The doctor left for your home about fifteen minutes ago. He should be there any minute now.”

  “But he doesn’t have my address!”

  “What? Oh, I’m sure he has—if he didn’t have he would have telephoned me by now.”

  He put the phone down. It was damned funny—well, he would give Potbury three more minutes, then try another one.

  The house phone buzzed; he was up out of his chair like a punch-drunk welterweight. “Yes?”

  “Potbury. That you, Randall?”

  “Yes, yes—come on up!” He punched the door release as he spoke.

  Randall was waiting with the door open when Potbury arrived. “Come in, doctor! Come in, come in!” Potbury nodded and brushed on by him.

  “Where’s the patient?”

  “In here.” Randall conducted him with nervous haste into the bedroom and leaned over the other side of the bed while Potbury took his first look at the unconscious woman. “How is she? Will she be all right? Tell me, doctor—”

  Potbury straightened up a little, grunting as he did so, and said, “If you will kindly stand away from the bed and quit crowding me, perhaps we will find out.”

  “Oh, sorry!” Randall retreated to the doorway. Potbury took his stethoscope from his bag, listened for a while with an inscrutable expression on his face which Randall tried vainly to read, shifted the instrument around, and listened again. Presently he put the stethoscope back in the bag, and Randall stepped forward eagerly.