Thunder and Roses

by Theodore Sturgeon

  “They do, but—”

  “Humans, with few exceptions, always are puppyish, to a degree. There is even a parallel in the proportions of head to body, even allowing for the larger brain pan of homo sapiens. An adult human being has proportions comparable to a half-grown colt or dog in that respect. Now—did you ever hear of a full-grown gorilla acting kittenish? Or a bison bull, or a lion? Life for them is a serious business—one of sex, hunger, self-preservation and a peculiar ‘don’t tread on me’ kind of possessiveness.

  “Peg—let’s face it. That’s what’s happened to me. I can’t go back. I don’t see how I can go on this way. I’m mature now. But I’m mature like an animal. However, I can’t stop being human. A human being has to have one thing—he has to be happy, or he has to think he knows what happiness is. Happiness for me is unthinkable. There is nothing for me to work toward. All of my achievements are here”—he tapped his head—“as good as done when I think of them, because I know I can do them. No goal, no aspiration—the only thing left is that little game of mine, the one where, according to the rules, I can’t ever really know the result.”

  “Voisier?”

  “Voisier.” He picked up the phone, dialed rapidly. He listened. “Come on back,” he said. He hung up. “That was Janice. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You’d better go, Peg.”

  The door buzzer began to shrill. Robin leaped across the room; the gun was in his hand again. He opened the door and stood behind it, peering out at the hinge side as he had before. Mel walked in.

  “Peg—are you all right?”

  “A little bewildered.”

  “Of course she’s all right,” said Robin in a tone that insulted both of them. Mel stared at him. Robin went over to the desk, picked up the sheets he had written and, folding them, handed them to Peg. “Promise me you won’t read these until you get back to Mel’s office.”

  “I promise.”

  Mel spoke up, suddenly—and with great effort. “English—You know what that condition is?” He indicated Robin’s face.

  “He does, Mel,” said Peg. “Don’t—”

  Warfield pushed her hand off his arm impatiently. “Robin, I’m willing to do what I can to arrest it, and there’s a chance … not much, you understand—”

  Robin interrupted him with a sudden, thunderous guffaw—quite the most horrible sound Peg had ever heard. “Why sure, Mel, sure. I’ll be a bit busy this afternoon, but say tomorrow, if we can get together?”

  “Robin!” said Peg joyfully. “You will?”

  “Why not?” He chuckled. “Don’t make an appointment today.

  Call me tomorrow.” He took the note back from Peg, and scribbled on it. “Here’s the number. Now go on. Beat it, you two. Maybe I ought to say something like ‘Bless you, my children’ but I—Oh, beat it.”

  Peg found herself in the hall and then at the door. “But Robin—” she said weakly; but by then the door was closed and Mel was guiding her into the elevator.

  At Mel’s office a few minutes later, she unfolded Robin’s note with trembling fingers. It read:

  Peg dear,

  Here is where a mature human being gets kittenish, if he has to kill himself in the attempt.

  What I have been doing to Voisier is to drive him crazy. He’s a bad apple, Peg. Very few people realize just how bad. I knew today would be the payoff when you told me how he had stolen the book and all that. He played you for bait. I told you he was almost as clever as I am. He knew that if he could worry you enough, you’d find me some way. My guess is that he simply had you followed until you found me. Then he’d wait until you had gone—he’s waiting as I write this. When he’s sure there are no witnesses, he’ll come and finish his business with me.

  This is my game, Peg. The only one I can think of where I’ll never know who won. If you call the police about now, chances are they’ll find him here. Make it an anonymous tip, and don’t use this note as evidence of any kind. Voisier is going to get his; Janice is here and besides, the place is equipped with a very fine wire recorder. I’ll handle all the dialogue. I’m sorry about all those dope fiends I had to supply to undercut his rotten racket. Take care of ’em.

  And down in the corner, where he had ostensibly written his phone number, were these words: “Sorry I can’t keep that appointment. The condition is already arrested.”

  Peg phoned the police. The police found Robin English dead. Robin English left everything he had to Peg and Warfield equally. And in due course Voisier was electrocuted for the murder. The recording found in his apartment, coupled with the testimony of one Janice Brooks, was quite sufficient. Voisier’s defense, that Robin was torturing him, held no water; for where is a law that specifies mental torture as grounds for justifiable homicide?