Transmigration

by J. T. McIntosh

  TRANSMIGRATION

  by

  J.T. McIntosh

  CONFRONTATION!

  In his unwilling travels from mind to mind,

  Fletcher had lived in the brains of many people --

  young, old, healthy, ill, men, women. But now

  he found himself in the brain of Charles Searle --

  the man who was responsible for his ghastly

  situation -- the brilliant and ruthless scientist who

  had altered Fletcher's mind and left him, finally,

  a disembodied personality. His lifelong unhappi-

  ness and the ultimate torment of endless dying

  were the result of Searle's insane arrogance.

  And now Fletcher shared his brain.

  And Searle was dying . . . .

  Avon Books by J.T. McIntosh

  SIX GATES FROM LIMBO

  SNOW WHITE AND THE GIANTS

  TRANSMIGRATION

  TRANSMIGRATION

  J.T. McINTOSH

  AVON

  PUBLISHERS OF

  DISCUS o CAMELOT o BARD

  This is the first American publication

  of TRANSMIGRATION in any form

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  959 Eighth Avenue

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1970 by J.T. McIntosh.

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  All rights reserved, which includes the right

  to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

  any form whatsoever. For information address

  Lurton Blassingame, 60 East 42 Street,

  New York, N.Y. 10017

  First Avon Printing, December, 1970

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND

  FOREIGN COUNTRIES, REGISTERED TRADEMARK --

  MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CHAPTER 1: FLETCHER

  The doctor said quietly: "Since you insist . . . there's no doubt."

  "How long have I got?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher, I can't possibly . . . "

  "How long until it kills me?"

  The doctor looked shrewdly at him, made up his mind, and said bluntly: "Eight months. Probably only five. Possibly three."

  Fletcher laughed as he had not done for years, with real enjoyment. The doctor was puzzled; he could recognize hysteria, and this was not hysteria.

  "It can be beaten, doctor," said Fletcher at last.

  The doctor started to shake his head. He had not wanted to pass sentence on this tall, gaunt spider of a man whom he scarcely knew, whose lean face bore the marks of loneliness. But truth was truth. Having insisted on it, Fletcher should not be allowed to deceive himself. The doctor in such circumstances allowed, indeed encouraged, most people to deceive themselves. This man was different.

  "It will be beaten," said Fletcher. He laughed again, but this time there was no amusement in his laughter. "Don't you recognize the pall of death on me, doctor? Others do. Not everybody sees it yet Not young people, or happy people, or strong, confident people. But those who are close to death see Death sitting on my shoulder, and shrink back as I pass."

  The doctor, who had until then had no doubt of Fletcher's sanity, started to say something calm and reassuring.

  But Fletcher went on: "It will be beaten, doctor. I'm going to beat it by dying; not in eight, months, or five months, or three months, but in a matter of days. No, don't look at me like that. It won't be suicide. Never mind. Forget all about me, doctor. When I die, the world won't know the difference. I was never really here anyway."

  Out in the street he was ashamed of his outburst. It was only the genuinely amusing irony of one death sentence being frustrated by a prior death sentence which had made him so unusually loquacious. And of course the doctor could not be expected to understand.

  Moved by a sudden sense of urgency, he wanted to see Baudaker again, and at once. In his whole life, in all his forty-three years, thirty-nine of which he remembered, he had aroused excitement only in one unprepossessing little laboratory technician; a man who thought he had found in John Fletcher a world-shaking discovery. And even John Fletcher had some urge toward immortality. Although he had slammed the door on Baudaker and his psi tests eighteen months earlier, sickened by the prospect of being proved a freak, he now felt prepared to accept even that dubious distinction. To be a mental freak was better than being nothing at all.

  Poor little Baudaker . . . he wasn't one of the death people, yet he jumped at his own shadow. It was life Baudaker was scared of, not death. If he had ever been a little more assertive he would surely have become something more than a laboratory office boy.

  From a phone booth just outside the surgery room, Fletcher called the university. Mr. Baudaker was not available. Could he call back in an hour? Fletcher said that he would.

  On the way back to his bed-sitter he stopped at a supermarket and bought a large steak pie. He was not hungry, but the habit of many years was too strong to he broken. In addition to lunch, dinner and supper, he always had a substantial snack in mid-afternoon. Fletcher was not a solitary drinker, he was a solitary eater. He delightedly gorged himself in secret, yet his long, lean body never revealed the secret. Not that it mattered: who would have cared?

  Back in his room he put the pie onto the tiny oven hotplate and stretched himself out on the bed. Any activity had become an effort. The tumor deep inside was not yet troubling him except in the vaguest ways, this being one of them. He could still eat, but he could no longer enjoy food. He could walk, even run, but given a choice he remained inactive. And the thought of women, so often a torment in his forty-three lonely, tortured years, no longer bothered him. In that respect he was at peace. No longer was he torn apart by incompatible urges to seek out women and to keep his distance: to never touch them.

  He reflected that he was suddenly rich. When he left his last job seven weeks since, he had given himself a maximum of two months to find suitable employment. This had always been difficult for him; not because he lacked skill, intelligence or experience, but because his unlucky temperament made it impossible for him to work easily with others -- especially women.

  Now, the few pounds in his bank account would not have to keep him for six months, but could keep him in opulent luxury for a few days.

  By the time he had wolfed the pie, nearly an hour had elapsed. He had to go out again to phone. There was a telephone in the hall, but he never used it.

  He closed the door of his room . . .

  "Mr. Fletcher! Are you busy?"

  It was Judy, the landlady's daughter. She stood in the doorway of her bedroom in a shapeless sweater, an incredibly short skirt, and nylons far too large for her which hung loosely about her skinny legs.

  "Why aren't you at schoolS" he asked.

  "I fell yesterday. I've got a broken leg and a broken ankle and I'm to stay at home for two weeks, the doctor said. And my radio won't work. Mr. Fletcher, could you fix it?"

  "You can't have a broken leg or a broken ankle, Judy. You wouldn't be able to stand."

  "Well, my ankle's big and my knee is sore. Come in and I'll show you. And will you fix the radio?"

  He entered the room rather awkwardly. Until a few months ago he had been able to talk more easily to Judy than to anyone else. She didn't look and seldom sounded backward. She was a happy, pretty little thing, and it never mattered what anyone said to Judy, for her mind was like a bucket with a hole in it. He had been at his ease with her as with no one else, and she actually liked him; not knowing any better.

  But just as death closed its grip on John Fletcher, life began to beckon Judy MacDonald. Her mental
age might be about five, but she had lived twelve or thirteen years, and nature decided it was time she became a woman. And Fletcher's ease with her was shattered.

  "I'll show you my sore leg," she said like a child, and then turned away from him like a woman. "Don't look!" Turning away wasn't enough, however, and she skipped behind the massive old wardrobe to take off her stockings.

  The radio was an ancient floor standing model. In moving it nearer the bed on which she had been lying, Judy had pulled one of the leads from the plug. He restored it, using his pocketknife as a screwdriver.

  She came skipping back. For the moment she was so like the gay child of last year that he was able to examine the swollen ankle, only slightly sprained, and make the appropriate sympathetic remarks. But then she flung her skirt right up and put her bare leg along the back of a chair so that he could inspect it, and he started back uneasily.

  "It's all right, there's no blood," she reassured him. "In fact, I can't see anything wrong, but maybe you can."

  Her new modesty went with her new bra and borrowed nylons. He was not supposed to look as she took off her stockings, but once they were off, all was well and she could hold her skimpy skirt high for him to examine her knee and thigh closely. Fletcher, compelled to make a thorough examination because she would not be satisfied with less, reported that he couldn't see anything wrong either.

  "Well, it's sore," she complained, dropping her leg and casually shrugging her skirt down. "Worse than my ankle."

  "Probably a pulled muscle. That wouldn't necessarily show."

  "I'm supposed to rest, but walk about, and not go out. So I need the radio. Will you be able to fix it?"

  Fletcher switched it on, and the pilot light glowed.

  "Oh, you've done it already! I knew you could fix it, Mr. Fletcher. You can do anything, can't you?"

  "Not really," he said. "It's astonishing how little I can do."

  "Oh, you're making fun of me. You can fix radios and put my doll's head back on, and speak French and German."

  "Life demands more than such talents sometimes," he said drily,

  "Mummy's out working, and I'm supposed to rest most of the time, and not go out. Could you stay for a while, and speak French to me?"

  "I have to go out, but I might be back soon. I don't know. If I am, I'll come and see you."

  "Oh, please do, Mr. Fletcher!"

  He closed her door behind him and went downstairs. 'You can do anything, can't you?' Only Judy would say such a thing.

  He could do nothing. That was the story of his life. He had never succeeded in anything. He had a magnificently consistent record of total failure. You always knew where you were with John Fletcher . . . nowhere.

  After a long wait, he got Baudaker on the phone.

  "This is Fletcher," he said. "John Fletcher. Perhaps you remember me. You said if ever I agreed to . . . "

  "Fletcher!" The little technician squeaked with delight. "You're prepared to come back? You'll let me do more tests?"

  "If you still want to."

  "If I want to! When, Mr. Fletcher?"

  "Now, if you like."

  There was a pause. Then Baudaker said: "I'd love to have you, Mr. Fletcher. But I'm not free . . . could you come tonight?"

  "Tonight will be fine. Where?"

  "Here at the university. In the lab where you were before, you remember? I'll need helpers, but I'll easily get half-dozen student volunteers. Could you come about seven?"

  "Certainly. How long do you want me to stay?"

  Another pause. Fletcher could guess that the timid little technician was trying to screw up his nerve -- two hours, four hours if he asked for too much of Fletcher's time, he might change his mind and not come at all.

  "Could you," said Baudaker tentatively, "stay all night?"

  For the first time in months, Fletcher laughed. The little man's enthusiasm had made him bold. "All right," he said, "if you give me coffee at frequent intervals."

  "Oh, we'll do that, Mr. Fletcher! We'll do that!"

  Fletcher left the kiosk. A middle-aged woman with a shopping bag was waiting impatiently, looking at her watch. She looked up, irritation in every line of her face. Instead of avoiding her eye, he caught it and held it.

  They stared at each other, three feet apart. The woman cringed, half raised her free hand as if to ward off a blow, turned and walked away rapidly, not looking back.

  That was needed, Fletcher .thought bleakly, to restore the status quo. The warm admiration of Judy and Baudaker's enthusiasm were usual. He had felt almost happy and strangely secure -- it was only a matter of time until something or someone came along to cancel out the hint of success he vaguely sensed and allow failure and loneliness to reassert their primary places in John Fletcher's life.

  Fletcher walked aimlessly for quite a while and ended up at the beach. He needed solitude, and with Judy around, it would be impossible to find it at the house.

  Reaching the whins that hid the sand dunes from the road, he went straight through them and burst out on a little knoll above the river. In front of him sand fell sharply to the slow moving river. Two hundred yards farther on it reached the sea.

  It was hot here, the dunes affording shelter from the slight breeze. Sparsely scattered along the banks were a few early bathers and sunbathers. He sank down to crouch among the whins.

  Along the shore came a boy and a girl. They were not much older than Judy, sixteen or seventeen. The boy wore bathing trunks and a loose blue sweater. The girl wore a dazzlingly white dress. Barefoot, they waded in about six inches of water, laughing.

  Then the boy, on the shore side, started to edge the girl farther into the water. She protested. They came level with Fletcher, and went no farther on. He could hear them, not clearly, but missing only the words, not the sense. The youth pushed the girl out until the water was up to her knees, nudging her, not letting her get past to the shore.

  They weren't laughing any more. Something nasty and brutal had got into the youth. He was drunk with male power. He didn't hit the girl and he checked her only with his body. But he was stronger and heavier than she was. She was his prisoner, his plaything, his slave.

  A light breeze wafted a few words to Fletcher.

  " . . . my new dress, Gerry!"

  "All right then." The youth turned to wade to the shore.

  "Anyway, I knew you wouldn't dare!"

  The youth turned and went back.

  It was not, then, as simple as it seemed. It was a game of the sexes, the kind of game that Fletcher knew nothing about. The girl wasn't just a poor kid being bullied by a young hooligan. When he abandoned the game she had to tease him into starting it again. Something compelled her to do this.

  Now she was holding up her white dress clear of the water. Several times she recovered surprisingly, staggering as the youth nudged her, but not quite falling down. Then as he bumped her hard she let her dress go and threw out both arms to balance herself. She didn't fall, but the skirt of her dress was soaked almost to the waist.

  She was crying now. But Gerry was not satisfied. Three times he body-checked her, and each time she recovered nimbly. Then he barged into her and she toppled flat on her back, the water closing over her head.

  She came up, wailing like a child. The boy, apparently satisfied now that she was soaked through, turned and waded back toward the bank. But when she followed, he turned and barged into her again, and once more the water closed over her. Fletcher stood up.