by Fritz Leiber
Bronstein’s grin was a trifle knowing. “A girl who works in the president’s office told us they were deciding on the sociology chairmanship. I sure hope the old buzzards show some sense for once.”
Academic dignity stiffened Norman’s reply. “In any case, I will be satisfied with their decision.”
Bronstein felt the rebuff. “Of course, I didn’t mean to —”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He immediately regretted his sharpness. Why the devil should he rebuke a student for failing to reverence trustees as representatives of deity? Why pretend he didn’t want the chairmanship? Why conceal his contempt for half the faculty? The anger he thought he had worked out of his system surged up with redoubled violence. On a sudden irresistible impulse he tossed his lecture notes aside and started in to tell the class just what he thought of the world and Hempnell. They might as well find out young!
Fifteen minutes later he came to with a jerk in the middle of a sentence about “dirty-minded old women, in whom greed for social prestige has reached the magnitude of a perversion.” He could not remember half of what he had been saying. He searched the faces of his class. They looked excited, but puzzled, most of them, and a few looked shocked. Gracine Pollard was glaring. Yes! He remembered now that he had made a neat but nasty analysis of the political ambitions of a certain college president who could be none other than Randolph Pollard. And somewhere he had started off on that pre-marital relations business, and had been ribald about it, to say the least. And he had —
Exploded. Like a Prince Rupert drop.
He finished off with half a dozen lame generalities, He knew they must be quite inappropriate, for the looks grew more puzzled.
But the class seemed very remote. A shiver was spreading downward from the base of his skull, all because of a few words that had printed themselves in his mind.
The words were: A fingernail has flicked a psychic filament.
He shook his head, jumbling the type. The words vanished.
There were thirty minutes of class time left. He wanted to get away. He announced a surprise quiz, chalked up two questions, and left the room. In his office, he noticed that the cut finger had started to bleed again through the bandage. He remembered that there had been blood on the chalk.
And dried blood on the obsidian knife. He resisted the impulse to finger it, and sat staring at the top of his desk.
It all went back to Tansy’s witchcraft aberration. he told himself. It had shaken him much more than he had dared to admit. He had tried to put it out of his mind too quickly. And Tansy had appeared to forget it too quickly, too. A person could not shake an obsession that easily. He must thrash it all out with her, again and again, or the thing would fester.
What was he thinking! Tansy seemed so happy and relieved the last three days, that would surely be the wrong course to take.
But how could Tansy have got over a serious obsession so easily? It wasn’t normal. He remembered her sleeping smile, Yet it wasn’t Tansy who was behaving strangely now. It was he. As if a spell — What asinine rot! He’d just let himself be irritated by that stupid, hidebound old bunch of women, those old dragons — His eyes instantly strayed toward the window, but the telephone recalled him.
“Professor Saylor? … I’m calling for Doctor Pollard. Could you come in and see Dr. Pollard this afternoon? … Four o’clock? Thank you.”
He leaned back with a smile. At least, he told himself, he had got the chairmanship.
It grew darker as the day progressed, the ragged clouds swept lower and lower. Students scurried along the walks. But the storm held off until almost four.
Big raindrops splattered the dusty steps as he ducked under the portico of the Administration Building. Thunder crackled and crashed, as if acres of metal sheeting were being shaken above the clouds. He turned back to watch. Lightning threw the Gothic roofs and towers into sharp relief. Again the crackle, building to a crash. He remembered he had left a window open in his office. But there was nothing that would be damaged by the wet.
Wind swooped through the portico with a strident, pulsating roar. The unmusical voice that spoke into his ear had the same quality.
“Isn’t it a pretty storm?”
Evelyn Sawtelle was smiling for once. It had a grotesque effect on her features, as if a horse had suddenly discovered how to smirk.
“You’ve heard the news, of course?” She went on. “About Hervey.”
Hervey popped out from behind her. He was grinning too, but embarrassedly. He mumbled something that was lost in the storm and extended his hand blindly, as if he were in a receiving line.
Evelyn never took her eyes off Norman. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “Of course, we expected it, but still —”
Norman guessed. He forced himself to grasp Hervey’s hand, just as the latter was withdrawing it flusteredly.
“Congratulations, old man,” he said briefly.
“I’m very proud of Hervey,” Evelyn announced possessively, as if he were a small boy who had won a prize for good behavior.
Her eyes followed Norman’s hand. “Oh, you’ve cut yourself.” The smirk seemed to be a permanent addition to her features. The wind wailed fiendishly. “Come, Hervey!” And she walked out into the storm as if it weren’t there.
Hervey goggled at her in surprise. He mumbled something apologetic to Norman, pumped his hand up and down again, and then obediently scampered after his wife.
Norman watched them. There was something unpleasantly impressive about the way Evelyn Sawtelle marched through the sheets of rain, getting both of them drenched to no purpose except to satisfy some strange obstinancy. He could see that Hervey was trying to hurry her and not succeeding. Lightning flared viciously, but there was no reaction apparent in her angular, awkward frame. Once again Norman became dimly aware of an alien, explosive motion deep within him.
And so that little poodle dog of hers, he thought, is to have the final say on the educational policy of the sociology department. Then what the devil does Pollard want to see me for? To offer his commiserations?
Almost an hour later he slammed out of Pollard’s office, tense with anger, wondering why he had not handed in his resignation on the spot. To be interrogated about his actions like some kid, on the obvious instigation of busybodies like Thompson and Mrs. Carr and Gracine Pollard! To have to listen to a lot of hogwash about his “attitudes” and “the Hempnell spirit,” with veiled insinuations about his “moral code.”
At least he had given somewhat better than he had taken! At least he had forced a note of confusion into that suave, oratorical voice, and made those tufted gray eyebrows pop up and down more than once!
He had to pass the Dean of Men’s office. Mrs. Gunnison was standing at the door. Like a big, oozy, tough-skinned slug, he told himself, noting her twisted stockings and handbag stuffed full as a grab bag, the inevitable camera dangling beside it. His exasperation shifted to her.
“Yes, I cut myself!” he told her, observing the direction of her glance. His voice was hoarse from the tirade he had delivered to Pollard.
Then he remembered something and did not stop to weigh his words. “Mrs. Gunnison, you picked up my wife’s diary last night… by mistake. Will you please give it to me?”
“You’re mistaken,” she replied tolerantly.
“I saw you coming out of her bedroom with it.”
Her eyes became lazy slits. “In that case you’d have mentioned it last night. You’re overwrought, Norman. I understand.” She nodded toward Pollard’s office. “It must have been quite a disappointment.”
“I’m asking you to return the diary!”
“And you’d really better look after that cut,” she continued unruffledly. “It doesn’t look any too well bandaged, and it seems to be bleeding. Infections can be nasty things.”
He turned on his heel and walked away. Her reflection confronted him, murky and dim in the glass of the outer door. She was smiling.
Out
side Norman looked at his hand. Evidently he had opened the cut when he banged Pollard’s desk. He drew the bandage tighter.
The storm had blown over. Yellow sunlight was flooding from under the low curtain of clouds to the west, flashing richly from the wet roofs and upper windows. Surplus rain was sprinkling from the trees. The campus was empty. A flurry of laughter from the girls’ dormitories etched itself, a light, harmless acid, on the silence. He shrugged aside his anger and let his senses absorb the new-washed beauty of the scene.
He prided himself on being able to enjoy the moment at hand. It seemed to him one of the chief signs of maturity.
He tried to think like a painter, identifying hues and shades, searching for the faint rose or green hidden in the shadows. There was really something to be said for Gothic architecture. Even though it was not functional, it carried the eye along pleasantly from one fanciful bit of stonework to the next. Now take those leafy finials topping the Estrey tower —
And then suddenly the sunlight was colder than ice, the roofs of Hempnell were like the roofs of hell, and the faint laughter like the crystalline cachinnations of fiends. Before he knew it, he had swerved sharply away from Morton, off the path and onto the wet grass, although he was only halfway across campus.
No need to go back to the office, he told himself shakily. Just a long climb for a few notes. They could wait until tomorrow. And why not go home a different way tonight? Why always take the direct route that led through the gate between Estrey and Morton, under those dark, overhanging ledges. Why —
He forced himself to look up again at the open window of his office. It was empty now, as he might have expected. That other thing must have been some moving blur in his vision, and imagination had done the rest, as when a small shadow scurrying across the floor becomes a spider.
Or perhaps a shade flapping outward —
But a shadow could hardly crawl along the ledge outside the windows. A blur could hardly move so slowly or retain such a definite form.
And then the way the thing had waited, peering in, before it dropped down inside. Like… Like a — Of course it was all nonsense. And there really was no need whatsoever to bother about fetching those notes or closing the window. It would be giving in to a momentary fear. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
— Like a very large lizard, the color and texture of stone.
8
“— and henceforth his soul is believed to be knit up in a manner with the stone. If it breaks, it is an evil omen for him; they say that thunder has struck the stone and that he who owns it will soon die —”
No use. His eyes kept wandering over the mass of print. He laid the volume of The Golden Bough aside and leaned back. From somewhere to the east, the thunder still throbbed faintly. But the familiar leather of the easy-chair imparted a sense of security and detachment.
Suppose, just as an intellectual exercise, he tried to analyze the misfortunes and fancies of the past three days in terms of sorcery.
The cement dragon would be a clear case of sympathetic magic. Mrs. Gunnison animated it by means of her photographs — the old business of doing things to the image instead of the object, like sticking pins in a wax doll. Perhaps she had joined a number of photographs together to make a motion picture. Or perhaps she had managed to get a picture of the inside of his office and had clipped a picture of the dragon to it. Murmuring suitable incantations, of course. Or, more simply, she might have slipped a picture of the dragon into one of his pockets. He started to feel through them, then reminded himself that this was only arm intellectual exercise, a trifling diversion for a tired brain.
But carry through on it. You’ve exhausted Mrs. Gunnison. How about Evelyn Sawtelle? Her recording of the bull-roarer, notable storm-summoner, would provide a neat magical explanation for the wind last night and the storm and wind today — both associated with the Sawtelles. And then the similar sound in his dream — he wrinkled his nose in distaste.
He could hear Tansy calling Totem from the back porch, rattling his little tin pan.
Put today’s self-injurious acts in another category. The obsidian knife. The razor blade. The cranky saucepan. The carpet tack. The match that he had let burn his fingers a few minutes ago.
Perhaps the razor blade had been charmed, like the enchanted sword or ax which wounds the person who wields it. Perhaps someone had stolen the blood-smeared obsidian knife and dropped it in water, so the wound would keep flowing. That was a well-established superstition.
A dog was trotting along the sidewalk out in front. He could distinctly hear the clop-clop of paws.
Tansy was still calling Totem.
Perhaps a sorcerer had commanded him to destroy himself by inches — or millimeters, considering the razor blade. That would explain all the self-injurious acts at one swoop. The flat voice in the dream had ordered him to do it.
The dog had turned up the drive. His claws made a grating sound on the concrete.
The tarot-card diagrams scribbled by Mrs. Sawtelle would figure as some magical control mechanism. The stick-figure of the man and the truck had grim implications if interpreted in the light of his old irrational fear.
It really didn’t sound so much like a dog. Probably the neighbor’s boy dragging home by jerks some indeterminate bulky object. The neighbor’s boy devoted all his spare time to collecting trash.
“Totem! Totem!” Followed by, “All right, stay out if you want to,” and the sound of the back door closing.
Finally, that very trite “sense of a presence” just behind him. Taller than himself, hands poised to grab. Only whenever he looked over his shoulder, it dodged. Something resembling it had figured in the dream — the source, perhaps, of that flat voice. And in that case —
His patience snapped. Arm intellectual exercise all right! For morons! He stubbed out his cigarette.
“Well, I’ve done my duty. That cat can sing for his supper.” Tansy sat on the arm of the chair and put her hand on Norman’s shoulder. “How are things going?”
“Not so good,” he replied lightly.
“The chairmanship?”
He nodded. “Sawtelle got it.”
Tansy cursed fluently. It did him good to hear her.
“Make you want to take up conjuring again?” He bit his lip. He certainly hadn’t intended to say that.
She looked at him closely.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“Just a joke.”
“Are you sure? I know you’ve been worrying about me these last few days, ever since you found out. Wondering if I were going totally neurotic on you, and watching for the next symptoms. Now, dear, you don’t have to deny it. It was the natural thing. I expected you’d be suspicious of me for a while.
With your knowledge of psychiatry, it would be impossible for you to believe that anyone could shake off an obsession so quickly. And I’ve been so happy to get free from all that, that your suspicions haven’t bothered me. I’ve known they would wear off.”
“But, darling, I honestly haven’t been suspicious,” he protested. “Maybe I ought to have been, but I haven’t.”
Her gray-green eyes were sphinxlike. She said slowly, “Then what are you worrying about?”
“Nothing at all,” Here was where he had to be very careful.
She shook her head. “That’s not true. You are worrying. Oh, I know there are some things on your mind that you haven’t told me about. It isn’t that.”
He looked up quickly.
She nodded. “About the chairmanship. And about some student who’s been threatening you. And about that Van Nice girl. You didn’t really think, did you, that Hempnell would let me miss those delightful scandals?” She smiled briefly as he started to protest. “Oh, I know you aren’t the type who seduces love-struck mimeograph operators, not neurotic ones at any rate.” She became serious again. “Those are all minor matters, things you can take in your stride. You didn’t tell me about them because you were afraid I might b
ackslide, from the desire to protect you. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“But I have the feeling that what you’re worrying about goes much deeper than that. Yesterday and today I’ve even felt that you wanted to turn to me for help, and didn’t dare.”
He paused, as if thinking exactly how to phrase his answer. But he was studying her face, trying to read the exact meaning of each familiar quirk of expression around the mouth and eyes. She looked very contained, but that was only a mask, he thought. Actually, in spite of everything she said, she must still be poised close to the brink of her obsession. One little push, such as a few careless words on his part — How the devil had he ever let himself get so enmeshed in his own worries and those ridiculous projections of his cranky imagination? Here a few inches away from him was the only thing that mattered — the mind behind this smooth forehead and these clear, gray-green eyes; to steer that mind away from any such ridiculous notions as those he had been indulging in, the last few days.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I have been worried about you. I thought it would hurt your selfconfidence if I let you know. Maybe I was unwise — you seem to have sensed it, anyway — but that’s what I thought. The way you feel now, of course, it can’t possibly hurt you to know.”
It occurred to him that it was almost frighteningly easy to lie convincingly, to someone you loved.
She did not give in at once. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I still have the feeling there’s more to it.”
Suddenly she smiled and yielded to the pressure of his arms. “It must be the MacKnight in me — my Scotch ancestry,” she said, laughing. “Awfully stubborn, you know. Monomaniacs, When we’re crazy on a thing, we’re completely crazy, but when we drop it, we drop it all at once. Like my great-uncle Peter. You know, the one who left the Presbyterian ministry and gave up Christianity on the very same day he proved to his satisfaction there was no God. Remember, at the age of seventy-two?” There was a long and grumbling roll of thunder.
The storm was coining back.
“Well, I’m very glad you’re only worried about me,” she continued. “It’s complimentary, and I like it.”