The Quy Effect

by Arthur Sellings

  He started to tunnel into one of the trunks, scattering old clothes and papers all over the place. Alan watched in amazement. His grandfather was a genius, of course, and eccentric—but could he have ten thousand pounds tucked away in that battered old trunk?

  “Ah—got it,” said the old man. He held up a grayish looking garment. “My best shirt. How’s your hand at the washtub, son? My left shoulder’s still stiff. You should find a bar of soap in the scullery. Now—” and he resumed rummaging through the trunk—“where’s that blasted plastic collar?”

  Seven

  I: “I wish to order letter headings for my agency,” Quy told the printer loftily.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And I don’t want any inferior rubbish. There’s one in your window I rather like the look of.”

  “Yes, indeed. Perhaps you’d like to point out which one.”

  Quy went out with him and stabbed a finger at the glass.

  “Ah, yes, sir. You have excellent taste.” They went back inside. “That’s an engraved heading, which means we have to order a die. That costs from ten pounds upwards. Of course, it soon pays for itself in quantity. And the paper is best mold-made. Quarto, six pounds a thousand.”

  “A thousand? Who said anything about a thousand?”

  “Oh well, of course, we make a reduction for quantity. Just how many did you have in mind?”

  “About fifty.”

  “Fifty thousand?”

  “No, fifty.”

  “Fifty!” The printer’s dreams evaporated with his smile. “We don’t quote for fifty. Our minimum is two hundred and fifty.”

  “Piracy, but, all right, I’ll take two fifty. And this is only a beginning, you understand. Take that into account when you prepare your estimate.”

  “You’d better have the jobbing samples book.” The printer flung a dog-eared folio across the counter. “And the prices are standard. Extra for color.”

  “I don’t want color. Nothing garish, you understand. Right, I’ll have this one.” Quy squinted at it. “Seven A.”

  The printer sighed heavily. “Two pounds, seven and nine, including tax.”

  “That’s a hostile price.”

  “There’s another place round the corner if—”

  Quy brushed aside his words. “The name is The Organic Research Agency.”

  The printer reached reluctantly for a pad. “And the address?”

  Quy hesitated. He had been undecided between using his real address and the phone number of the callbox on the corner, or that of a swank block of flats in the West End. He had used the latter device before—a pound tip to a porter could be a good investment. Both had their disadvantages. Number Three Caledonian Passage, N.1. didn’t sound very impressive, and even with a pane of glass removed from the callbox it wasn’t always easy to hear the ring. The second way wasn’t foolproof, either. The porter would be round the corner having a pint when the important call came. An ad he had come across in the Exchange and Mart settled the point. West End Address & Phone. Letters Forwarded. Strictest Confidence. Only Seven and Six a Week. Reduction for Longer Periods.

  He fished the cutting from a pocket and said, “Five Nine Seven Park Lane, W.1.”

  The printer looked up and grunted. “Do you want them posted there?”

  “I will call for them personally. Tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be wasting your time. You can have them Friday.”

  On Friday Quy returned to his basement with the headings, got out an antiquated typewriter and started picking away at its keyboard.

  Brason Biolaboratories Ltd.

  Anglia House

  Norwich

  Dear Sirs—

  He stopped, cursing, as three type bars jammed. He picked them apart, getting his fingers messy and smudging the paper. He turned to hunt for an eraser, then peered at the page. The a was almost worn out and the s was a full eighth of an inch low. He could straighten the s bar. And surely it wouldn’t defeat human ingenuity to write a brief letter without using an a?

  His fingers poised to essay a first draft, deciding that the sheet of paper was too grimy now to use for a good copy, anyway. But he was stymied at the beginning with Dear. Honored Sir? Ach, they’d think he was a bloody wog.

  He got up and hunted in the larder. He came out with a bottle. He held it up to the light. It was a quarter full. He grunted, picked up a sheaf of the letterheadings in the other hand and went out into the yard. He mounted the tottering wooden steps and banged on the upstairs door, his knuckles dislodging a small shower of desiccated paint particles.

  The door opened and a red beard lit up the gloom beyond.

  “Oh, hallo, Mr. Quy. How’s the Mastermind?”

  “Sorely in need of aid, Norman. But I come bearing sustenance.”

  Norman noticed the bottle. “Come in.”

  He led the way up to a large room. It looked tidy compared with old Quy’s below, but only because the stuff littered about the place was mainly of one constituent—paper. Magazines, tearsheets, clipped typescripts, were arrayed in a direct ratio of disorder to their distance from a rolltop desk and its attendant leather-covered swivel chair. The room was plentifully furnished with bookshelves, but they were crammed full and as many books again were piled in front of them and heaped on any convenient surface.

  “Get the glasses, Norman, and let us commune.”

  Norman smacked his lips at the slug of rum the old man poured him.

  “You couldn’t have turned up at a better moment, Mr. Quy, There’s been a change of policy in Torso, my main source of bread these past two years. Earthly villains are out for my Anthony Hard series. Some dim gropings for international brotherhood and all that jazz in the managing editor’s breast. So out go even such carefully denationalised villains as my Eurasian mutant with poison fangs and my Devil Daughter of the Incas. From now on it’s got to be monsters from outer space. And I’m stuck.”

  “I wondered why I didn’t hear the merry sound of keys clacking.”

  “I’ve been scratching like mad, and all the monsters I’ve come up with have either been used twenty years ago, or totally lack any kind of reader identification—on either side. Poison fangs, that’s something the morons I write for can understand; they’ve got their candidates lined up in their sado-masochistic fantasies—their bosses, their wives. But how can you identify with a malignant green slime? Got any ideas, for chrissake?”

  “How about a creature that can change shape?”

  Norman looked sad. “That’s as old as the hills.”

  “Is it? Well, how about one that’s got a ray or thing that turns all the men into queers and—”

  “Eh? Try giving my editor that one!” He lowered his voice to a kind of falsetto bass. “Torso for Men. No, thanks for trying, Mr. Quy.”

  “Well, how about one that can make your hero think it’s a nice bit of crumpet, eh? Telepathic hallucination. When all the time it’s got teeth three feet long.”

  Norman brightened, “That’s more like it! That’s probably been used, too, but it’ll do for a start.” He wheeled his chair round to the desk.

  “Won’t it keep for a few minutes?” Quy asked. “I want you to type a couple of letters for me.”

  “Well, all right. One good turn and all that.”

  “Here’s the headings.”

  Norman took them. “Hm-mm, sounds an impressive outfit.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Let’s hope the recipients agree. Ready? Right.

  Brason Biolaboratories Ltd.

  Anglia House, Norwich

  Dear Sirs,

  You have been selected by our European agency to receive our order for a new experimental molecule.”

  “What you’d call a big order,” Norman commented ironically.

  “It is a big order, Norman. You might even say a tall order. Where was I? Ah, yes.

  Our preliminary survey indicates that you have the necessary specialized equipment and personnel for this assignment.


  Our initial order will be for a prototype strip of approximately twenty grams. Successful completion and delivery of this prototype will be a predisposing factor in our awarding a production contract running into eight

  —no, hold it, that’s a bit strong—make that

  well into seven figures. A detailed specification will be sent you on receipt of your intimation that you can undertake this order. But, as a guide, I can inform you that the molecule is a complex one of alternating single and double bonds with side chain molecules in the cyanine range.

  Needless to say, we expect this matter to be treated with—ah—the confidence commensurate with the stature of our two organizations.

  Yes, I rather like that phrase. ‘Yours cordially’—no, better not be too cordial at this stage—‘Yours faithfully’—leave a space for my signature—‘Robert J. Hopkins, European Director.’ ”

  Norman raised his head and coughed.

  “If you’ll just type out two more like that, Norman. Just substituting two other names and addresses I’ll give you.”

  “Looks as if you’re cooking up a new life-form on your own.”

  “Not quite, Norman. But I’ll invite you to the christening. That’s a promise.”

  Eight

  Two weeks later Quy knew that he had failed.

  Brason Biolaboratories sent a printed card, regretting that their capacity was booked until the end of 1974. Biotechnics Ltd., with a London office in Regent had written a cautious letter.

  Dear Mr. Hopkins,

  We thank you for your enquiry of the fourteenth. We do have the equipment and technical staff for such a program as you outline. However, we have not heard of your company till now, nor does a preliminary check in the various yearbooks and directories yield any relevant information. Perhaps you are newly based here, with parent companies incorporated abroad? Your early advice on this matter will have our immediate and closest attention…

  “Too bloody close and immediate, I bet,” Quy muttered.

  The third reply forwarded from the accommodation address stated,

  Come out from behind the beard, Quy. Confidence commensurate with the stature of our two organizations, forsooth! I’d recognize that style anywhere, without the fact that I know Harvey Maddox.

  It was signed “David Beck, Technical Director.” He remembered the name vaguely from years back. An image of a tall lad with red hair and a big grin came back to him. Another sad example of what success did to a man, he lamented, And then he read the postscript, “But have a drink for old times’ sake,” and he turned the envelope up and a couple of pound notes dropped out, and he felt like crying.

  “Goddam and blast people! Why can’t they be bastards all the way through! A man doesn’t know where he is.”

  But he tucked the notes into his pocket and went out to the pub.

  The Swan is perched on the canal where it passes under Caledonian Road. That’s where the road bends, too, and what with the iron bridge and all, the Swan is squeezed into a narrow strip. When Quy had first seen the place, he had thought it was just like a set piece, all plaster and mouldings, left over from a silent screen set. He had walked in, half expecting to step straight into the canal. In fact, some long dead and unsung Victorian architect had made a crafty use of the site. There was even a private dining room upstairs, used mainly for wedding receptions of the locals.

  Quy pushed. open the door and went in. “Hello, George,” he said gloomily to the landlord.

  .“Hello, Mr. Quy. Long time no see. How’s things? Heard you had a bit of an accident or something.”

  “A nasty one. A good many years ago. I got born.”

  “Eh? Oh, yes. Hah! we all had that one. What’ll it be? Have one with the house.”

  “Thank you, George, but my demands today are too gross and would abuse your kindness. Give me a double whisky.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “And have one for yourself. The poverty is in the spirit rather than the pocket.”

  “I’ll have a Guinness, then, thank you very much. The best of luck. There’s a friend of yours in the other bar, by the way.”

  “I have no friends. I even hate myself.”

  “Well, he’s a neighbor of yours, isn’t he? Norman, the bearded bloke. Shall I tell him you’re here?”

  “Send him in. Tell him there’s a wake starting.”

  Norman came through, bearing a half-empty jug. “Hello, Mr. Quy. Have a drink. Just sold that story. You know, the idea you gave me.”

  “No, this is my wake. Have a double whisky.”

  “Make it rum?”

  “Make it whatever you will, my lad. Enjoy the brief hour of choice before old age and predestination take you in their iron grip.”

  “Gawd! That’s the mood, is it? You’d better drink up quick and have one with me while there’s still time.”

  “I will, lad. And thank you.”

  “What’s up, Mr. Quy? Things can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Can’t they? Ach, we deceive ourselves. The only I thing that keeps the human race alive, both individually and collectively, is a massive gift for self-deception. If we once took a hard look in the face at reality we’d hand our chips in on the spot. What am I, Norman? I’m nothing but a bloody old failure. That’s all my life has been—one long grey failure, redeemed only by flashes of brief and traitorous hope. I’ve got the brand of failure stamped on my brow like the mark of Cain.”

  He lapsed into a brooding silence, broken only by the clapping of his empty glass on the counter, accompanied by a nod to George.

  “And now, when I’ve at last got something big to offer the world, nobody wants to know! I could change the course of history, and history goes on its way like the blind blundering hippopotamus it’s always been. I’m kidding myself. History can do without me. There’s probably some Russian bloody genius or some Yank, all crew cut and glasses, working on it right now. With a billion roubles or dollars behind him. Or some grinning Chinaman. Damn clever these Chinese. And where’s the spirit of England gone? Down the bloody drain.”

  “And the spirit of Scotland is dribbling down your chin,” Norman remarked.

  “Is it?” said Quy, wiping vaguely with his coat cuff. “My mother always told me not to talk while I was drinking.” He let out a prodigious sigh. “Look at that old sod in the corner there, sinking his gums into a pint. He never dreamed of glory, Norman, you can see that. He never wrestled with the unseen like us.”

  “Did you say the obscene? That’s me.”

  “Let him be a shining example to you,” went on Quy, undiverted. “And let me be a terrible warning.”

  The man in the corner became aware of the attention. He looked up at Quy and glared.

  “Hey, dad,” Quy called. “Have a drink?”

  “Dad your bloody self,” the other old man growled. “And you can stuff your bloody drink. What are you, a bloody Conservative, or something?”

  “That’s fighting talk,” hollered Quy. “Hold me back, Norman.”

  Norman did no such thing, having a job to stop spilling the drink in his hand for laughing.

  “I said hold me back, before I do something desperate. I’ve been called many things in my time, but never ‘a bloody Conservative.’ ” And then he started laughing, too.

  He suddenly found a grey-bristled face thrust in his.

  “Who you laughing at?” It was the old man from the corner. “You wanna come outside?”

  “God bless you, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the whole bloody world. As for stepping outside, I’m afraid my hernia wouldn’t allow it. But thanks for the compliment. You’ve lifted me from the abyss of depression. Please have a drink.”

  The party broke up at three o’clock in the afternoon, when the pub shut. Quy staggered home on Norman’s shoulder. They parted at the steps. Quy went in to his basement and flopped down on the bed. He stirred once, muttered “Maggie,” then fell into a stupor again.


  When he awoke, the light was gray in the sky. He levered himself up and went to the door. A chill in the air communicated itself to his bones, but it was a little time, as he peered bleeringly out, before he realized that it was the chill of morning, not evening.

  He went back, took the tea can and emptied the tea leaves down the lavatory. Then he filled it with water and put it on the Bunsen. At each movement the dull ache in his head gave a jab. But he felt better in his soul.

  When the water came to the boil, he ladled Nescafé into it. He sat down, sipping the black liquid, both hands round the mug.

  “Maggie,” he muttered. “I swore I’d never go back to you without the prize in my hands. A man’s got his pride, even me. But it’ll have to be, Maggie. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  He drained the mug and started sorting out his clothes.

  The best shirt was still clean enough; he had worn it only to the printers the once. He wiped the plastic collar clean. He located studs and a quite handsome mauve tie. At the bottom of one trunk were a strangely new-looking pair of shoes.

  But a suit—that was the problem. He found two jackets and a pair of trousers to match each. But one pair was frayed to the point of raggedness. The other pair was passable, but its jacket wasn’t. It was double-breasted and its broad lapels were horribly wrinkled, beyond the powers of any iron to remedy. It was filthy too. He had a presentable overcoat, but he couldn’t go around all the time today in an overcoat.

  He dived among the trunks again and surfaced with a tin box. He shook the contents onto the bed. They were all pawn tickets. He found one bearing the legend Suit. But the address, in small type, was Manchester, and it had lapsed by ten years. He turned up another that was still barely redeemable. He squinted at the pawnbroker’s name, and cursed. It was in Tooting. He couldn’t even remember the place—nor the suit. It might be a dinner suit. No, he’d pawned that not long after the war in the West Country, hadn’t he?