“I’ll never be able to thank you,” the professor said, his voice trembling with emotion. He stood up eagerly and lifted the dangling rubber tubes in his hand. “Just put these in your ears,” he said, handing the stethoscope-like appendages to Mortimer. “They won’t hurt, you’ll feel nothing at all.”
“Very well,” Mortimer said, doing as he was told. He hoped Minerva wouldn’t get it in her head to come down. He’d never hear the end of this.
The professor flicked a switch on the box and a faint, not unpleasant humming filled Mortimer’s head. He leaned back comfortably in the chair.
The professor reached cautiously for another switch. “Have to be very careful now,” he muttered. There were two switches of the same size set close together, and the professor’s hand hovered indecisively for an instant over them. “The one on the left is temporary,” he said at last, nodding his head vigorously. “The one on the right is permanent. That one—the right one—would send the brain out of the body forever.” He paused, frowning. “I think it would,” he added dubiously. “Now, are you ready?”
“All set,” Mortimer said.
“Very well!” The professor closed the left switch.
The humming ceased. Mortimer opened His eyes in slight surprise. He felt suddenly dizzy. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s don’t carry this too far.”
He reached for the plugs in. his ears, intending to pull them out: But his hand fell limply in his lap. He slumped in the chair, breathing easily, a faint smile on his lips.
It looked as if he had merely fallen asleep.
“HEY, WAKE up, Angelo! I ain’t got all day to spend buying a pound of tomatoes.”
The words penetrated, Mortimer’s, mind, caused his eyes to flutter open.
He found himself, staring up at a large, smiling, middle-aged woman who had a market basket on her arm. Mortimer blinked his eyes.
Who was this person?
“Come on,” the woman said good-naturedly. “You ain’t no millionaire, Angelo, what can sleep, all afternoon.”
Mortimer stared past her, around her, and his eyes widened. He was in a fruit and vegetable shop. Crates of beans, tomatoes, oranges, peppers, and cabbages were stacked around the walls. He himself was sitting behind a low wooden counter and, as his. eyes came downward, he saw that he wore a large white apron over denim overalls. He scratched his head anxiously, felt strong thick hair under his fingers. Something was wrong!
Mortimer’s hair was thin and scanty, a breeze could cause it to float upward in gentle waves. But this hair—it was like steel wool.
“Come on,” the woman said again. “Tomatoes. Remember?”
A lifetime of obedience came to Mortimer’s aid. “All right,” he said, but the voice wasn’t his own; it was a deep voice, rich and strong.
Subconsciously, through some psychic instrument of perception, Mortimer must have known what had happened to him, the minute he opened his eyes and found himself in a fruit shop. Because he knew now—and he accepted with a fantastic calmness. Therefore, he must have been prepared for it; otherwise he might have gone mad.
The thing he knew was that the professor’s Rube Goldbergish invention had worked—and that Mortimer Mincing, beloved husband of Minerva Mincing, and assistant chief clerk in the Small Loans department of the Traveller’s Bank had been transplanted into a new environment, a new physical framework. His mind, his memory, his soul, was in the body of a man named Angelo, the owner (it could be hoped) of a fruit store.
The comedown was colossal! Mortimer felt cheated. From a responsible job in a bank to this. It was highway robbery! The only thing he’d got out of the deal was a good head of hair.
DISPIRITEDLY, he moved, around the counter, picking up a-brown paper sack on the way. His hand moved out for it automatically, instinctively, and he realized with surprise that Angelo’s (whoever he was) motor reflex were still functioning. He selected two pounds, of tomatoes with experienced accuracy, weighed them out, and took the woman’s money.
When she had gone Mortimer waited a moment, then hurried into the street and looked at his reflection in the plate glass, window. He saw a big man, solidly built; about forty. Angelo had a strong solid face, with a touch of humor in it, and level brown eyes. Not a handsome man, really, but a strong man, and one you might trust. That was Mortimer’s conclusion, based on years of studying prospective borrowers. Yes, this Angelo looked all right.
Mortimer wandered back into the store, feeling at loose ends. Strangely, however, he experienced no sense of loneliness or homesickness. He sat down again behind the counter, looking with satisfaction, at the crates of fresh, colorful vegetables and fruit. There was.an account book on the counter. Mortimer picked it up, glanced through it. It was badly kept, the heavy figures scrawled together and running over each other, but. Mortimer’s experienced eyes picked order from the confusion. Things weren’t going too well here, he saw. Overhead was up, income was down. Mortimer pursed his lips, frowned.
A door opened. A warm, happy voice called: “Angelo! What d’ya want for lunch?”
Mortimer looked up, startled. A woman had appeared from the rear of the shop, from a doorway that apparently led back to living quarters.
She was a tall woman, with a strong full-bosomed body, and long, shining black hair. Her lips were very red without lipstick, and her eyes were, blue, bright with humor and contentment. She was wonderful to look at, Mortimer thought. Everything about her was blooming and confident—her fair skin with its underblush of warm passionate health, her wide hips, her long straight legs. But it was something else, a look on her face, that moved him most. He had never seen such a look on a woman’s face. It was a look of love, and it startled and confused him.
“Oh, stop worrying about the store,” she said; taking the book from his hand. She sat on his knee and rumpled his hair. “Things’ll work out okay.”
MORTIMER felt his soul warm and expand under the glow of her loving eyes. It wasn’t for him, this tenderness, this confidence, this feeling; it was for Angelo. But Mortimer, took it regardless, as a hungry man would snatch at a crust of bread.
“What about lunch?” she said. “Would spaghetti, a steak, and some cheese be okay? With wine?” Mortimer’s gastric juices roiled. “Sure, sure, that’s wonderful,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll get at it,” she said, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “That’ll hold you till lunch. By the way, that Johnson kid is coming in to see you.” She stood up and smoothed down her dress. “He’s pretty upset, you know, going off to the army and everything. Try and help him, will you?” She smiled and touched his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Silly question. You’d help anybody,I know, if you could.”
Mortimer wet his lips. “Why is he coming to me?”
“Well, you’re the smartest guy on the block, aren’t you?” she said. “That’s reason enough, I guess. Who should he go to? O’Brien, the druggist? Meyers, the real-estate man? I guess not.”
“How am I the smartest man on the block when I can’t even run a fruit store?” Mortimer asked her, perplexed.
“Oh, you do all right with the store,” she said. “But that kind of stuff just takes brains. You know, making money, things like that. But you got heart, Angelo. And people with, heart are the smartest people, and everybody knows it. Now, don’t take too long with him. Lunch is in half an hour.”
Ten minutes later a tall, rangy, awkward boy of eighteen or nineteen came in. He had wheat-colored blond hair, and a shy, likable grin. “Hello, Mr. Moravia,” he said, putting out a large square hand.
“Hello, son.”
“I just thought I’d come over and have a little talk with you, Mr. Moravia.”
“Sure, sure. Sit down, why don’t you?” Mortimer didn’t know how Angelo would have acted, but he guessed it would be friendly and natural. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
“Well, I don’t know,” the Johnson boy said, scratching his head. “You see, I’m going into the army. And I
’m—well, I’m in love with Millie Anders. You know her, of course.” His eyes lit up. “She’s the blonde girl with the funny little smile who works in Kaplan’s delicatessen.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Mortimer said, already feeling beyond his depth.
The Johnson boy frowned. “Well, we want to get married, but we—me, I guess, really—can’t make up our minds. You see, I don’t have any future, and I don’t feel right asking Millie to marry me. But it’s a tough decision. I kind of hate to leave her, you know, not knowing if I’ll ever get back to her.”
“You’re sure you love each other?”
“Yeah, that’s definite,” the Johnson boy said quietly.
MORTIMER RUBBED his chin.
What could he tell this boy? He, himself, knew nothing of love, or of war, or of life’s uncertainties. His life had been planned like a time-table by Minerva. But he was remembering the look on Angelo’s wife’s face. It was a look he’d never known, but it was a fine thing. “Look, loving each other is a big thing, maybe the biggest thing,” he said. (What else would Angelo say? Mortimer thought frantically.) “Another thing, you got a future, don’t think you haven’t. The job you got to do is an important one, and isn’t that what a future is? Having something, important to do?”
“I never, thought of, it that way,” the Johnson boy said.
Mortimer frowned. He’d never taken chances, risked anything. Maybe that was the best way to go through life protected, coated with caution.
“Millie’s a funny girl,” the Johnson boy said. “She-likes me to have fun. She says that’s fun for her, too. You know, she don’t bowl, but she makes me go once a week because she knows I like it. And she wants me to play cards with the boys, because—”
“Marry her,” Mortimer said abruptly. He hardly, realized he’d spoken. But his voice was firm as he repeated: “Marry her. You’ve got a prize there, son. Don’t pass it up. You’ve got a future. You’ve both got a future. Remember that.”
“Gosh, I sure will, Mr. Moravia,” the Johnson boy said warmly. “Thanks a million.”
Ten minutes later Mortimer was having lunch with Angelo’s wife. They sat close together at the table, and Mortimer was grateful to have Angelo’s huge appetite to help him enjoy the food.
When they finished, Mortimer sighed and relaxed in his chair. He’d never eaten, like this in his life. They smiled at each other in the quiet, savory kitchen.
“Sleepy?” she said.
“A little.”
“Like a little nap?” She grinned and ran her hand along his forearm.
Mortimer coughed suddenly. After all . . . Angelo’s wife . . . It just wasn’t proper. But it was Angelo’s body.
“I think so,” he said, and smiled at her.
Later, he smoked a quiet cigarette and listened to her even breathing beside him. Life was rich and rewarding for Angelo, even without the usual props of security and money, Mortimer was thinking. Angelo had a good deal . . .
MORTIMER suddenly felt dizzy. Something was happening to him. His mind felt light and rootless. Drifting.
He knew then what it was, what was happening. He was leaving Angelo.
Already his-thoughts were spinning hazily, he put out a hand and touched the woman’s shoulder, gratefully, in a gesture of farewell. He didn’t know her name, he remembered sadly. But that didn’t matter. He was going now . . . going.
“CHIEF, THIS thing needs action, and fast!” The voice, crisp, alert, anxious, prodded insistently into Mortimer’s slumbering brain. “Chief, all hell is breaking loose.”
Mortimer struggled out of a deep, heavy sleep. “W—what?” he. sputtered. He shook his head like a badly battered fighter, as memories poured into his mind and organized its fluttering thoughts. Where had his peregrinating psyche .landed this time?
“Who am I?” he demanded, opening his eyes.
The tall, vigorous man standing before him laughed politely. “Having a little dream, eh, Chief?”
Mortimer rubbed his forehead. Be canny, he warned himself. “Yes, I guess so,” he said.
His new voice was vibrant with power and authority. He ran his hand over his head. Thinning hair, though, damn it. He glanced down at himself, saw an expensive suit, gold watch chain and a body that looked spare and fit. Well, not too bad. He looked around, saw that he was in an immense office carpeted in gray, with ceiling-high windows that afforded a panoramic, view of a city’s skyline. There was a bar in the office, and a couch, and a secretary’s desk, and a ticker-tape. It was like a Hollywood director’s idea of a mogul’s lair.
The man standing before him had intelligent, but harried, features and the fingers on one of his hands were tapping his trouser seam nervously.
“We’ve got to get into action;” he said.
“Ah . . . yes,” Mortimer said.
A woman in a smart gray suit came hurrying in with a sheaf of papers which she put before Mortimer. “Here are the lists of your companies, Mr. Colby, with approximate evaluations—”
“Evaluations,” the young man cut in, “figured on the basis of-fast conversion. We’ll lose on every one of them.”
COLBY, THAT was the only word Mortimer had understood. Colby, one of the great names of finance, in the world! A man whose deals involved governments and empires, whose impact was felt from Portugal to Shanghai.
“Sir, what are we going to do?” the young man said.
“Hmmm,” Mortimer said. He got to his feet, walked around the desk, rubbing his chin in what he hoped was a thoughtful manner. His image was reflected in the window pane. He thrilled at the sight of those thin, hawklike features, the high forehead, the bold fighter’s eyes that had stared at the nation from newsreels and magazines for a generation.
“Sir, you’re in a spot,” the young man said.
“Am I? Oh, yes, of course,” Mortimer said. What was he supposed, to do? What kind of spot was he in? He said cautiously, “It’s bad, eh?” and watched the young man narrowly.
“Well, I think so, sir. You’ll probably have no trouble coming to a decision however.”
“No, of course not.” Mortimer rubbed his chin. “Supposing we review the situation, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I’d be eager to hear your analysis of it.”
“Oh, but I want yours” Mortimer said, laughing lightly.
“Mine?”
“Yes, fresh, outlook and all that” you know,” Mortimer said, and. waved his hand grandly.
“Well, the Bailey crowd didn’t take your buying yesterday very happily,” the young man said. “That’s the essence of it, I suppose.”
“Oh.” Mortimer walked around in a small circle. “Well, now we’ve got the essence of it. Let’s have the non-essence. The details.”
“They didn’t take it lying down. They’re fighting back,” the young man said. “If you’re after copper, so is Bailey, and he’s converting all his assets into fast buying power. And he’s buying copper. We do the same—or we back down.”
“Hmmm,” Mortimer said, and went back to the desk. He picked up the papers the young lady had brought in, and glanced down at them. Real blue chips, he thought admiringly, looking at the stocks. Suddenly he found that he was perspiring. He had to sell these stocks at a loss—or do nothing. Supposing he sold them and lost—Colby lost, that is—everything? They’d send him—Mortimer—to jail. You didn’t just go making grand gestures with railroads and insurance companies because you happened to get into a man’s head. On the other hand, if he did nothing, he might be losing a priceless opportunity. Did he have the right to deprive Colby of this chance? Oh, it was a hell of a note.
COLBY STOOD up and began pacing. What would Colby do? How could he get a clue as to Colby’s character?
His interoffice communication set buzzed, and the young man put down the switch. “Mrs. Colby is here to see you, sir,” a cool voice said.
“Send her in, please,” the young man said. He glanced worriedly at Mortimer. “I’ll step outside, Chief. But we should get
moving, you know. You’ll pardon me, but you seem—well, like a different person, today.”
“I do?” Mortimer coughed “Well, stranger things have happened. But I don’t know where,” he added.
Frowning, his young assistant left the office, and a moment later a tall, well-groomed woman in her late thirties came in. She was perhaps the most extravagantly beautiful creature Mortimer had ever seen. Her hair was. jet-black, swept back from a pate high, forehead, and her eyes were a deep, deep blue. Her head was small and arrogantly poised on the slender neck. She came toward him with a regal carriage, and the small smile on her lips was cool and indrawn. The clothes she wore might have financed a revolution in a small country. Her mink was a thing of rippling beauty, her straight black cocktail dress was a Paris inspiration, and the rhinestones in the heels of her black sandals weren’t rhinestones—they were small diamonds.
“Hello, dear,” she said casually. “I was in town, so I stopped to say hello. Am I interrupting anything?”
“No—nothing at all,” Mortimer said hastily.
She sat on the edge of his desk, still smiling, and let one perfect slender leg swing slowly. “Cigarette?” she said.
“Oh, yes, I have some.” Mortimer slapped his pockets. “No, I don’t. Wait a minute, I’ll get some.”
“Oh, never mind,” she said. “Please, it’s not that important. Dear, I want to talk to you a minute, if you don’t mind. Please don’t interrupt. When we were married, I told you I was an expensive woman. Do you remember that? Well, I have been, haven’t I?” She stopped smiling, and met his eyes directly. “Probably more expensive than any human being has the right to be. I know about Bailey, you see. I know you’re facing an all-out fight. And I think you’ve changed. I’ve heard a whisper or two already this morning. You don’t want to fight. You don’t want to risk everything, as you used to, because now you’ve got an expensive, mink-lined millstone around your neck.” She raised a slim hand. “Let me finish. You’d fight, if you were alone, but you may be thinking of me. You wonder how I’d act if the money was gone. And that’s made you hesitate.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 284