And, in the midst of the creeping plant-pulp, was an artificial structure.
Toward it he struggled, reaching. The structure was flat, thin, with a brittle hardness. It was opaque. It was made of boards.
Joy submerged him as he touched its side. He screamed, and this time the sound carried his body upward. He floated, drifted, clutched at the wood surface. His nails scrabbled, and splinters pierced his flesh. With a metal wheel he sawed through the wood and stripped it away, husk-like, dropping it and stamping on it. The wood broke loudly, echoing in the dream-silence.
Behind the wood was stone.
Gazing at the stone he felt awe. It had endured; it had not been carried away or destroyed. The stone loomed as he remembered it. No change had occurred, and that was very good. He felt the emotion all through him.
He reached out, and, bracing himself, plucked from the stone a round part of itself. Weighed down, he staggered off, and plunged head-first into the oozing warmth of plant-pulp.
For a time he lay gasping, his face pressed against slime. Once, an insect walked across his cheek. Far off, something stirred mournfully. At last, with great effort, he roused himself and began searching. The round stone lay half-buried in silt, at the edge of water. He found the metal wheel and cut away the groping roots. Then, bracing his knees, he lifted the stone and dragged it away, across a grassy hill so vast that it faded into infinity.
At the end of the hill he dropped the stone crashing into a little parked Getabout. Nobody saw him. It was almost dawn. The sky, streaked with yellow, would soon be drained, would soon become a hazy gray through which the sun could beat.
Getting into the front seat, he started up the steam pressure and drove carefully up the lane. The lane stretched out ahead of him, faintly damp, faintly luminous. On both sides housing units were jutting lumps of coal: oddly hardened organic substances. No light showed within them and nothing stirred.
When he reached his own housing unit he parked the car—making no sound—and began lugging the stone up the rear ramp. It took a long time, and he was trembling and perspiring when he reached his own floor. And still nobody saw him. He unlocked his door and dragged the stone inside.
Unhinged with relief, he sank down on the edge of the bed. It was over: he had done it. In her bed his wife stirred fretfully, sighed, turned over on her face. Janet did not wake up; nobody woke up. The city, the society, slept.
Presently he removed his clothes and climbed into bed. He fell asleep almost at once, his mind and body free of all tension, every trouble.
Dreamless, like an amoeba, he, too, slept.
12
Sunlight streamed through the bedroom, warm and pleasant. Beside Allen in the bed lay his wife, also warm and pleasant. Her hair had tumbled against his face and now he turned to kiss her.
“Uh,” Janet murmured, blinking.
“It’s morning. Time to get up.” But he, himself, remained inert. He felt lazy. Contentment spread through him; instead of getting up he put his arm around Janet and hugged her.
“Did the—tape go off?” she asked drowsily.
“This is Saturday. We’re in charge, today.” Caressing Janet’s shoulder he said: “The pulsing fullness of firm flesh.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, yawning and stretching. Then she became serious. “Allen, were you sick last night?” Sitting up quickly, she said: “Around three o’clock you got out of bed and went to the bathroom. You were gone a long time.”
“How long?” He had no memory of it.
“I fell asleep. So I can’t say. But a long time.”
In any case he felt fine, now. “You’re thinking of earlier this week. You’ve got everything confused.”
“No, it was last night. Early this morning.” Wide-awake, she slid from the bed and onto her feet. “You didn’t go out, did you?”
He thought about it. There was some vague phantasmagoria in his mind, a confusion of dreamlike events. The taste of brackish water, the wet presence of plants. “I was on a distant jungle planet,” he decided. “With torrid jungle priestesses whose breasts were like two cones of white marble.” He tried to recall how the passage had read. “Bulging within the flimsy covering of her dress. Peeking through. Panting with hot need.”
Exasperated, she caught hold of his arm and tugged. “Get up. I’m ashamed of you. You—adolescent.”
Allen got to his feet and began searching for his towel. His arms, he discovered, were stiff. He flexed and unflexed his muscles, rubbed his wrists, inspected a scratch.
“Did you cut yourself?” Janet asked, alarmed.
He had. And, he noticed, the suit he had left on a hanger the night before now lay in a chaotic tumble on the floor. Lifting it up he spread it out on the bed and smoothed it. The suit was muddy and one trouser leg was torn.
Outside in the hall, doors opened and tenants wandered out to form the bathroom line. Sleepy voices muttered.
“Shall I go first?” Janet asked.
Still examining his suit he nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” She opened the closet and reached for a slip and dress. “You’re always so sweet to let me—” Her voice trailed off.
“What is it?”
“Allen!”
He bounded to the closet and lifted her aside.
On the floor of the closet was a bronzed thermoplastic head. The head stared nobly past him at a fixed point beyond. The head was huge, larger than life, a great solemn Dutch gargoyle head resting between pairs of shoes and the laundry bag. It was the head of Major Streiter.
“Oh God,” Janet whispered, her hands to her face.
“Take it easy.” He had never heard her blaspheme, and it added the final stamp of menace and collapse. “Go make sure the door’s locked.”
“It is.” She returned. “That’s part of the statue, isn’t it?” Her voice shrilled. “Last night—you went and got it. That’s where you were.”
The jungle hadn’t been a dream. He had stumbled through the dark, deserted Park, falling among the flowers and grass. Getting up and going on until he came to the boarded-up statue.
“How—did you get it home?” she asked.
“In the Getabout.” The same Getabout, ironically, that he had rented to visit Sue Frost.
“What’ll we do?” Janet said monotonously, her face stricken, caved in by the calamity. “Allen, what’ll happen?”
“You get dressed and go wash.” He began stripping off his pajamas. “And don’t speak to anybody. Not one damn word.”
She gave a muffled yip, then turned, caught up her robe and towel, and left. Alone, Allen selected an undamaged suit and dressed. By the time he was tying his necktie he had remembered the night’s sequence pretty much intact.
“Then it’s going to go on,” Janet said, returning.
“Lock the door.”
“You’re still doing it.” Her voice was thick, suppressed. In the bathroom she had swallowed a handful of sedatives and anti-anxiety pills. “It’s not over.”
“No,” he admitted. “Apparently it’s not.”
“What comes next?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m as mystified as you.”
“You’ll have to get rid of it.” She came toward him accusingly. “You can’t leave it lying around like part of a—corpse.”
“It’s safe enough.” Presumably no one had seen him. Or, as before, he would already have been arrested.
“And you took that job. You’re this way, doing insane things like this, and you accepted that job. You weren’t drunk last night, were you?”
“No.”
“So that isn’t it. What is it, then?”
“Ask Doctor Malparto.” He went to the phone and picked up the receiver. “Or maybe I will. If he’s there.” He dialed.
“Mental Health Resort,” the friendly, bureaucratic voice answered.
“Is Doctor Malparto there today? This is a patient of his.”
“Doctor Malparto will be in at eight. Shall I h
ave him call you? Who is calling, please?”
“This is Mr.—Coates,” Allen said. “Tell Doctor Malparto I’d like an emergency appointment. Tell him I’ll be in at eight. I’ll wait there until he can see me.”
In his office at the Mental Health Resort, Doctor Malparto said with agitation: “What do you suppose happened?”
“Let him in and ask him.” Gretchen stood by the window drinking a cup of coffee. “Don’t keep him out there in the lounge; he’s pacing like an animal. You’re both so—”
“I don’t have all my testing apparatus. Some of it’s loaned to Heely’s staff.”
“He probably set fire to the Committee building.”
“Don’t be funny!”
“Maybe he did. Ask him; I’m curious.”
“That night you bumped into him at the statue.” He eyed his sister hostilely. “Did you know he had japed the statue?”
“I knew somebody had. No, I didn’t know—what’s the name you give him here?” She snatched up the dossier and leafed through it. “I was unaware that Mr. Coates was the japer. I went because I was interested. Nothing like that ever happened before.”
“Boring world, isn’t it?” Malparto strode down the corridor to the lounge and opened the door. “Mr. Coates, you may come in now.”
Mr. Coates followed him rapidly. His face was strained and set, and he glared straight ahead. “I’m glad you could see me.”
“You told the receptionist that it’s urgent.” Malparto ushered him into his office. “This is my sister, Gretchen. But you’ve already met.”
“Hello,” Gretchen said, sipping her coffee. “What have you done this time?”
Malparto saw his patient flinch.
“Sit down,” Malparto said, showing him to a chair. Mr. Coates went obediently, and Malparto seated himself facing him. Gretchen remained at the window with her coffee cup. She obviously intended to stay.
“Coffee?” she asked, to Malparto’s annoyance. “Black and hot. Real coffee, too. From vacuum tins, an old U.S. Army supply depot. Here.” She filled a cup and passed it to Mr. Coates, who accepted it. “Almost the last.”
“Very good,” Mr. Coates murmured.
“Now,” Malparto said, “I don’t as a rule hold sessions this early. But in view of your extreme—”
“I stole the statue’s head,” Mr. Coates interrupted. “Last night, about three A.M.”
Extraordinary, Malparto thought.
“I took it home, hid it in the closet. This morning Janet found it. And I called you.”
“Do you—” Malparto hesitated, “have any plans for it?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
Gretchen said: “I wonder what the market value would be.”
“To help you,” Malparto said, glancing irritably at his sister, “I must first gather information about your mind; I must learn its potentialities. Therefore I ask you to submit to a series of tests, the purpose of which is to determine your various psychic capacities.”
His patient looked dubious. “Is that necessary?”
“The cause of your complex may lie outside the ordinary human range. It’s my personal belief that you contain a unique psychological element.” He dimmed the office lights. “You’re familiar with the ESP deck?”
Mr. Coates made a faint motion.
“I am going to examine five cards,” Malparto said. “You will not see their faces, only the backs. As I study them one by one I want you to tell me what each is. Are you ready to start?”
Mr. Coates made an even fainter motion.
“Good.” Malparto drew a star card. He concentrated. “Do you receive an impression?”
Mr. Coates said: “Circle.”
That was wrong, and Malparto went onto the next. “What is this one?”
“Square.”
The telepathy test was a failure, and Malparto indicated so on his check-sheet. “Now,” he stated, “we’ll try a different test. This will not involve the reading of my mind.” He shuffled the deck and laid five cards face-down on the desk. “Study their backs and tell me each one in order.”
His patient got one out of the five.
“We’ll leave the deck for a moment.” Malparto brought out the dice-rolling cage and set it into motion. “Observe these dice. They fall in a random pattern. I want you to concentrate on a particular showing: seven, or five, anything that can come up.”
His patient concentrated on the dice for fifteen minutes. At the end of that time Malparto compared the showing with the statistical tables. No significant change could be observed.
“Back to the cards,” Malparto said, gathering up the deck. “We’ll give you a test for precognition. In this test I’ll ask you what card I’m about to select.” He laid the deck down and waited.
“Circle,” Mr. Coates said listlessly.
Malparto handed his sister the check-sheet, and he kept the precog test going for almost an hour. At the end of that time his patient was surly and exhausted, and the results were inconclusive.
“The cards don’t lie,” Gretchen quoted, handing back the sheet.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean go on to the next test.”
“Mr. Coates,” Malparto said, “do you feel able to continue?”
His patient blearily raised his head. “Is this getting us anywhere?”
“I think it is. It’s clear that you don’t possess any of the usual extra-sensory talents. It’s my hunch that you’re a Psi-plus. Your talent is of a less common nature.”
“EEP,” Gretchen said tartly. “Extra extra-sensory perception.”
“The first of this series,” Malparto said, ignoring her, “will involve the projection of your will on another human.” He unfolded his blackboard and chalk stick. “As I stand here, you concentrate on forcing me to write certain numbers. It should be your will superimposed over mine.”
Time passed. Finally, feeling a few vague tendrils of psychic will, Malparto wrote: 3-6-9.
“Wrong,” Mr. Coates murmured. “I was thinking 7,842.”
“Now,” Malparto said, setting out a small gray stone, “I want you to duplicate this inorganic matter. Try to summon a replica immediately tangent to it.”
That test was a failure, too. Disappointed, Malparto put the stone away.
“Now levitation. Mr. Coates, I want you to close your eyes and attempt—psychically—to lift yourself from the floor.”
Mr. Coates attempted, without result.
“Next,” Malparto said, “I want you to place your open palm against the wall behind you. Push, and at the same time, concentrate on passing your hand between the molecules of the wall.”
The hand failed to pass between the molecules.
“This time,” Malparto said gamely, “we’ll attempt to measure your ability to communicate with lower life forms.” A lizard, in a box, was brought out. “Stand with your head near the lid. See if you can tune into the lizard’s mental pattern.”
There was no result.
“Maybe the lizard has no mental pattern,” Mr. Coates said.
“Nonsense.” Malparto’s annoyance was growing wildly. He brought forth a hair resting in a dish of water. “See if you can animate the hair. Try to transform it into a worm.”
Mr. Coates failed.
“Were you really trying?” Gretchen asked.
Mr. Coates smiled. “Very hard.”
“I should think that would be easy enough,” she said. “There’s not much difference between a hair and a worm On a cloudy day—”
“Now,” Malparto broke in, “we’ll test your ability to heal.” He had noticed the scratch on Allen’s wrist. “Direct your psychic powers toward that damaged tissue. Try to restore it to health.”
The scratch remained.
“Too bad,” Gretchen said. “That would be a useful one.”
Malparto, overcome by abandon, brought out a water wand and asked his patient to divine. A bowl of water was skillfully hidden, and Mr. Coat
es lumbered about the office. The wand did not dip.
“Bad wood,” Gretchen said.
Depressed, Malparto examined the list of remaining tests
Ability to contact spirits of the dead
Capacity to transmute lead into gold
Ability to assume alternate forms
Ability to create rain of vermin and/or filth
Power to kill or damage at a distance
“I have a feeling,” he said finally, “that due to fatigue you’re growing subconsciously uncooperative. Therefore it’s my decision that we defer the balance of the tests to some other time.”
Gretchen asked Mr. Coates: “Can you kindle fire? Can you slay seven with one blow? Can your father lick my father?”
“I can steal,” the patient said.
“That’s not much. Anything else?”
He reflected. “Afraid that’s all.” Getting to his feet he said to Malparto: “I assume the Monday appointment is void.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Well,” he said, “there’s no point sticking around here.” He reached for the doorknob. “We haven’t got anywhere.”
“And you won’t be coming back?”
At the door he paused. “Probably not,” he decided. At the moment all he wanted to do was go home. “If I change my mind I’ll call you.” He started to pull the door shut.
That was when all the lights went out around him.
13
Rumble Rumble.
The bus lifted from the stop and continued across roof tops. Houses sparkled beneath, in planned patterns, separated by lawns. A swimming pool lay like a blue eye. But, he noticed, the pool far below was not perfectly round. At one end the tiles formed a patio. He saw tables, beach umbrellas. Tiny shapes were people reclining at leisure.
“Four,” the bus said metallically.
A woman rose and found the rear door. The bus lowered to the stop, the door slithered aside, the woman stepped down.
“Watch your step,” the bus said. “Exit by the rear.” It ascended, and again houses sparkled beneath.
Next to Allen the large gentleman mopped his forehead. “Warm day.”
The Man Who Japed Page 8