The Early Asimov Volume 3

by Isaac Asimov

Chapter Four

  'Ah, there. Greetin's,' said de Meister, and brushed past.

  . Graham's dull eyes stared, and then fired high, as an animal snarl burst from his lips. He took up that gorilla posture, so comforting to red-blooded American males at moments like this, and circled the slightly-confused detective.

  'My dear fellow, are you ill?'

  'I,' explained Graham, 'am not ill, but you will soon be past all interest in that, for I am going to bathe my hands in your heart's reddest blood. '

  'But I say, you'll only have to wash them afterwards. It would be such an obvious clue, wouldn't it?'

  'Enough of this gay banter. Have you any last words?'

  'Not particularly. '

  'It's just as well. I'm not interested in your last words. "

  He thundered into action, bearing down upon the unfortunate de Meister like a bull elephant. De Meister faded to the left, shot out an arm and a foot, and Graham described a parabolic arc that ended in the total destruction of an end table, a vase of flowers, a fish-bowl, and a five-foot section of wall.

  Graham blinked, and brushed away a curious goldfish from his left eyebrow.

  'My dear fellow,' murmured de Meister, 'oh, my dear fellow. '

  Too late, Graham remembered that passage in Pistol Parade:

  De Meister's arms were whipcord lightning, as with sure, rapid thrusts, he rendered the two thugs helpless. Not by brute force, but by his expert knowledge of judo, he defeated them easily without hastening his breath. The thugs groaned in pain.

  Graham groaned in pain.

  He lifted his right thigh an inch or so to let his femur slip back into place.

  'Hadn't you better get up, old chap?'

  'I will stay here,' said Graham with dignity, 'and contemplate the floor in profile view, until such time as it suits me or until such time as I find myself capable of moving a muscle. I don't care which. And now, before I proceed to take further measures with you, what the hell do you want?'

  Reginald de Meister adjusted his monocle to a nicety. 'You know, I suppose, that MacDunlap's ultimatum expires tomorrow?'

  'And you and he with it, I trust. '

  'You will not reconsider. '

  'Ha!'

  'Really,' de Meister sighed, 'this is borin' no end. You have made things comfortable for me in this world. After all, in your books you've made me well-known in all the clubs and better restaurants, the bosom friend, y'know, of the mayor and commissioner of police, the owner of a Park Avenue penthouse and a magnificent art collection. And it all lingers over, old chap. Really quite affectin'. '

  'It is remarkable,' mused Graham, 'the intensity with which I am not listening and the distinctness with which I do not hear a word you say. '

  'Still,' said de Meister, 'there is no denyin' my book world suits me better. It is somehow more fascinatin', freer from dull logic, more apart from the necessities of the world. In short, I must go back, and to active participation. You have till tomorrow! '

  Graham hummed a gay little tune with flat little notes.

  'Is this a new threat, de Meister?'

  'It is the old threat intensified. I'm going to rob you of every vestige of your personality. And eventually public oninion will force you to write as, to paraphrase you, de Meister's Compleat Stooge. Did you see the name the newspaper chappies pinned on you today, old man?'

  'Yes, Mr. Filthy de Meister, and did you read a half-column item on page ten in the same paper. I'll read it for you: "Noted Criminologist in 1-A. Will be inducted shortly draft board says. "'

  For a moment, de Meister said and did nothing. And then, one after another, he did the following things: removed his monocle slowly, sat down heavily, rubbed his chin abstractedly, and lit a cigarette after long and careful tamping. Each of these, Graham Dorn's trained authorial eye recognized as singly representing perturbation and distress on the part of his character.

  And never, in any of his books, did Graham remember a time when de Meister had gone through all four consecutively.

  Finally, de Meister spoke. 'Why you had to bring up draft registrations in your last book, I really don't know. This urge to be topical; this fiendish desire to be up to the minute with the news is the curse of the mystery novel. A true mystery is timeless; should have no relation to current events; should-'

  'There is one way,' said Graham, 'to escape induction -'

  'You might at least have mentioned a deferred classification on some vital ground. '

  There is one way,' said Graham, 'to escape induction -'

  'Criminal negligence,' said de Meister.

  'Look! Go back to the books and you'll never be filled with lead. '

  'Write them and I'll do it. '

  'Think of the war. '

  'Think of your ego. '

  Two strong men stood face to face (or would have, if Graham weren't still horizontal) and neither flinched.

  Impasse!

  And the sweet, feminine voice of June Billings interrupted and snapped the tension:

  'May I ask, Graham Dorn, what you are doing on the floor. It's been swept today and you're not complimenting me by attempting to improve the job. '

  'I am not sweeping the floor. If you looked carefully,' replied Graham gently, 'you would see that your own adored fiance is lying here a mass of bruises and a hotbed of pains and aches. '

  'You've ruined my end table!'

  'I've broken my leg. '

  'And my best lamp. '

  'And two ribs. '

  'And my fishbowl. '

  'And my Adam's apple. '

  'And you haven't introduced your friend,'

  'And my cervical verte- What friend?'

  'This friend. '

  'Friend! Ha!' And a mist came over his eyes. She was so young, so fragile to come into contact with hard, brutal facts of life. 'This,' he muttered brokenly, 'is Reginald de Meister. '

  De Meister at this point broke a cigarette sharply in two, a gesture pregnant with the deepest emotion.

  June said slowly. 'Why - why, you're different from what I had thought. '

  'How had you expected me to look?' asked de Meister, in soft, thrilling tones.

  'I don't know. Differently than you do - from the stories I heard. '

  'You remind me, somehow, Miss Billings, of Letitia Reynolds. '

  'I think so. Graham said he drew her from me. '

  'A very poor imitation, Miss Billings. Devastatin'ly poor. '

  They were six inches apart now, eyes fixed with a mutual glue, and Graham yelled sharply. He sprang upright as memory smote^him a nasty smite on the forehead.

  A passage from Case of the Muddy Overshoe occurred to him. Likewise one from The Primrose Murders. Also one from The Tragedy of Hartley Manor, Death of a Hunter, White Scorpion and, to put it in a small nutshell, from every one of the others.

  The passage read:

  There was a certain fascination about de Meister that appealed irresistibly to women.

  And June Billings was - as it had often, in Graham's idler moments, occurred to him - a woman.

  And fascination simply gooed out of her ears and coated the floor six inches deep.

  'Get out of this room, June,' he ordered.

  'I will not. '

  'There is something I must discuss with Mr. de Meister, man to man. I demand that you leave this room. '

  'Please go, Miss Billings,' said de Meister.

  June hesitated, and in a very small voice said, 'Very well. '

  'Hold on,' shouted Graham. 'Don't let him order you about, I demand that you stay. '

  She closed the door very gently behind her.

  The two men faced each other. There was that in either pair of eyes that indicated a strong man brought to bay. There was stubborn, undying antagonism; no quarter; no compromise. It was exactly the sort of situation Graham Dorn always presented his readers with, when two strong men fought for one han
d, one heart, one girl.

  The two said simultaneously, 'Let's make a deal!'

  Graham said, 'You have convinced me, Reggie. Our public needs us. Tomorrow I shall begin another de Meister story. Let us shake hands and forget the past. '

  De Meister struggled with his emotion. He laid his hand on Graham's lapel, 'My dear fellow, it is I who have been convinced by your logic. I can't allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. There are great things in you that must be brought out. Write your coal-mining novels. They count, not I. '

  'I couldn't, old chap. Not after all you've done for me, and all you've meant to me. Tomorrow we start anew. '

  'Graham, my - my spiritual father, I couldn't allow it. Do you think I have no feelings, filial feelings -in a spiritual sort of way. '

  'But the war, think of the war. Mangled limbs. Blood. All that. '

  'I must stay. My country needs me. '

  'But if I stop writing, eventually you will stop existing. I can't allow that'

  'Oh, that!' De Meister laughed with a careless elegance. 'Things have changed since. So many people believe in my existence now that my grip upon actual existence has become too firm to be broken. I don't have to worry about Limbo any more. '

  'Oh. ' Graham clenched his teeth and spoke in searing sibilants: 'So that's your scheme, you snake. Do you suppose I don't see you're stuck on June?'

  'Look here, old chap,' said de Meister haughtily. 'I can't permit you to speak slightingly of a true and honest love. I love June and she loves me -I know it. And if you're going to be stuffy and Victorian about it, you can swallow some nitroglycerine and tap yourself with a hammer. '

  'I'll nitro-glycerine you! Because I'm going home tonight and beginning another de Meister story. You'll be part of it and you'll get back into it, and what do you think of that?'

  'Nothing, because you can't write another de Meister story. I'm too real now, and you can't control me just like that. And what do you think of that?'

  It took Graham Dorn a week to make up his mind what to think of that, and then his thoughts were completely and start-lingly unprintable.

  In fact, it was impossible to write.

  That is, startling ideas occurred to him for great novels, emotional dramas, epic poems, brilliant essays - but he couldn't write anything about Reginald de Meister.

  The typewriter was simply fresh out of Capital R's.

  Graham wept, cursed, tore his hair, and anointed his finger tips with liniment. He tried typewriter, pen, pencil, crayon, charcoal and blood.

  He could not write.

  The doorbell rang, and Graham threw it open.

  MacDunlap stumbled in, falling over the first drifts of torn paper directly into Graham's arms.

  Graham let him drop. 'Ha!' he said, with frozen dignity.