by C. L. Moore
"I wish the little sprat could talk," I moaned. "This is awful."
The Doc perked up. "Well, I'll be—I forgot. Here, Jerry. I'll have this fixed up in a second or two. The first practical use for my Thought-Matrix Transfer. Here." He unlocked a safe, dragged out a couple of soft helmets that looked like leather, and gave me one. It had wirs woven into it, though it was flexible, and there was a tiny switch over one ear.
"You mean gag the kid?" I said. "We can't do that. Besides, a handkerchief would work better."
"Shut up," the Doc growled. "I'm a humanitarian, or I wouldn't have invented the Transfer helmets. It simply changes your mind."
"I can do that by myself," I pointed out.
Doc jammed one of the helmets over my head and donned the other himself. "I'll show you," he said. "Push the switch over." I did. My head began to feel hot. There was a low humming.
Doc moved his own switch. Everything blurred for a second. Then I felt slightly giddy. The room had sort of swung around.
"Doc," I said. "You've changed!" My voice sounded peculiar. Cracked and squeaky.
Doc McKenney had changed, all right. He was a big, husky guy, with a map like a punch-drunk gorilla ...
I recognized that map. I saw it every morning when I shaved. Doc looked like me!
He grinned, flipped the switch, and came toward me to turn off the one on my helmet.
"Take it easy," he rumbled. "We've simply changed bodies, so to speak—though not actually. It's in the nature of a remote control. The essential psych is not affected by the change, but the thought-matrix is, the basic pattern that makes up the conscious you."
"Doc!" I said. "Help!"
I had a headache, and was scared. The Doc chuckled. "All right, we'll change back. Flip your switch over again. That's it. Now—"
The room swirled. I was looking at Doc McKenney. I was back in my own body. Automatically I flipped the switch, as the Doc did, and then collapsed in a chair.
"Wow!" I said. "Magic!"
"Nothing of the sort. I've simply invented a perfect method of diagnosis. All the physician has to do is change his mind with that of the patient, and he instantly feels all the aches, pains, and symptoms of the patient. The layman can't describe with complete accuracy how he feels when he's sick. But the doctor—putting himself completely in the place of the patient—can."
"I got a headache."
The Doc looked interested. "Have you?"
I thought. "No. Funny. It's gone now."
"Ah! I've had a headache all day. Naturally you experienced it while in my body."
"It's crazy," I said.
"Not a bit. The human brain emits patterns of energy. Those patterns have a basic matrix. Ever heard of remote control?"
"Sure. What of it?" I was interested.
-
DOC McKenney scratched his high forehead thoughtfully.
"Transplantation of the actual brain is a surgical impossibility. But the mind itself, the key matrix, can be transferred. It has certain definite vibrationary periods, and my helmets, working on the inductive principle of the diatherm, effect the necessary change. You see?"
"Yeah," I said. "I don't want to hear any more about it. Stinky's still crying, and if you can't help me what'll I do?"
"I am helping you," Doc said. "This is it. I hadn't thought of this application, but it's beautifully logical. Babies can't explain what's wrong with them, because they can't talk, but you can. I'll show you." He took the helmet off his own head and slipped it gently on Stinky's, moving the switch as he did so. Before I knew what was happening, Doc had whirled on me and reached out and—and—
"Globwobble!" I said.
Something was wrong with my eyes. Things swam mistily. There was a big round blob above me—
And someone was roaring like an organ gone crazy. With a frantic effort I uncrossed my eyes. It was Doc McKenney's face hanging over me. I felt his fingers fumbling at my head. There was a click.
The bellowing in the background kept up. My throat and palate felt soft, blobby, and peculiar. My tongue kept crawling back into my gullet. I reached out, and a fat, starfish like pink object shot up. My hand!
My stars!
"Blogobble wog wog Doc whabble gob quop!" I said, in a remarkably infantile voice.
"Okay, Jerry," the Doc said. "You're in Stinky's body, that's all. He's in yours. I'll switch you back as soon as you tell me how you feel."
This time I made more sense. I lisped a lot, though.
"Gemme ouda this! Quick!"
"Anything sticking you? After all, you want to know why the baby was crying."
I hauled myself erect somehow. To a squatted position, that is. My legs were curled up and seemed helpless.
"I feel all right," I managed to say. "Except I want back."
"No pains?"
"No. No!"
"Then it was merely temper," Doc said. "The emotions are transferred with the mind, but the sensory equipment stays with the body. The baby was just irritable. He's still crying."
I looked. My body, the body of Sergeant Jerry Cassidy, was lying on its back on the floor, arms and legs curled up, its eyes were tight shut, and its mouth open as it bawled. Great tears splashed down its—my—cheeks.
My mouth felt like I was eating mush, but I managed to tell him I wanted my own body back. My feeling was strengthened by the fact that Stinky was sucking my thumb, lying there on his back and drowsily staring up at the ceiling. As I looked, his eyes closed and he started to snore.
"Well," Doc said. "He's gone to sleep. Maybe the mental transference has a soothing effect."
"Not on me it hasn't," I snarled feebly, in a quavering soprano. "I don't like this. Get me out!"
-
Chapter II
Baby Has a Thirst
BEFORE the Doc could transfer me back into my own body, there was a scuffling in the outer office, and the nurse squeaked briefly. I heard a thump. The door slammed open, and three tough mugs came in, holding guns in their fists—a Webley and two small, flat automatics. The man with the Webley was the same lug Doc McKenney had been throwing out when I arrived. The lug's moustache was still bristling over the rat-trap mouth, and his eyes looked sleepier than ever. The other two were just gorillas.
"Smith!" Doc said. "Why, you filthy Nazi!" He dived for a scalpel, but Smith was too fast. The Webley's barrel thunked against Doc's temple, and the old man went down, cussing a blue streak till Smith hit him again.
"Gut!" one of the other thugs said. I hopped up from the operating table where I'd been squatting and lunged toward Smith, throwing a fast haymaker at his jaw. Unfortunately, my legs crumpled up, and I fell flat on my face, giving myself a nasty wallop on the nose.
"Who's that?" somebody said. I rolled over. The gunman with the squint was pointing—with his gun—toward my own body, curled up on the carpet and snoring.
Smith held up a warning hand. "Patient, I guess. Under ether, by the way he snores."
"He's got that helmet on."
"Ja, ja." Smith jerked it off. "The herrenvolken need this. And—" He removed my helmet. "—this, too. Number Three will be pleased. This way, we have to pay nothing for the device."
"Would we have paid anyway, Herr Schmidt?"
"Nein," said Herr Schmidt. "Do not be more stupid than you can help. By posing as a government official—ha! We waste time. Raus! I will meet you tonight—you know where."
"Ja, the circus," said the man with the squint.
"Sh-h!"
"Who is there to hear? The baby? Unsinn."
"No precaution is nonsense," Smith said. He was stuffing the two helmets in a small black satchel Doc had there on a glass case of instruments. "Hurry!"
They went out. I sat blankly on the operating table, sort of stunned. "Doc," I yelled.
No answer.
The floor looked a dickens of a way down. But I knew I had to get off the table, somehow. I crawled around, cursing squeakily, till I discovered that I had a plenty strong grip
for my size. My legs were pretty feeble, but my arms were okay.
I let myself down over the edge, hung on, dangling, and then dropped. It didn't hurt. I was so fat I bounced. When I picked myself up, the room seemed to have got bigger. Table, chairs—everything loomed way above me. Doc was lying motionless in a corner. I crawled over to him.
He was breathing. That was something, anyway. But I couldn't revive him. Concussion, I guessed. Hm-m.
My own body was still asleep. I shook its head till it woke up.
"Listen, kid," I said thickly. "Try to understand. We gotta get help. Can you hear me?"
I'd forgotten how young the baby was. He grabbed me by the seat of the diapers and started to drag me around like a puppy, going goo-goo in a sickening bass voice. I called him dirty names, and he finally let go and tried to eat his foot again. My foot!
I thought of the nurse, but when I crawled into the outer office, she was flattened over her desk, colder than a codfish. The sight of the phone gave me an idea. I couldn't reach it till I yanked on the cord. Then it thumped down, missing me by an inch.
I had trouble dialing; my fingers kept folding up. Finally I got a good grip on a pencil that had fallen off with the phone, and that helped. The operator asked me what I wanted.
"Goblobble—uh—police! Police headquarters." It was an awful strain to force the soft tissues of my throat and tongue into talking-position. I kept relapsing into mushy gargles.
"Desk sergeant. Yes?"
-
I TOLD him what I wanted—not much, just that there'd been a hi-jacking at the Doc's. He interrupted.
"Who is this talking?"
"Sergeant Cassidy, U. S. Marines."
"The devil you say!" He gave a offensive imitation of my voice, which was naturally squeaky. "Thargeant Catthidy, U. Eth. Marineth. What is this, a gag?"
"No!" I squalled. "Blast it! Send up a squad."
"A thquad?"
I started to tell him about the Nazi lugs who'd stolen Doc's invention, but I had sense enough to shut up before I put my foot in it completely. I could feel the officer freezing. But he finally said he'd send a man around, and I had to be satisfied with that.
So I hung up and looked at my toes. I was thinking hard. I doubted if even Doc could convince anybody he'd invented a Transfer helmet. They'd classify him as a screwpot and toss him in the observation ward. And he was a scientist. I wasn't even a Marine, technically speaking. They don't have baby Marines.
Those helmets were valuable. I didn't know what Smith wanted with them, but I gathered that Germany might find 'em handy, somehow.
Then I had it. Spies! Holy jumping catfish!
A German mind inside the skull of an Allied brass hat—what a sweet method for espionage. Even fingerprinting wouldn't show the truth. The Nazis could filter in trained spies to key positions, and—and—win the war!
Whew!
But—hang it!—nobody would believe me. Doc might be able to convince 'em, with facts and figures, only I didn't know when he'd wake up. Meantime, Smith was going to turn the helmets over to Number Three, whoever that was. At the—yeah—at the circus.
I had my own troubles to worry about, too. Here I was, in Stinky's body. What would happen if I couldn't get the helmets back? I'd have to spend the rest of my life as a baby—until I grew up anyway. Somehow, I didn't like the idea of telling Captain Dawson what had happened.
Stinky, in my body, was gurgling and cooing in the other office, and I decided I'd better move, but fast. I tried my legs. They had a tendency to buckle, but I managed pretty well. I knew the trick of walking, I guess, and Stinky didn't. The muscles weren't too weak. They hadn't been trained, that was all.
But the outer door was shut, and I couldn't reach the knob.
It didn't take long to push a light chair where I needed it, and then I climbed up like a monkey till I could turn the knob. That was enough. Outside, the stairs gave me some trouble, though I got down by crawling backwards, feeling awfully unprotected from the rear. Finally I was in the vestibule, looking up at the big door there, and knowing I couldn't make it. There weren't any chairs down here.
I saw a shadow cross the pane, and the door swung open. It was a cop. He headed up the stairs without seeing me—he was looking up, not down—and I scrambled to get outside before the door shut. I was lucky. It was one of those pneumatic things. But I almost lost my diaper as I squeezed through.
So there I was on Park, not liking it at all. The people were too big. A few of them glanced at me as they passed, and I figured I'd better start moving. I fell down a couple of times, but that was nothing, except when a hatchet-faced dame with a voice like vinegar started to pick me up, saying something about a poor lost baby. What I told that lady made her drop me like a hot brick.
"Oh, my gracious!" she yelped. "Such language!"
She kept following me, though, and I knew I had to lose her somehow. It was the first time I'd ever been trailed by a cookie, even if she was overbaked. I saw a bar coming up, and realized I was thirsty. Anyway, I needed a drink. After what I'd been through, anybody would.
If I could sit down with a beer or something and think things over, it might help.
-
TURNING into the place, I managed the swinging door okay and went in, leaving beagle-puss outside, clucking like she'd gone crazy. It was a darkish, quiet sort of bar, with not many customers, and I climbed up a bar-stool without attracting attention. My eyes just came over the level of the mahogany.
"Rye," I said.
The bartender, a fat old guy in a white apron, looked around. He didn't see me.
"Rye!" I said again. "Beer chaser."
This time he saw me. His eyes bugged out. He came and leaned on the bar, staring at me. Finally he grinned.
"Well, look at the sprout," he chuckled. "Did I hear you ask for rye?"
"Listen, you big lug," I snarled. "You want me to pin your ears back?"
"What with?" he asked. "Safety pins? Haw-haw!" He thought it was funny.
"Shut up and gimme a shot," I growled squeakily, and he found a bottle and a glass. I licked my lips. Then, just before he poured, he drew back and looked at me solemnly.
"I gotta see your draft card, old man," he said. "Haw-haw-haw!"
If I could have managed the words that came to my lips, he'd have known for certain I wasn't an innocent babe. But my palate, as usual, turned into mush.
"Glab-bab-da-da," I said, or words to the effect.
A dignified old buzzard with a gleaming watch-chain strung across his vest came over and picked me up.
"A fine thing," he boomed. "Mothers bringing their children into bars—and children this young!" He looked around searchingly, but nobody claimed me. A honey in a blue dress, sipping a cuba libre in a booth, said I wasn't hers, the darling, and could she hold me? All of a sudden an idea hit me. Billie! If I could get in touch with her.
Uh-uh. But I didn't like to have her see me like this?
I felt sick. Still it looked like the only way. The trouble was, I had no way of reaching her.
The old buzzard was getting ready to hand me over to the honey. It went against the grain, but I squalled and clung to the watch-chain, keeping it up till I put the idea across.
"I guess he likes you," the honey said. "Well, you keep him. His mother ought to show up pretty soon."
"Yes. Yes. Another scotch, Tony. There." He sat down in a booth, keeping me in his lap. I toyed thoughtfully with the watch-chain. He tickled me under the chin, and I managed to keep from calling him a dirty name.
"Poor baby, then. Is it a poor baby?"
Well, I was. Broke as the devil. Stoney. I needed dough!
After I'd finished with the watch-chain, I delved into the buzzard's vest pockets. As I'd hoped, there was a coin or two loose there. I dug out some change, but the lug tried to take it away from me. We had a sort of tussle, and the dough spilled out of my hand, tinkling over the floor.
"Ah, ah, naughty!" said Moneybags, and set
me down carefully on the seat. He and the bartender started to pick up the coins.
I swung myself down, snaffled a nickel, and waddled unsteadily toward the back, where I'd seen a phone booth. Moneybags started after me, but I saw him coming. I headed for the honey in the blue dress, holding out my arms.
She picked me up. It wasn't hard to take. I kept pointing toward the booth.
"What is it, baby? What a nice fellow! Kiss, then?"
I complied, and she jumped and looked sort of startled. Oh, well. I kept pointing, and after a while she got the idea. Moneybags came along and stood grinning, obviously on the make, but she wasn't having any of the old goat.
"He seems to like you, Miss."
"Yes," she said vaguely. "He wants something."
"Phone," I said, not daring to make it clearer.
"Oh, he can talk! He knows a few words, doesn't he?" she smiled at me. "You darling! But you can't use the phone. You're not old enough."
"Mm-m," I said. "Kiss."
-
AT THIS the honey blinked. She got up rather fast and took me to the phone booth, holding me up to the mouthpiece. I tried to wriggle free, and managed to get my feet on the seat. Then I waved my arms at her and yelled, "Go 'way!"
She stepped back, startled, letting me go, and I tried to close the folding door. Moneybags was hovering in the background, only too anxious to help, and he shut it for me.
"Oh, but—he'll hurt himself, in there."
She was too late. I'd got the receiver down, slipped a nickel in the slot, and was frantically dialing, having a dickens of a time with my folding fingers. I could see Moneybags and the honey staring at me, so I kept my voice as low as possible when I finally got through to Billie.
"Look, Billie, this is Jerry—"
"Jerry who?"
"Cassidy!" I said. "You know me—we got a date tonight."
"I have with Jerry Cassidy. But I know Jerry's voice. Sorry, but I'm busy right now."
"Wait! I—uh—got some throat trouble. This is me, honest. I'm in a jam."
"As usual. I—you're not hurt, are you?"
"Not exactly, but I need help, plenty bad. It's life and death, hon!"
"Oh, Jerry! Of course I'll help. Where are you?"
I gave her the address of the bar. "Get down here as fast as you can. You'll find me—I mean you'll find a baby here. Pick him up and call a taxi. And don't be surprised by anything you hear."
