A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Dr. Aloysio put the glass stopper back on the bottle.

  “I’m sorry,” his voice was kind. “I didn’t understand. You seem to be the victim of some ghastly kind of joke.”

  But Montrose did not quit just yet. He forced himself to sit erect.

  “Dr. Fesler’s dead, eh!” he croaked. “How about the fellow at the switchboard?”

  Dr. Aloysio shook his head.

  “We had to discharge him about ten months ago for drunkenness. He was totally unreliable.” He took out cigarettes, gave one to Montrose and lit it. “You see, Mr. Montrose, at the time you mention, I myself was in bed with a severe attack of pleurisy. I can only conclude that someone, with the connivance of the man at the switchboard, played a joke on you.”

  Montrose stumbled to his feet. He stared at Dr. Aloysio for a long while, then began to laugh crazily.

  “Somebody bought my body!” he cried. “Where am I going to buy it back!”

  Dr. Aloysio took Montrose’s arm. Montrose shook it off and staggered toward the door.

  “Going to get drunk,” he mumbled. “Drink all this—all of it—right out of existence!”

  “You can’t do that!” cried the doctor. “Stay here until you calm down—

  But Frank Montrose had gone through the door. As he reeled down the corridor, Montrose saw nothing of his surroundings, but his crazed mind seemed to hear jeering laughter.

  “BUDDY,” said the cab driver.

  “This hack ain’t a hotel room!”

  The nasal voice penetrated Montrose’s consciousness. He opened his eyes. Montrose shook his head, then stopped abruptly. Leaning over the back of the driver’s seat, the cabbie grinned without mirth.

  “You look like a wreck, buddy,” he said.

  “I feel it.” Montrose’s voice was thick. “Where are we?”

  “We’re at the airport. Remember?”

  “Airport! What airport? My God—am I still in the city?”

  The driver nodded.

  “Yep.” He glanced casually over Montrose’s wrinkled suit, soiled shirt; his eye paused at the unshaven chin. “I would say, pal, that you’ve seen a lot of our fair city.”

  Montrose turned his head. Looking outside, he was surprised to see it was broad daylight.

  “It’s morning,” he muttered.

  “Sure. Monday morning—”

  “Monday!”

  “Sure.”

  Monday! Montrose had come down on Friday. What had happened—a three day drunk? Why? There was a whole covey of butterflies in his stomach, but he forced himself to think.

  And slowly the picture came back. Of the doctor and his terrible proof that he’d never written that purchase agreement. Of Montrose running from the hospital, helpless, alone—making for the nearest bar. Then, lots of bars. Drunk. The old way out, the way he’d always taken when things went wrong.

  “Go on to the airport,” Montrose cried. “Is there a plane soon?”

  “Yeah. You got any dough left, buddy?”

  Montrose opened his wallet. A ticket and a single ten were all he had left. The driver nodded at the money and started up his cab. Montrose saw Marcia’s picture in his billfold. Marcia!

  A three day drunk—while Marcia had probably gone crazy with worry. No—Frank Montrose was the crazy one. What had been this business of a body? A body sold to a doctor that didn’t exist. Montrose laughed. Maybe the body didn’t exist, either.

  The noise of the plane’s motors was definitely not soothing. Montrose clasped his aching head between his hands and tried to think. He couldn’t. It might have been the hangover—very likely it was, but he couldn’t quite focus his mind on any one matter.

  When he arrived in Pleasanton, the problem of Marcia forced everything else from his mind. For a while, horror went away, replaced by a purely normal worry as to how he was going to square things with her.

  He had just finished drying himself after an icy shower when his doorbell rang. It was Marcia.

  “Frank! Oh, Frank—what happened?. Are you all right?”

  She held out her hands and for a brief moment he was safe in her embrace, everything else forgotten. Then, she drew back.

  “Frank,” she said slowly. “I think you owe me an awful lot of explanation.”

  Marcia looked closely at him. Montrose hadn’t shaved yet and it would take several night’s sleep to clear up his eyes. Montrose jammed his fists tight into the pockets of his dressing gown. He tensed with the effort of meeting her eyes, but couldn’t quite make it.

  “I guess I went on a tear, honey,” he muttered.

  Marcia looked at his clothes, still heaped where he had thrown them. Then she walked slowly over to a window and looked out.

  “I guess you did,” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marcia turned and faced him, but she did not move toward him.

  “Frank,” her voice was low but clear. “Do you really want to marry me?”

  “Good God!” Pain rang in his voice. “How can you doubt it!”

  “Frank.” her tone was controlled, “your behavior at the church was very strange. I believed you when you said you were ill, yet—I couldn’t help thinking that you looked . . . frightened.”

  MONTROSE’S mouth twisted. God forbid she should ever know just how scared he’d been. But not of her . . .

  “Then,” Marcia went on, “you called me and said you must fly down to the city. You were to be back for dinner. You were gone three days—without a word to me.”

  The sunlight streamed through the window, giving her loveliness a golden frame. Her beauty hurt him. What could he say?

  The truth?

  What was the truth?

  Like any man in his position, Montrose tried to postpone the inevitable.

  “Look, Marcia,” he said. “I honestly don’t know when I ate last. Would you wait while I finish dressing, then have some breakfast with me?”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Well, watch me, then!” he exclaimed. “And then I’ll explain everything. Honest.”

  Montrose stepped toward her, his hands outstretched, pleading. Marcia shrugged.

  “All right, Frank,” she sighed.

  They walked silently along. Marcia stared straight ahead, her silence creating a distance between them. But Montrose didn’t mind. He had arrived at a decision. He would tell her everything, making no attempt to explain it, just give her the whole story. Then, it would be up to Marcia. At least, she would give him no balderdash, like Halsey’s pat theories. Yes, or no—and he would stand or fall at her word.

  At the next corner, just a few short steps from the restaurant, it happened. A commonplace sort of accident. An old lady, walking blindly against a traffic light, blundered in the path of an oncoming truck.

  “Frank!” Marcia screamed.

  Montrose tried to move. He could have reached the old woman in time, jerked her back to safety. A policeman blew his whistle, lumbered toward them.

  But Montrose could not move. Paralysis flowed over him. He panted with the struggle to move.

  The expression on Marcia’s face changed. Suddenly and terribly and completely. Then she started for the street. And now, there wasn’t enough time. The truck would have smashed them both, Marcia and the old woman.

  The lumbering policeman threw himself forward, caught Marcia’s arm. At the last, incredible moment, the little old lady saw her danger. She dodged back to safety.

  The paralysis left Montrose.

  “Marcia! Marcia!” he screamed. He ran to her. “Darling, are you all right?”

  “Of course she’s all right,” boomed the cop. “I may have bruised her arm a bit. But she’s okay, aren’t you, Miss?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcia and the policeman stared at Montrose.

  “Thank you, officer,” she said at last. “You saved my life, you know.”

  “Now, now.” The big face reddened. He scowled at Montrose. “You’d better take
a little more care of your girl, I’m thinking.” He turned away. “Now, where did the old lady go? That one needs a lecture!”

  “Marcia,” stammered Montrose. “I—I—”

  He reached for her hand. Marcia drew back.

  “You just stood there,” she breathed. “Too frightened to move.”

  Her lip quivered. Then her head went high.

  “You’re a coward, Frank. I know it. I’d never forget it.”

  Her hands clasped together, came apart. Marcia held something out toward him. It was the ring he’d given her.

  Someone laughed. Montrose was suddenly conscious that others were watching him. He stared wildly around, caught sight of the cop. There was a look of approval on the officer’s face.

  “But . . .”

  Montrose lifted his hands. There was a clink as the ring fell at his feet. Montrose let his hands drop to his sides.

  As Marcia walked away, her shoulders slumped a little, then began to tremble. But there was nothing, now, that Montrose could do.

  “Move on,” growled the policeman. “Pick up your ring and beat it!”

  DR. FESLER, if he can still be called that, smirked at Dr. Aloysio.

  “Well, what’s so funny?” snapped the latter.

  “You look so ridiculous in that get-up,” wheezed Fester. “As an old lady, brother, you are definitely comic!”

  Dr. Aloysio waved a hand and was himself again.

  “Damn it!” he growled. “It was such a neat plan. To have him look on, helpless, while his beloved was smashed to bits by a truck!”

  “Ah, well,” grinned Fester. “Destiny fights on my side. There are limitations—”

  Aloysio laughed suddenly.

  “The plan unfolds, now, dear brother! Get ready to pay me!”

  SWAYING with the motion of the train, Montrose lurched up to the lounge car’s bar.

  “A bottle of rye!” he ordered.

  The attendant handed over a bottle.

  “You gonna drink all that befo’ we get to Los Angeles, sah?”

  “I’m going to damn well try to,” growled Montrose. “Keep the soda and ice coming!”

  He sat alone in the far corner of the car. As the hours passed, the car gradually emptied itself of passengers. Montrose drank steadily, oblivious of his surroundings. He stared down at the jolting floor, drinking, smoking and staring.

  “Beg pahdon, sah, but even this train has to close up at two o’clock!”

  Montrose looked up at the white-jacketed attendant.

  “Is it that late!” he exclaimed.

  “Suah is. Don’t you think, sah, you ought to go to bed?”

  Montrose scowled.

  “Think I’m drunk?”

  The porter glanced at the nearly empty bottle, then looked long and hard at Montrose. His eyes rolled a little.

  “Why—I guess you ain’t, sah. Though you suah oughta be!”

  “Then get the hell out of here and let me alone.”

  Montrose’s mouth twisted in a sneer. No control, he muttered wearily. His body wouldn’t even respond to alcohol any more. His memory checked back over the past week. That terrible week of trying to see Marcia; of finally giving her up and then, after the Athletic Club had kicked him out and he had lost two cinch contracts, selling his business at a loss and leaving town.

  During that time he had tried to get tight. But he never had. He couldn’t do it now.

  Montrose leaned back in his chair. In careful order, he marshaled the main events of his life. An ordinary wastrel, at first, until that night at the hospital. Then, he’d found some very fine things—only to lose them. Events—events he could not control—events had ordered him about!

  He sat upright. Dazedly, he contemplated that fact. He held out his hands and blinked at them. They weren’t really his, for he couldn’t always control them. Montrose looked down at his feet—the feet that had refused to enter the church.

  Then it was true—he had sold his body! But to whom? How could he he ever redeem it? Montrose picked up his glass and emptied it. Well, he thought, the old hands will still bring liquor to the old mouth and the old mouth will still swallow. He drank again. Perhaps he did get a little drunk, for he began to think of Marcia—even saw her face, shadowy and vague, float before his own.

  And then Montrose became angry. He had been cheated. The sale had been made for delivery after death! And they, whoever they were, had taken possession before—before the lease expired. Montrose laughed at his own thoughts, then grew serious! It was no joke—he had been cheated.

  A crafty gleam grew in his eyes. He looked down the car’s length to the vestibule door. That would do very nicely. He, Frank Montrose, would do a little cheating on his own account. He got to his feet, picked up the rye and drank from the bottle. Setting the bottle down, he started slowly down the car.

  He opened the door of the vestibule and stood on the steps. The wind whipped his face. Montrose stood there for a moment, balanced precariously. His glance dropped to the ground, a grey blur under the train’s speed. It seemed to draw him.

  Yes, that was it. Nothing mattered now, since he had lost Marcia . . . and himself. Clinging to the handrail with one hand, he swung himself around between the two cars. This would be ideal. His body would be mangled beyond all recognition—there would be absolutely nothing left to collect.

  Laughing aloud, Montrose let go the rail.

  A hand caught his. For a moment, Montrose dangled, then the hand that gripped his pulled him back. Montrose banged against the car, his feet scraped over the steps. One more pull and he was crouched on his knees in the vestibule. He heard the outside door close, then a laugh grated against his consciousness.

  “Mr. Montrose! That was cheating, sir!”

  Montrose looked up. Dr. Aloysio stood before him. Eyes sparkling behind the black-rimmed glasses, high forehead gleaming palely in the darkness.

  “You!” Montrose screamed.

  He staggered to his feet.

  “Of course. I must protect my interests. If you had—ah, succeeded, how could I have obtained my property?”

  Montrose staggered forward. The doctor’s figure wavered, blurred, then disappeared.

  Montrose fainted.

  THE PORTER and the conductor accepted his explanation that he had fainted, although it was obvious both thought him lying. As Montrose lay sleepless in his berth, he heard the porter come and listen several times outside the curtains.

  But he did not care. He left the train at Los Angeles, smiling slightly at the porter’s sigh of relief at his going. But it was surface amusement only. Frank Montrose considered himself no longer of this world. His mind was fixed on death. For death, the proper kind of death, would break the bargain, make him a winner at last.

  He checked his bags at the station and set out on an aimless walk. He was not surprised to discover he had no hangover. As he walked, Montrose passed a small church. His footsteps walked on. Religion had always meant little to him and, since he didn’t quite believe in God, he couldn’t accept the Devil, either.

  Had he been more imaginative, he might have gone insane.

  All he did was to stop at an occasional bar and drink a little. Not that he wanted to get drunk . . . even if he could have gotten drunk. Drinking was just something to do.

  It was at the third bar that the idea hit him. He grinned slowly as the idea unfolded in his mind. When the plan had perfected itself, he chuckled aloud. He lifted his glass in a silent toast to his success and drank deeply. For the first time in days, the rye tasted good to him.

  “Fill her up,” he said.

  The bartender did so.

  “Say,” Montrose said genially, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

  The bartender rubbed the bar with a dirty towel.

  “Shoot,” his voice was bored.

  Montrose leaned over the bar.

  “Well, he said, “I was just thinking. Suppose a guy is executed in this state. What happens to his body?”r />
  The bartender stared.

  “Jeez!” he exclaimed. “You’re morbid, pal!”

  Montrose shook his head.

  “Not at all,” he grinned. “I’m a crime writer. Just blew in here. I’m going to do some free-lance stuff.”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Guess the nearest of kin gets it. If they want it. Otherwise—yeah, I’m sure of it!”

  “What’s that?” Montrose found the barkeep’s mind a little hard to follow.

  “There’s a cemetery at the prison. I know that, ’cause I was up there once. As a visitor, of course.”

  “Sure,” nodded Montrose.

  “Fella I was visitin’ pointed it out to me. If you get executed and they ain’t no relatives, why they bury you right there in the prison grounds.”

  “Fine. Thanks a lot.” Montrose beamed. “Have one on me!”

  “Later, maybe.” The bartender moved off. “Gotta take care of those loudmouths at the other end, first.”

  EVEN the clamor of the omnipresent juke-box sounded pleasant to Montrose’s ears. He was at peace with the world. Carefully, he went over the plan in his mind. It was foolproof. There would be unpleasant aspects, of course. He could not help shuddering at the final scene. But it was all compensated for. Yes, it made everything even.

  “Hi, pal,” said a voice at his shoulder.

  Montrose turned his head. A thin nondescript sat down beside him. “What’ll yuh have, pal?”

  The newcomer was at that stage of drunkenness when all the world was his friend. Montrose started to turn away, then looked back at the lush. It might as well be now, he thought.

  “Why,” Montrose said, “I’d like another rye.”

  “Fine. George, two more ryes.” He leaned toward Montrose. “Tha’s not his real name. But I always call ’im that.”

  “Why not? It saves time.”

  “Zactly wha’ I say.” He nodded at Montrose. “Mighty happy to have drink with me. Been drinkin’ with some of the fines’ people’n Lossanglus. M’name’s Hayes. Jus’ call me Perry. Tha’s firs’ name.”

  “Glad to know you. I’m Frank Montrose.”

  They drank.