by Jerry Sohl
“You don’t know Dr. Charles Merrill?” one of the youths said in amazement. “Why, you told us you were famous in the outside world, Doctor.”
“You can turn it off,” Dr. Merrill said. “This is Karl Gronemeier—the loud one—and Amos Page and Chalmers Peterson.”
“My name is Enders. Martin Enders.”
All four stared.
“I’ll be damned!”
“We heard about you.”
“Yeah. You’re better known than Dr. Merrill.”
“At least Dr. Penn knows you’re living, Mr. Enders. The doc here can’t say as much.”
They all laughed, poured their beer.
“All right, leeches,” the doctor said. “Drink this damned three-point-two. A man can’t raise a thirst around here, Mr. Enders. There’s nothing but this sarsaparilla to quench it with.”
“You do better than that, Doc.”
“Wait a minute,” Martin broke in. “How come you fellows know about me?”
“You’re strictly FGSDTHA, that’s what,” Amos said. “You don’t look that bad, either.”
“All right,” Martin said. “I’ll bite. What’s the alphabet for?”
“Ah. That, sir,” Dr. Merrill explained, “means you’re a member of the select and exclusive organization known as the For God’s Sake Don’t Tell Him Anything Club. It’s popular on this reservation.”
“Orders from headquarters,” Karl said.
Chalmers chuckled. “He means Dr. Penn.”
“I take it Dr. Penn told you men to say nothing to me if I questioned any of you. Is that right?” Martin asked.
The heads nodded. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t ask you questions,” Dr. Merrill said. “For example, what are you doing here?”
“I’m doing a cover story for National Scene on Dr. Penn.”
“We don’t get anything out of him,” Karl said. “What makes you think you’ll do any better?”
There was laughter at this.
“They’re right,” Dr. Merrill said. “If he’s as close-mouthed about his past with us, how are you going to learn anything?”
“That,” Martin said, pouring the last of his beer into his glass, “is exactly what I would like to know.”
“He carries it too far,” the doctor said. “Frankly, this whole business of security makes me sick. You’d think we were trying to invent another atomic bomb or something. We’re not. If we were near reaching the end of our research, there’d be a reason for it. But not now. Hell, we’re not even started yet. Oh, for the lab with no restrictions, with no Dr. Penn to interfere!”
“Does he interfere?” Martin ventured. “I’d think he’d want to get it over with as fast as possible so he could get on with something else.”
“You don’t know Dr. Penn,” Karl said. “Sometimes it’s not actually interfering, it’s not doing something. Did you ever work in a factory, Mr. Enders?”
“No.”
“Well, if you had, you’d know there is such a thing as a suggestion box. You drop in a suggestion and, if it’s a good one, you get a cash award. They do the same thing here. You make a suggestion and you put it in the box. Then Dr. Penn takes it and reads it and studies it and maybe he even sleeps on it all night. Then the next day—”
“The next day,” Amos cut in, “he throws it in the wastebasket.”
“ ‘Suggestion’? What suggestion?”
There was laughter again. Loud laughter.
“You parasites have had my offering for the evening,” Dr. Merrill said, getting up. “I’ll leave you now. I might interfere with your technique. An old man would be in the way.”
“Go on, we might interfere with yours.”
“Who’s the dame?”
“Where do you keep her, Doc?”
“He sneaks up to her room every night.”
Dr. Merrill turned to Martin. “I’m offering you a chance to get away from these bums, Mr. Enders. Better take it.”
“I think I will,” Martin said. “But I’ll make my contribution. I’ll buy you fellows one before I leave.”
“Hey, he’s a real white guy.”
“He doesn’t act like a writer.”
“Come around later, Mr. Enders. Always room for a live one.”
“They’re good kids,” Dr. Merrill said when they were outside. “They’re just fed up with Park Hill. Hell, we all are. How would you like to be cooped up here for a month at a time? Let’s go where we can talk. Are you staying at P-4?”
“No. I’m staying with Dr. Penn,” Martin answered.
“Dr. Penn!” He whistled. Then he looked closely at Martin. “Are you sure you’re staying there?”
“Dr. Penn asked me to. Is there a rule against it or something?”
Dr. Merrill shook his head in wonder. “No. Let’s see; you just got in today, didn’t you?”
Martin nodded.
“Then you haven’t spent a night there yet.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Let’s go to my place. I’m in P-4. It’s right down the street.”
In his small room on the second floor of a brick barracks, Dr. Merrill reached into the rear of a dresser drawer and brought out a bottle of whiskey.
“I didn’t think you could get that at a place like this,” Martin said.
“I couldn’t, ordinarily. Got this on prescription from the section pharmacy. For my heart.” He chuckled. “Besides, I know somebody over there. Have a drink?”
“Never use it while I’m working.”
“You working now?” Dr. Merrill pulled out the stopper, gave him a sharp look. “You working for Dr. Penn by any chance?”
“I don’t follow you. Here’s my card.” Martin showed him his National Scene press card.
To Martin’s surprise, Dr. Merrill took the card, ran his fingers over it, looked at it toward the light, then handed it back. Evidently satisfied, he poured himself a half tumbler of whiskey and, since Martin was seated in the only chair, moved to the bed and settled himself on it. He took a drink, sighed contentedly. “That’s more like it. Now, if you’re not working for Dr. Penn, how come you’re staying there?”
“It’s just as I said. He asked me. You seem to think there’s something wrong in staying there.”
“Dr. Penn never does anything without a purpose. I’m merely trying to figure out why he would want you there.”
“Frankly, I’ve wondered about the same thing,” Martin admitted. “First, he made arrangements for me to stay there. Then, for some reason, he changed his mind. He changed it right after he talked with you this afternoon.”
“After he talked with me?” The doctor looked at him with suspicion. “How do you know about that?”
“I was in his office when you called him.”
“Mmm.” The doctor downed the rest of the glass, turned it in his fingers while he looked at it. “Why should National Scene be interested in Eric Penn? Can you answer that?”
“He’s a famous scientist. He’s done a lot for humanity. Nobel prizewinner. We’ve run stories about men who have done less.”
“I suppose his research in annelids is a classic.” Dr. Merrill put his glass on the floor. “He’s lived with trichina so long he can call them all by their first names. Yes, I can’t deny he’s recognized as an authority on cytology, embryology and genetics.”
“Then what are you getting at?”
“You heard the boys talking, Martin. Hell, Dr. Penn is running this project as if he were bossing a corporation. He’s not conducting research.”
“What’s he doing that’s wrong?”
“He’s lost his Arrowsmith mind, for one thing.” The doctor got up from the bed for a fresh drink. Martin wondered how he could see his way around through his smudgy glasses. He brought the full glass back to the bed with him and sat with it. “He knows better. You can’t paint according to formula and have art; you can’t compose music by the numbers. Science is just as m
uch a creative art. You’ve got to go where you have a hunch you should go. You’ve got to follow your inspirations. You have to be daring, adventurous. Want to know why I think he wants you at his house?”
“Sure. Why?”
Dr. Merrill finished his drink, lay on the bed, put his hands behind his head, looked up from the pillows to the lone, harsh light bulb in the ceiling, squinting his eyes thoughtfully.
“We’ve all felt it,” he said. “You’re just another example of it. For some reason he doesn’t want you to ask questions. If you’re at his place you won’t be learning anything from us. That’s why he told us all about you today.” The doctor sat up, loosened his tie. “What would you think of a man who insists you do research that has already been done?”
“He does that? Don’t you point that out to him?”
Dr. Merrill snorted. “Sure. He just smiles. ‘Maybe they didn’t do it right before,’ he says. Now I ask you: What kind of an answer is that?”
“Why should he stand in the way of his own project, then?”
“You’re asking me!” The doctor laughed. He seemed to think it was a huge joke. “Don’t you suppose we all wonder? How would you like working in a situation like that? The result is nobody gives a damn any more. Nobody cares what goes on. The project is marking time.” The doctor disregarded the glass, got the bottle and took a nip from it every now and then. “It’s all as if we’re in prison, that’s what it is, see? There’s no escape. You have to stay your time out, see? And I’ve signed up for three years.” He chuckled and his movements were deliberate and slow; his eyes were burning now as if with fever.
“I’ve got a good record,” the doctor went on. “Oh, I know school research isn’t a bed of roses. You bet your bottom dollar it isn’t. You’ve always got a class to teach jus’ when you come to the climax, but at least you’re makin’ progress. You’re movin’ somewhere, see? You’re coverin’ ground, that’s what you are. You’re not markin’ time. See what I mean?” He gestured with the bottle and the liquid sloshed around inside it.
“Doesn’t anybody have a theory about it?”
“Hell, everybody’s got a theory! Some think he’s goin’ off his rocker. Some think he’s workin’ for Russia. Me? I got a little theory all of my own and I’ll be damned if I’ll tell you.” He squinted his eyes and tried to keep them on Martin. “At least I’ll never tell you while you’re stayin’ at Dr. Penn’s house. That’s how it is. If you were stayin’ here—”
“Does Dr. Penn ever act in a peculiar way?”
“He’s a peculiar guy all the time, he is.”
“I mean, does he ever do anything out of the way?”
“Lettin’ us do what we want would be that,” he said thickly.
“How about his daughter, Virginia?”
The doctor took a swig, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of the arm holding the bottle. “You know about her, then. Well, I guess you’ll be knowin’ more about her as time goes on. Give you a couple of days, Mart, m’boy. It’ll take jus’ a couple days.” His head was lolling drunkenly.
“And his son, Bobby? What about him?”
“We’re all lonely, see? That’s what I mean. Lonely. Nobody loves us. Except maybe Virginia. You seen Virginia? Sure you have. Just said so, didn’t you? Good ol’ Virginia. What a gal! How can a man like that have a daughter like that! I’m askin’ you. She’s a dream girl.” This struck him funny and he started to laugh.
“How about Forrest Killian?” Martin asked in a voice loud enough to interrupt the laughter.
“Who?” The doctor goggled at him.
“Forrest Killian.”
“Forres’ Killian. Killian. Oh, him! He stuck him in a test tube.”
“Test tube!”
“Might as well have. Forres’ was a nice fella. Kinda like you. Y’know? He was up here lots. Here, have another.”
Martin took the bottle, then handed it back without drinking.
“Why do you say he might as well have been stuck in a test tube?”
“Lemme have a cigarette.”
Martin gave him one, had difficulty in following the weaving head to light it for him.
“About the test tube,” Martin prompted.
“It’s this night, see?” The doctor waved the cigarette around. “This night Forres’ goes to Dr. Penn’s office. Wha’ happens? Does he ever come out?” He shook his head. “No. Only Dr. Penn comes out and he locks his office as he always does and would he lock a nice fella like Forres’ in his office? I’m askin’. Would he now?”
“No, he wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Where did he go, then? Where did he go? He never came out. Must have stuck him in a tes’ tube. Print that in your ol’ magazine.”
“Does Dr. Penn have laboratory equipment in his office?”
The doctor shook his head groggily. “No, but he might as well have for all the good it’s doin’. We’re all workin’ on nothin’. Forres’, order the burettes. We gotta titrate this right, see? Don’ lose that nucleus, that may be the one. Hey, who broke the glass? Somebody’ll get hell; that took months to make. Don’t tell me, let me guess. Want to know who busted it? I’ll tell you because I kinda like you. Dr. Penn broke it himself!”
The doctor belched and shook his head. “You found out, didn’t you, Forres’? Don’ tell him. Don’ go into his office. I told you, remember? Don’ go. Don’ go!” The doctor was slobbering now and he was crying. The bottle dropped out of his hand and hit the floor, the liquid left in it spilling along the floor as it rattled across the boards. The doctor suddenly collapsed on the bed.
Martin undressed the man, put him to bed, turned out the light and left the barracks. Whether or not Dr. Penn and his daughter had returned from the laboratory, Martin had no way of knowing; except for the night lights, the house was dark when he entered it.
In his room, he undressed and went to bed, only to lie there thinking of his cover story and his duty toward the CIC.
How can I pretend to write about Dr. Penn as a man of scientific stature when his scientific logic is questioned by his fellow workers? How can I appear to be building up a man with one hand while I’m trying to knock him down with the other? Dr. Merrill has given me a start with this nonsensical test-tube business, but it might be just the mouthings of an alcoholic... What did he say, though, about staying at the Penn house?
Perhaps Dr. Penn’s mind has snapped. After all, it would take a crazy man to stop a humanitarian project like regeneration. If his errors are so obvious to his fellow workers, maybe he is or has gone off the deep end. But what about Forrest Killian? How to explain him? And there is that incident with Bobby to explain.
He went to sleep reliving the experience. There was this red sphere and it kept dancing up and down and up and down...
... Except it wasn’t really a sphere. It was Dr, Penn’s head. The head gave a polite little cough.
“I quite agree with you,” Dr. Penn said from his place at the foot of the bed. He leaned on the bed railing, his head resting on his arms. “But you haven’t told me everything.”
“Now how did you know that?” Martin asked. “I tried to keep it a secret.”
“Somebody else tried to do that once. Virginia said you mentioned Forrest Killian’s name. Did you know him?”
Martin shook his head, drew the covers closer about his shoulders. “Never met him. General Deems told me about I him.”
“Good old General Deems. Where is he now?”
“At his office in Washington.”
“Is he interested in Mr. Killian?”
“Not only interested, he’s befuddled.” Martin laughed. It was silly for them to be talking about Forrest Killian like that. The general certainly wouldn’t have liked it.
Dr. Penn chuckled. “You have a sense of humor, haven’t you, Martin? You and I, we’ll get along all right “ He paused to materialize a pipe already lit. “As I understand it, it’s your job to find out what happened to Forrest Killian, as well a
s to get a story on me for National Scene. Is that right?”
“Right as rain.” Odd way of saying it, but it was the correct thing to say to Dr. Penn. “The story’s just a cover-up.”
“What did you do tonight?”
“I talked to several of your technicians and Dr. Merrill.”
“Dr. Merrill? Oh, that’s bad. You probably got all you could out of Dr. Merrill, didn’t you?”
Martin laughed. “He got drunk as hell. He told me how you put Forrest Killian in a test tube.” Martin roared. This was funny. Imagine someone you didn’t even know being in a test tube!
“Really? Tell me about it.” The doctor was interested.
The doctor accidentally dropped his pipe and it hit the floor with a rap.
Martin awoke with a start and sat up in bed in a cold sweat. His heart was beating like a jackhammer. He found himself looking frantically around the room, but the moonlight showed no one there.
What was wrong?
With a rush of remembrance he knew someone had been talking to him in a dream, asking him questions and that he was answering them. The memory of it was so keen he could remember the warmth and pleasure of it, but when he tried to visualize who it was he was talking to, he could not. The questioner in the dream—of course it was a dream—must have asked a vital question that spelled danger and tripped the mechanism that woke him before he could answer, just as one awakens with a start after he has jumped off a high building in a dream.
That was it. How silly of him, of his subconscious mind.
But his hands were trembling.
Chapter 6
Martin responded sluggishly to the knock on the door. When it was repeated, he got up on his elbows. “Yes?”
The door opened part way and Ethel stood there looking severe.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Enders,” she said. “It’s seven o’clock.”
“Seven? That’s early, isn’t it?”
“Dr. Penn and Virginia have already had their breakfasts. The doctor wants to see you at the administration building at eight.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know. How do you want your eggs?”
“Straight up, thanks.”
He tried bounding out of bed when she had gone, but his leap lacked the vigor it should have. Immediately he knew why. The night had been spent half awake, listening, waiting for another visitation. In the brightness of the sunny morning the experience seemed unreal and he chided himself for having lost sleep over something so elusory. He found circles under his eyes when he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and reproved himself again for his fears.
