The Ultimate Egoist

by Theodore Sturgeon

He said again, “The story is true.” And he began to speak. This is what he said:

  I was going about the world doing my duty, when my attention was called to a man named MacIlhainy Tobin, whose conceit was phenomenal. It was unfortunate and incurable, because it was quite justified. He was indeed a superior person. He did not need my help, because his wits were so very sharp; but when I offered it he took advantage of it, for he was one of those who never miss an opportunity for gain. I did not offer him gain, but neither had those of whom he had taken advantage in the past. He felt that he could twist whatever circumstance crossed his path into something of value for him. And in this instance he was misled purely because he had no precedent to follow that involved failure.

  He was alone in his great study, thinking of the things he had done and been which proved his superiority. “I am a man,” he said, “who has never made a mistake.”

  “That is not true,” I said to him. “Perfection is an unnatural thing, and against laws that cannot be broken. You exist, and you are perfect. That is your mistake.”

  He looked over his plainlike desk at me.

  “I have never seen you before, sir,” he said cordially. “I did not see you come into my room or sit opposite me, but I am not startled. You are welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I startle nobody. You are proud of yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said, and smiled. He was a magnificent man, with a great square jaw and large gray eyes. His hair was like burnished platinum, and the lamplight delighted in leaping from it. “I have everything I want, including the desire for things which I may not have. I am complete, and in flux, and therefore greatly contented with myself.”

  “You have been ruthless,” I said.

  He smiled and spread his hands. “I have been logical.”

  “You have paid the penalties for all you have done?”

  “Yes. One must. That, too, is logical.”

  “Are you proud of that, then?”

  No one may be angry toward me, but if it had been possible, he would have been furious. “That is my one shame,” he said softly. “That in the reasonable course of events, even such as I must bow to circumstance. I regret that there are powers beyond my control. My ego is as well-ordered and methodical as it can possibly be, and yet I am forced to turn aside from the creations of fools whose stupidity has led them to believe that their lives are for purposes which cannot benefit me.”

  “You are ashamed of being human, then. No human can achieve divinity and stay human—without my help.”

  He raised his silver eyebrows. “What is divinity?”

  “Complete satisfaction. I ask you, then: Granting that, what is divinity?”

  He stared at his hands. “For me, it would be … it would be power. Complete control over all the Universe. If I could receive the homage from all things, past, present and future, living and unliving and dead, that I get now from my own ego, then I would be completely satisfied.”

  “Do you want that, then?”

  He was silent for a long while, thinking. “No!” he said suddenly. “It would be ne plus ultra. Could I not fight fools, I could no longer be contented with myself, for my successes. I have more powers now than those you offer me; for if everything were possible to me, I would lose all urges. That loss I cannot afford. What powers have you?”

  “I have none,” I told him, “except the ability to give powers. These must be of your choice.”

  “Wishes, then?”

  I nodded. “Three wishes—and they will be true to the letter.”

  “I have heard of the things you have done,” he said. “You are a legend in many lands. Why have you invariably given three wishes to fools?”

  “I have never met any others.”

  He laughed uproariously. “Even for such as you,” he said, wiping his eyes, “there must be new experiences. You are about to have one. You will grant me three wishes, and find out that I am not a fool. You may even find out a thing or two about yourself.”

  “I am not a personality, but an instrument,” I told MacIlhainy Tobin. “I can no more find out anything about myself than can that beautiful paper knife discover that it was stolen from the British Museum. I have my function and I perform it.”

  “What is your source, then? For whom do you do your work?”

  “That is beyond my ability to question. Perhaps I, too, am a stolen instrument—and perhaps again I am that source. You are fumbling with the unknowable. It is not like you to fumble.”

  “Touché. Will you give me time to consider my wishes?”

  “The wishes are yours, to use as you please, when you please. I will be ready when you are.” I left him then. He sat for a long while looking at the empty chair across that great desk. Then he laughed and went to bed.

  MacIlhainy Tobin was an extremely well-disciplined man. He did not let my visit interfere with his daily life. He ran his great corporations and held his conferences and played his excellent golf, just as usual. But all the while he thought. He thought of the power that was his for the asking, and the homage. Often he thought of himself, and of what a power he was in the world. Sometimes he thought of me, and wondered frankly if my coming was a reward, or a test, or a punishment.

  He spent long hours over his books, and he bought more and more books. He read legends and histories and fairy tales, and learned what others had done with my three wishes. Sometimes he laughed richly, and sometimes he frowned and bit his lip.

  There were those who did not seem to be fools, and yet they were all made unhappy by the wishes, ultimately. They were returned, by their impulsiveness, to their original states, or they asked for things that were too great for them to handle, and went mad. There were a few who were philosophic, and said that now they would be happy to cultivate their own gardens. There did not seem to be any malice in the fulfillment of my three wishes. Each was given exactly the things for which he asked. And yet, without exception, each had been hurt, usually quite terribly, by the power I had given.

  When MacIlhainy Tobin thought of this, he would pull his lip and scowl. And he made up his mind to outwit me. That was hardly just, I thought; for it was his power, not mine. He would have to outwit himself, then, not me. It would be interesting to see if his wits were sharp enough for that task. No one had ever done it before. I bore him no malice, I think because I can bear none toward anyone.

  It was two years before MacIlhainy Tobin was ready for me, and in that time he had formulated thousands of wishes, and rejected thousands. I knew he was ready because he had begun to suffer.

  “May I talk with you before I state my wishes?” he asked me when he saw me again.

  “Certainly.”

  “When you grant me a wish, is it a complete thing? For example, should I wish to be a bird, would I be a bird exactly like other birds, or would I differ?”

  I smiled. “MacIlhainy Tobin, you are the first man who has ever asked me that question. No, you would differ, for there is that about you, and about all men, which is beyond us, you and I. There is a small part of you that which is completely you, and yet different. It can observe, and feel, but only in terms of you as you are now. It has no will; it cannot control you or any part of you. It is something that you have built yourself, something that neither of us can touch or change or destroy. That, no matter what you wish to be, you must carry with you.”

  “I expected that. A soul, eh?”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing of that. I can grant your wishes. If one of them is that you know—”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather not.”

  “You are indeed an amazing man, MacIlhainy Tobin.”

  “Yes. Tell me, may I postpone one, or two, or all, of these wishes?”

  “Of course; they belong to you.”

  “And may I have them consecutively, the fulfillment of the second to begin after the completion of the first?”

  “Yes.” A cautious man, this.

  He sat silent for a moment, his ey
es glittering. “How can a man avoid paying the penalties for his acts?” he asked me suddenly.

  “By dying—”

  “Ah,” he said. “Very well, I am ready to state my wishes.”

  I waited.

  “First, from the time I awake tomorrow morning until the time I go to sleep tomorrow night, I want complete obedience from my fellow men, complete dominance of my will over theirs.”

  “Granted.”

  “Second, I want complete freedom from penalties of any and all kinds for my acts during that time.”

  “You are indeed an extraordinary man, MacIlhainy Tobin. You want death, then?”

  “By no means,” he chuckled. “You see, tomorrow I shall be careful to do something that carries a penalty of death.” He laughed softly.

  “You consider that a master stroke. You have exhausted only two wishes, and yet have what others would have required dozens to cover. You may have riches, authority, worship, invulnerability, revenge—anything you desire. Remarkable. Why do you limit yourself to one day?”

  “Because I can plan one day. To plan more than that in minute detail would leave me open to a possible shift in circumstances. With what I can do in one day, I’ll have all I can ever want, in every way.”

  “But suppose you live only a week or two after tomorrow; have you thought of that?”

  “Yes. Is my second wish granted?”

  “Granted. The third?”

  “Postponement of the third.”

  “Ah—you wish to be deprived of the power to make that third wish? Until when?”

  “Until I begin the day after tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. If you find it advantageous to return to your present state, or to continue your powers, or your life indefinitely, you will be able to. May I congratulate you?”

  The slight inclination of his massive head was acceptance. “May I ask one more question?”

  “Of course.”

  “I know that I shall be free of penalties tomorrow. But how will this be done?”

  “If you do something to include death as one of your penalties, then your freedom must be arranged in the only other way possible.”

  “And that is—”

  “I do not know. All I can do is give you your wishes.”

  “Very well. Good-bye,” MacIlhainy Tobin said to the empty room.

  Tobin awoke vastly refreshed. It had been a pleasant evening, he thought, and he rather admired himself for sleeping so well after it. Today, then, was his day.

  Landis was stepping softly about, opening the drapes to the early morning sun. He picked up a tray and brought it to Tobin’s huge bed.

  “Six o’clock, sir.” Landis stood and moved as if the ramrod up his back were woven of barbed wire. The only detectable line of demarcation between his chin and his neck was his faultless little tie, all of which by no means detracted from his excellence as a butler-valet.

  “Ah—Landis. Good.” Tobin watched the man’s deft hands blend three coffees in the silver-bound eggshell cup. “Has Synthetic Rubber moved?”

  “According to the wire service, sir, it will advance one and seven-eighths at opening this morning. Mr. Krill, of Schambers Brokerage, gave the wrong information.”

  “Splendid. I shall deal with Mr. Krill.” Tobin brooked no interference on the part of any of the string of brokers who were forced to report all overnight orders to him. “Anything else?”

  “The German army opened a new offensive during the night. Three more ships have been sunk. The president has suggested, off the record, another special session of Congress. In Tokyo—”

  “Never mind all that. Today I shall be occupied with more personal matters. How’s the Groot situation?”

  “Mr. Groot was found dead an hour ago, sir. Suicide.”

  Tobin clucked happily. “What a pity. I shall have to take over his holdings. Anything else?”

  “That is all, sir.”

  “Er—Landis—you hate my guts, don’t you?”

  The butler recoiled. “Why, sir—”

  “Tell the truth.” Tobin’s voice was very soft.

  “I do. You’re the most cold-blooded scoundrel in creation. I’ve met many sharks since I have worked for you, but you’re the grand-daddy of them all.”

  Tobin laughed easily. “That will do, Landis. You will forget this incident. Is my bath ready?”

  “Your bath is ready, sir,” said Landis, as if no one had previously mentioned a bath.

  “Good. Get out of here.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Tobin lay back on the pillow and chuckled. It worked, then. Had he not the power to demand the truth and get it, Landis could never have brought himself to such an admission. Nor could he have forgotten it that way. He would have taken his dignity and his morning coat away forever; Tobin knew him. Still smiling, he went and luxuriated in his tub.

  He chose a soft gray suit of radical cut—he could wear those seamless shoulders and still look broad and powerful. A light gray shirt. And as he remembered that he had some murdering to do today, he chose a deep purple tie, which somehow suited the occasion—crepe soles, of course; they would come in handy. Homburg; the stained bamboo cane; a ring to match his tie; ah, splendid.

  “The town car, sir?” asked Landis.

  “I’ll walk.” He strode out of the house, leaving his butler shocked and shaken at such a radical departure from habit. He must remember to have Landis recall his pretty speech of the morning; the fool would probably drop dead.

  He walked to the corner and stood there waiting for the light to change, enjoying the morning air. A round-shouldered youth touched his arm.

  “Mister, you look like Wall Street to me—”

  Tobin regarded him frigidly.

  “As a fellow investor, I want to tell you that Bowery Flophouse is up five points, McGinnis’ hash joint is up two blocks, an’ I’m up a tree. Situation shaky. How’s about a couple dimes? You won’t feel it, an’ it’ll make me feel richer’n you look.”

  Tobin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “As I live and breathe, a panhandler with originality!” He looked the threadbare creature over curiously. Might as well get it over with; this trash would be as good as any. “You can do something for me.”

  “Sure, boss. Sure. Name it an’ it’s yours.”

  Tobin knew that. “Look! See that big tractor-trailer job that just pulled up for the light? Get underneath it; lie down with your chest up against a tire. Go ahead; now.”

  The youth’s eyes glazed a little, and he went off to do what he was told. Tobin walked on casually, glad to have the killing off his mind. “His life for mine; it’s rather a pity. I might have found someone more worthy.”

  A shrill scream behind him did nothing to his steady pace. Horror and shame were penalties—and today he paid none.

  Curiosity, though, did what shame could not. It would be a confounded nuisance if the boy bungled the job. He stopped and turned. The crowd he expected was milling around the truck; and then he saw a policeman, supporting the reeling panhandler. The boy was fighting to go back to the truck; strong hands kept him away. Of course! Some idiot had seen him, pulled him out in time. Rage surged through Tobin; rage, and hatred of anyone foolish enough to interfere with MacIlhainy Tobin. He snapped himself into line quickly, though. He had all day. He turned and went again toward his offices.

  “Good heavens!” I said, letting my fingers slip off the keys. “Must you go about the world making it possible for people to do that sort of thing?”

  “Must you write stories?” asked the man.

  “Well—to keep on living. But you—”

  “Just,” he nodded, “to remain extant.”

  “But what’s the differ— Oh, I—see. Will you have some wine?”

  “Thank you.”

  He extended a small crystal cup and it touched my arm and was full. There was a … a pale spot on my arm—

  “Please go on,” I said.

  “Sykes!” Tobin b
oomed as he strode into his office suite.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sykes would be a little annoying, Tobin realized, for he would be precisely the same under stress of Tobin’s new and absolute command as he was at any other time.

  “Get in touch with every available holder of a seat in the Stock Exchange. Have them all here at ten o’clock. Miss Twigg! Have papers drawn up for each of the men that Sykes brings in, signing over to me complete ownership of ninety percent of their properties, holdings, and interests, corporative or private. Miss Allen, I want Krill here immediately. Farrel! Sykes, where the devil is Farrel? Three minutes late? When he comes in, fire him. After seven years with me he should know better. Miss Betteredge, read my mail, except the personals. Miss Willis, read the personals. Philip, drop the profits on 227, 89 and 812, and put them all in Synthetic Rubber. It’s good for two points today. I’m riding it. Give it a number. Sykes! Damn it, where’s— Oh. I don’t want to see anyone but Krill. If Thurston and Greenblatt phone, tell them no. Farrel! Where—That’s right, Sykes. Thanks. Promote Goober, but give him ten dollars a week less than Farrel was getting. Get out of the way.” And, smoothly as ever, the day was begun.

  Once in his office, Tobin shrugged out of his coat and threw off his hat. Both were caught expertly before they reached the nub-piled carpet, by the omnipresent Sykes. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Yes. Go to hell. Wait a minute! Don’t take me so seriously, man! Get busy on those property transfers. You’re about to be working for the richest man in creation. Move, now!”

  The communicator gave its discreet whisper.

  “Well?”

  “There are seven hundred and twelve members of the Stock Exchange on the way to the auditorium. The rest are either unavailable or refuse to come unless they have more information.”

  “Refuse? Refuse? Tell them that if they don’t get here immediately, the whole financial world is going to smash—really smash, this time. Tell them I will give all the details when they get here. That’ll scare them. They know me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tobin. Mr. Krill is waiting.”

  “Krill, eh? Send him right in.”

  The broker was a slender man with a wide forehead and a little pointed chin. He was pale—his face, his eyes, his hands. He came straight across the room and put his hands on Tobin’s desk.