by Dean Evans
number one.
I figured I wouldn't touch glass number two yet. I brought up my eyes,let them go over to the TV screen again.
He didn't have any eyes. That was the first thing that struck me.There were other things of course, such as the fact he didn't have anyarms or legs. He didn't have any head either, in case he had eyes inthe first place. He was a black swirling bioplastic mass of somethingor other and he was doing a graceful tango directly in front of the TVscreen, thereby blocking off from view the stout woman who needed ashave.
He said, "Do you have any idea what I am, Mr. Anders?"
"Sure," I said. "Somebody's blennorrheal nightmare."
"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. This substance is not mucous. Mucous is veryseldom black."
"Mucous is very seldom black," I mimicked.
"Correct, Mr. Anders."
So all right. So they were making Jamaica rum a little stronger thesedays. So _all right_! Next time I wouldn't get rum, I'd get scotch.Hell with rum. I dismissed the thought from my mind. I picked up glassnumber two, downed it. I wondered if the Doll was feeling sorry forherself.
"Incorrect, Mr. Anders," he said. "The rum is no stronger than usual."
I jerked. I stared at the black sticky-looking thing he was. I shut myeyes tightly, snapped them open again. Then I worked the glasses againwith the bottle.
"Don't be shocked, Mr. Anders. I'm not a mind reader. It's just thatyou discarded the thought of a moment ago. I picked it up, see?"
"Sure," I said. "You picked it out of the junk pile of my mind, whereall my little gems go."
"Correct, Mr. Anders."
It was about time to empty the glasses again. I varied the routinethis time by picking up number-two glass first.
"Light a cigarette, Mr. Anders."
I'm a guy to go along with a gag. I fished a cigarette out, lit it"Lit," I said. And just at that instant the stout dame without theshave hit a sour one way up around A above high C. My ears cringed. Iforgot the cigarette and glared across the room, trying to see throughthe black swirling mass that stood in front of the TV screen.
"Puff, Mr. Anders."
I puffed. The puff sounded like somebody getting his lips on a veryfull glass of beer and quickly sucking so that foaming clouds don't godown the sides of the glass and all over the bar. I didn't have anycigarette.
"_Ah!_"
I blinked. The black swirling mass was going gently to and fro. Atabout head height on a man my cigarette was sticking out from it and alittle curl of smoke was coming from the end. Even as I looked thecurl ceased and then a big blue cloud of smoke barreled across theroom toward my face.
"Your cigarette, Mr. Anders."
"Nice trick," I said. "Took it out from between my lips and I neverfelt it. Nice trick."
"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. When the singer flatted that particular noteyour attention was diverted momentarily. Your senses are exceptional,you see. Your ears register pain at false sounds. Therefore, youdiscarded the thoughts of your cigarette during the moment yousuffered with the singer. Following this reasoning, your cigarettewent into abandonment. And I salvaged it. No trick at all, really."
I thought, to hell with the shot glasses. I put the rum bottle to mylips and tilted it up and held it there until it wasn't good foranything anymore. Then I took it down by the neck and heaved itstraight at the black mass.
The television screen didn't shatter, which proved something or other.The bottle didn't even reach the screen. It hit the black swirlingmass about navel high. It went in, sank in like slamming your fistinto a fat man's stomach. And then it rebounded and clattered on thefloor.
"Scream!" I said thickly. "You dirty black delusion--scream!"
"I _am_ screaming, Mr. Anders. That hurt terribly."
He sort of unfolded then, like unfolding a limp wool sweater in theair. And from this unfolding, something came forth that could havebeen somebody's old fashioned idea of what a rifle looked like. Heheld it up in firing position, pointed at my head.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Anders. This is to convince you. A gun, yes, avery old gun--a Brown Bess, they used to call it. I just took it fromthe City Museum, where it was on display."
He had a nice point-blank sight on my forehead. Now he moved the gun,aimed it off me, pointed, it across the room toward the open windows.
"Note the workmanship, Mr. Anders. Note the stock. Someone put alittle effort on the carving. Note the sentiment carved here."
The rum was working hard now. I could feel it climbing hand over handup from my knees.
"Let me read what it says, Mr. Anders--'_Deathe to ye Colonies_'. Notethe odd wording, the spelling. And now watch, Mr. Anders."
The gun came up a trifle, stiffened. There was a loud snapping sound,a click of metal on metal--Flintlock. As all the ancient guns were.
And then came the roar. Wood across the room--the windowcasing--splintered and flew wildly. Smoke and smell filled my senses.
He said, chuckling, "Let's call it the Abandonment Theory for lack ofa better name. This old Brown Bess hasn't been thought ofacquisitively for some years. It's been in the museum--abandoned.T h e r e f o r e subject to the discarded junk pile as you yourself socleverly put it before. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Anders?"
Perfectly--oh, perfectly, Mr. Bioplast. The rum was going around myeyes now. Going up and around and headed like an arrow for the hunk ofmy brain that can't seem to hide fast enough.
I guess I made it to the bedroom but I wouldn't put any hard cash onit. And I guess I passed out.
* * * * *
The morning was a bad one as all bad ones usually are. But no matterhow bad they get there's always the consoling thought that in a fewhours things will ease up. I hugged this thought through a needleshower, through three cups of coffee in the kitchen. What I wasneglecting in this reasoning was the splintered wood in the livingroom.
I saw it on my way out. It hit me starkly, like the blasted section ofa eucalyptus trunk writhing up from the ground. I stopped dead in thedoorway and stared at it. Then I got out my knife and got at it.
I probed but it was going to take more than a pocket knife. Theball--and it was just that--was buried a half inch in the soft pine ofthe casing.
I closed the knife and went to the phone and got Information to ringthe museum.
"You people aren't missing a Brown Bess musket," I said. It was aquestion, of course, but not now--not the way I had said it. "Nobodystole anything out of the museum last night, did they?"
Sweat was oozing over my upper lip. I could feel it. I could feelsweat wetting the phone in my hand. The woman on the other end told meto wait. I said, "Yeah"--not realizing. I waited, not realizing, untila man's voice came on.
"You were saying something about a Brown Bess musket, mister?" A coldsharp voice--a gutter voice but with the masking tag of _official_behind it. Like the voice of someone behind a desk writing somethingon a blotter--a real police voice.
I put the phone down. I pulled all the shades in the living room, wentout the door, locked it behind me and drove as fast as you can make aBuick go, out to the field. But _fast_!
The XXE-1 was ready. She'd been ready for weeks. There wasn't amechanical or electronic flaw in her. We hoped, I hoped, the man whodesigned her hoped. The Doll's father--he hoped most of all. Evenlying quiescent in her hangar, she looked as sleek as a Napoleon hatdone in poured monel. When your eyes went over her you knewinstinctively they'd thrown the mach numbers out the window when shewas done.
I went through a door that had the simple word _Plotting_ on it.
The Doll's father was there already behind his desk, studyingsomething as I came in. He looked up, smiled, said, "Hi, guy."
I flipped a finger at him. I wondered if the Doll had told him aboutlast night.
"Wife and I were going to suggest a snack when we got home last nightbut you had already gone, and Marge was in bed."
I didn't look at him. "Left early, Pop. Growing boy."
"Yeah. You look
lousy, guy."
I put my teeth together. I still didn't look at him. "These nights," Isaid vaguely.
"Sure."
I could feel something in his voice. I took a breath and put my eyeson his. He said, "I'm a hell of an old duck."
"Not so old, Pop."
"Sure I am. But not too old to remember back to the days when I wasn'ttoo old." There was a grave look in his eyes.
I didn't have to answer that. The door banged open and Melrose, theLC, came in. He jerked a look at both of us, butted a cigarette he'djust lit--lighted another, butted that. He ran a hand through thickgraying hair and frowned.
"Anybody got a cigarette?" he said
