"I'd like to take one sometime,” Helena said.
"That's a twist,” Cedric said, laughing. “One of the characters in a dream world takes a yellow pill and discovers it doesn't exist at all except as a fantasy."
"Why don't we both take one,” Helena said.
"Uh uh,” Cedric said firmly. “I couldn't do my work."
"You're afraid you might wake up on a spaceship?” Helena said, grinning.
"Maybe I am,” Cedric said. “Crazy, isn't it? But there is one thing today that stands out as a serious flaw in my reality. It's so glaring that I actually am afraid to ask you about it."
"Are you serious?” Helena said.
"I am.” Cedric nodded. “How does it happen that the police brought Gerald Bocek here to my office instead of holding him in the psychiatric ward at City Hospital and having me go there to see him? How does it happen the D.A. didn't get in touch with me beforehand and discuss the case with me?"
"I ... I don't know!” Helena said. “I received no call. They just showed up, and I assumed they wouldn't have without your knowing about it and telling them to. Mrs. Fortesque was your first patient and I called her at once and caught her just as she was leaving the house, and told her an emergency case had come up.” She looked at Cedric with round, startled eyes.
"Now we know how the patient must feel,” Cedric said, crossing the reception room to his office door. “Terrifying, isn't it, to think that if I took a yellow pill all this might vanish—my years of college, my internship, my fame as the world's best known psychiatrist, and you. Tell me, Helena, are you sure you aren't an Expediter at Marsport?"
He leered at her mockingly as he slowly closed the door, cutting off his view of her...
* * * *
Cedric put his coat away and went directly to the small square of one-way glass in the reception room door. Gerald Bocek, still in straitjacket, was there, and so were the same four police officers.
Cedric went to his desk and, without sitting down, deflected the control on the intercom.
"Helena,” he said, “before you send in Gerald Bocek get me the D.A. on the phone."
He glanced over the four patient cards while waiting. Once he rubbed his eyes gently. He had had a restless night.
When the phone rang he reached for it. “Hello? Dave?” he said. “About this patient, Gerald Bocek—"
"I was going to call you today,” the District Attorney's voice sounded. “I called you yesterday morning at ten, but no one answered, and I haven't had a minute since. Our police psychiatrist, Walters, says you might be able to snap Bocek out of it in a couple of days—at least long enough so that we can get some sensible answers out of him. Down underneath his delusion of killing lizard pirates from Venus there has to be some reason for that mass killing, and the press is after us on this."
"But why bring him to my office?” Cedric said. “It's O.K., of course, but ... that is ... I didn't think you could! Take a patient out of the ward at City Hospital and transport him around town."
"I thought that would be less of an imposition on you,” the D.A. said. “I'm in a hurry on it."
"Oh,” Cedric said. “Well, O.K., Dave. He's out in the waiting room. I'll do my best to snap him back to reality for you."
He hung up slowly, frowning, “Less of an imposition!” His whispered words floated into his ears as he snapped into the intercom, “Send Gerald Bocek in, please."
The door from the reception room opened, and once again the procession of patient and police officers entered.
"Well, well, good morning, Gar,” Jerry said. “Did you sleep well? I could hear you talking to yourself most of the night."
"I am Dr. Cedric Elton,” Cedric said firmly.
"Oh, yes,” Jerry said. “I promised to try to see things your way, didn't I? I'll try to cooperate with you, Dr. Elton.” Jerry turned to the four officers. “Let's see now, these gear lockers are policemen, aren't they. How do you do, Officers.” He bowed to them, then looked around him. “And,” he said, “this is your office, Dr. Elton. A very impressive office. That thing you're sitting behind is not the chart table but your desk, I gather.” He studied the desk intently. “All metal, with a gray finish, isn't t?"
"All wood,” Cedric said. “Walnut."
"Yes, of course,” Jerry murmured. “How stupid of me. I really want to get into your reality, Gar ... I mean Dr. Elton. Or get you into mine. I'm the one who's at a disadvantage, though. Tied up, I can't get into the medicine locker and take a yellow pill like you can. Did you take one yet?"
"Not yet,” Cedric said.
"Uh, why don't you describe your office to me, Dr. Elton?” Jerry said. “Let's make a game of it. Describe parts of things and then let me see if I can fill in the rest. Start with your desk. It's genuine walnut? An executive style desk. Go on from there."
"All right,” Cedric said. “Over here to my right is the intercom, made of gray plastic. And directly in front of me is the telephone."
"Stop,” Jerry said. “Let me see if I can tell you your telephone number.” He leaned over the desk and looked at the telephone, trying to keep his balance in spite of his arms being encased in the straitjacket. “Hm-m-m,” he said, frowning. “Is the number Mulberry five dash nine oh three seven?"
"No,” Cedric said. “It's Cedar sev—"
"Stop!” Jerry said. “Let me say it. It's Cedar seven dash four three nine nine."
"So you did read it and were just having your fun,” Cedric snorted.
"If you say so,” Jerry said.
"What other explanation can you have for the fact that it is my number, if you're unable to actually see reality?” Cedric said.
"You're absolutely right, Dr. Elton,” Jerry said. “I think I understand the tricks my mind is playing on me now. I read the number on your phone, but it didn't enter my conscious awareness. Instead, it cloaked itself with the pattern of my delusion, so that consciously I pretended to look at a phone that I couldn't see, and I thought, ‘His phone number will obviously be one he's familiar with. The most probable is the home phone of Helena Fitzroy in Marsport, so I gave you that, but it wasn't it. When you said Cedar I knew right away it was your own apartment phone number."
Cedric sat perfectly still. Mulberry 5-9037 was actually Helena's apartment phone number. He hadn't recognized it until Gerald Bocek told him.
"Now you're beginning to understand,” Cedric said after a moment. “Once you realize that your mind has walled off your consciousness from reality, and is substituting a rationalized pattern of symbology in its place, it shouldn't be long until you break through. Once you manage to see one thing as it really is, the rest of the delusion will disappear."
"I understand now,” Jerry said gravely. “Let's have some more of it. Maybe I'll catch on."
They spent an hour at it. Toward the end Jerry was able to finish the descriptions of things with very little error.
"You are definitely beginning to get through,” Cedric said with enthusiasm.
Jerry hesitated. “I suppose so,” he said. “I must. But on the conscious level I have the idea—a rationalization, of course—that I am beginning to catch on to the pattern of your imagination so that when you give me one or two key elements I can fill in the rest. But I'm going to try, really try Dr. Elton."
"Fine,” Cedric said heartily. “I'll see you tomorrow, same time. We should make the breakthrough then."
When the four Officers had taken Gerald Bocek away, Cedric went into the outer office.
"Cancel the rest of my appointments,” he said.
"But why?” Helena protested.
"Because I'm upset!” Cedric said. “How did a madman whom I never knew until yesterday know your phone number?"
"He could have looked it up in the phone book,” Helena said.
"Locked in a room in the psychiatric ward at City Hospital?” Cedric said. “How did he know your name yesterday?"
"Why,” Helena said, “all he had to do was read it on my desk here."
Cedric looked down at the brass nameplate.
"Yes,” he grunted. “Of course. I'd forgotten about that. I'm so accustomed to it being there that I never see it."
He turned, abruptly and went back into his office.
He sat down at his desk, then got up and went into the sterile whiteness of his compact laboratory. Ignoring the impressive battery of electronic instruments he went to the medicine cabinet. Inside, on the top shelf, was the glass-stoppered bottle he wanted. Inside it were a hundred vivid yellow pills. He shook out one and put the bottle away, then went back into his office. He sat down, placing the yellow pill in the center of the white note pad.
There was a brief knock on the door to the reception room and the door opened. Helena came in.
"I've canceled all your other appointments for today,” she said. “Why don't you go out to the golf course? A change will do you—” She saw the yellow pill in the center of the white note pad and stopped.
"Why do you look so frightened?” Cedric said. “Is it because, if I take this little yellow pill, you'll cease to exist?"
"Don't joke,” Helena said.
"I'm not joking,” Cedric said. “Out there, when you mentioned about your brass name plate on your desk, when I looked down it was blurred for just a second, then became sharply distinct and solid. And into my head popped the memory that the first thing I do when I have to get a new receptionist is get a brass name plate for her, and when she quits I make her a present of it."
"But that's the truth,” Helena said. “You told me all about it when I started working for you. You also told me that while you still had your reason about you I was to solemnly promise that I would never accept an invitation from you for dinner or anything else, because business could not mix with pleasure. Do you remember that?"
"I remember,” Cedric said. “A nice pat rationalization in any man's reality to make the rejection be my own before you could have time to reject me yourself. Preserving the ego is the first principle of madness."
"But it isn't!” Helena said. “Oh, darling, I'm here! This is real! I don't care if you fire me or not. I've loved you forever, and you mustn't let that mass murderer get you down. I actually think he isn't insane at all, but has just figured out a way to seem insane so he won't have to pay for his crime."
"You think so?” Cedric said, interested. “It's a possibility. But he would have to be as good a psychiatrist as I am. You see? Delusions of grandeur."
"Sure,” Helena said, laughing thinly. “Napoleon was obviously insane because he thought he was Napoleon."
"Perhaps,” Cedric said. “But you must admit that if you are real, my taking this yellow pill isn't going to change that, but only confirm the fact."
"And make it impossible for you to do your work for a week,” Helena said.
"A small price to pay for sanity,” Cedric said. “No, I'm going to take it."
"You aren't!” Helena said, reaching for it.
Cedric picked it up an instant before she could get it. As she tried to get it away from him he evaded her and put it in his mouth. A loud gulp showed he had swallowed it.
He sat back and looked up at Helena curiously.
"Tell me, Helena,” he said gently. “Did you know all the time that you were only a creature of my imagination? The reason I want to know is—"
He closed his eyes and clutched his head in his hands.
"God!” he groaned. “I feel like I'm dying! I didn't feel like this the other time I took one."
Suddenly his mind steadied, and his thoughts cleared. He opened his eyes.
On the chart table in front of him the bottle of yellow pills lay on its side, pills scattered all over the table. On the other side of the control room lay Jerry Bocek, his back propped against one of the four gear lockers, sound asleep, with so many ropes wrapped around him that it would probably be impossible for him to stand up.
Against the far wall were three other gear lockers, two of them with their paint badly scorched the third with its door half melted off.
And in various positions about the control room were the half charred bodies of five blue scaled Venusian lizards,
A dull ache rose in Gar's chest. Helena Fitzroy was gone. Gone—when she had just confessed she loved him.
Unbidden, a memory came into Gar's mind. Dr. Cedric Elton was the psychiatrist who had examined him when he got his pilot's license for third-class freighters—
"God!” Gar groaned again. And suddenly he was sick. He made a dash for the washroom, and after a while he felt better.
When he straightened up from the wash basin he looked at his reflection in the mirror for a long time, clinging to his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. He must have been out of his head for two or three days.
The first time. Awful! Somehow, he had never quite believed in space madness.
Suddenly he remembered Jerry, poor Jerry!
Gar lurched from the washroom back into the control room. Jerry was awake. He looked up at Gar, forcing a smile to his lips.
"Hello, Dr. Elton,” Jerry said.
Gar stopped—as though shot.
"It's happened, Dr. Elton, just as you said it would,” Jerry said, his smile widening.
"Forget that,” Gar growled. “I took a yellow pill. I'm back to normal, again."
Jerry's smile vanished abruptly. “I know what I did now,” he said. “It's terrible. I killed six people. But I'm sane now. I'm willing to take what's coming to me."
"Forget that!” Gar snarled. “You don't have to humor me now. Just a minute I'll untie you."
"Thanks, doctor,” Jerry said. “It will sure be a relief to get out of this strait jacket."
Gar knelt beside Jerry and untied the knots in the ropes and unwound them from around Jerry's chest and legs.
"You'll be all right in a minute,” Gar said, massaging Jerry's limp arms. The physical and nervous strain of sitting there immobilized had been rugged.
Slowly he worked circulation back into Jerry, then helped him to his feet.
"You don't need to worry, Dr. Elton,” Jerry said. “I don't know why I killed those people, but I know I would never do such a thing again, I must have been insane."
"Can you stand now?” Gar said, letting go of him..
Jerry took a few steps back and forth, unsteadily at first, then with better coordination. His resemblance to a robot decreased with exercise.
Gar was beginning to feel sick again, he fought it.
"You O.K. now, Jerry boy?” he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine now, Dr. Elton,” Jerry said. “And thanks for everything you've done for me."
Abruptly Jerry turned and went over to the airlock door and opened it.
"Good-by now, Dr. Elton,” he said.
"Wait!” Gar screamed, leaping toward Jerry.
But Jerry had stepped into the air lock and closed the door. Gar tried to open it, but already Jerry had turned on the pump that would evacuate the air from the lock.
Screaming Jerry's name senselessly in horror, Gar watched through the small square of thick glass in the door as Jerry's chest quickly expanded, then collapsed as a mixture of phlegm and blood dribbled from his nostrils and lips, and his eyes enlarged and glazed over, then one of them ripped open and collapsed, its fluid draining down his cheek.
He watched as Jerry glanced to the side of the air lock and spun the wheel that opened the airlock to the vacuum of space, and stepped out—
And when Gar finally stopped screaming and sank to the deck, sobbing, his knuckles were broken and bloody from pounding on barren metal.
IT'S A GOOD LIFE
JEROME BIXBY
ADAPTED FOR THE TWILIGHT ZONE 1960
VIDEOGRAPHY
Series: The Twilight Zone
Episode title: It's a Good Life
Based on: “It's a Good Life” by Jerome Bixby
Publication: Star Science Fiction Stories, No. 2, 1953
Teleplay: Rod Serling
Directo
r: David Lowell Rich
Cast: Bill Mumy (Anthony Fremont), John Larch (Mr. Fremont), Cloris Leachman (Mrs. Fremont), Don Keefer (Dan Hollis), Alice Frost (Aunt Amy), Max Showalter (Pat Riley), Jeanne Bates (Ethel Hollis), Lenore Kingston (Old Woman), Tom Hatcher (Bill Soames).
Running Time: half-hour episode
Medium: B&W.
Air Date: March 25, 1960
IT'S A GOOD LIFE
Aunt Amy was out on the front porch, rocking back and forth in the high-backed chair and fanning herself, when Bill Soames rode his bicycle up the road and stopped in front of the house.
Perspiring under the afternoon “sun,” Bill lifted the box of groceries out of the big basket over the front wheel of the bike, and came up the front walk.
Little Anthony was sitting on the lawn, playing with a rat. He had caught the rat down in the basement—he had made it think that it smelled cheese, the most rich-smelling and crumbly-delicious cheese a rat had ever thought it smelled, and it had come out of its hole, and now Anthony had hold of it with his mind and was making it do tricks.
When the rat saw Bill Soames coming, it tried to run, but Anthony thought at it, and it turned a flip-flop on the grass, and lay trembling, its eyes gleaming in small black terror.
Bill Soames hurried past Anthony and reached the front steps, mumbling. He always mumbled when he came to the Fremont house, or passed by it, or even thought of it. Everybody did. They thought about silly things, things that didn't mean very much, like two-and-two-is-four-and-twice-is-eight and so on; they tried to jumble up their thoughts and keep them skipping back and forth, so Anthony couldn't read their minds. The mumbling helped. Because if Anthony got anything strong out of your thoughts, he might take a notion to do something about it—like curing your wife's sick headaches or your kid's mumps, or getting your old milk cow back on schedule, or fixing the privy. And while Anthony mightn't actually mean any harm, he couldn't be expected to have much notion of what was the right thing to do in such cases.
Time Enough at Last Page 6
