I was sent to New Orleans for such a conference.
I did not know I was going. I went out on the street as usual one morning, then went to the uptown launching platform and ordered a cab. Cabs were scarce; I thought about moving over to the other side and catching the public shuttle but the thought was immediately suppressed. After a considerable wait my cab was lifted to the loading ramp and I started to get in-I say "started to" as an old gentleman hustled up and climbed into it ahead of me.
I received an order to dispose of him, which order was immediately countermanded by one telling me to go slow and be careful, as if even the masters were not always sure of themselves. I said, "Excuse me, sir, but this cab is taken."
"Quite," the elderly man replied. "I've taken it." He was a picture of self-importance, from briefcase to dictatorial manner. He could easily have been a member of the Constitution Club, but he was not one of our own, as my master knew and told me.
"You will have to find another," I said reasonably. "Let's see your queue ticket." I had taken my ticket from the rack as soon as I reached the platform; the cab carried the launching number shown by my ticket.
I had him, but he did not stir. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
"New Orleans," I answered and learned for the first time my destination.
"Then you can drop me off in Memphis."
I shook my head. "It's out of my way."
"All of fifteen minutes!" He seemed to have difficulty controlling his temper, as if he were not often crossed. "You, sir, must know the rules about sharing cabs in these days of shortages. You cannot preempt a public vehicle unreasonably." He turned from me. "Driver! Explain to this person the rules."
The driver stopped picking his teeth just long enough to say, "It's nothing to me. I pick 'em up, I take 'em, I drop 'em. Settle it between yourselves or I'll ask the dispatcher for another fare."
I hesitated, not yet having been instructed. Then I found myself chucking my bag in and climbing inside. "New Orleans," I said, "with stop at Memphis." The driver shrugged and signaled the control tower. The other passenger snorted and paid me no further attention.
Once in the air he opened his briefcase and spread papers across his knees. I watched him with disinterest. Presently I found myself shifting my position to let me get at my gun easily. The elderly man shot out a hand and grabbed my wrist. "Not so fast, son," he said, and his features broke into the Satanic grin of the Old Man himself.
My reflexes are fast, but I was at the disadvantage of having everything routed from me to my master, passed on by it, and action routed back to me. How much delay is that? A millisecond? I don't know. As I was drawing, I felt the bell of a gun against my ribs. "Take it easy."
With his other hand he thrust something against my side; I felt a prick, and then through me spread the warm tingle of a jolt of "morpheus" taking hold. I've been knocked out by that drug twice before and I've given it more times than that; I knew what it was.
I made one more attempt to pull my gun free and sank forward.
I was vaguely aware of voices-voices which had been going on for some time before I got around to sorting them out as meaning. Someone was handling me roughly and someone was saying, "Watch out for that ape!" Another voice replied, "It's all right; his tendons are cut," to which the first voice retorted, "He's still got teeth, hasn't he?"
Yes, I thought fretfully, and if you get close enough I'll bite you with them, too. The remark about cut tendons seemed to be true; none of my limbs would move, but that did not worry me as much as being called an ape and not being able to resent it. It was a shame, I thought, to call a man names when he can't protect himself.
I wept a little and then fell into a stupor.
"Feeling better, son?"
The Old Man was leaning over the end of my bed, staring at me thoughtfully. His chest was bare and covered with grizzled hair; he showed a slight paunch.
"Unh," I said, "pretty good, I guess." I started to sit up and found I could not move.
The Old Man came around to the side of the bed. "We can take those restraints off now," he said, fiddling with clasps. "Didn't want you hurting yourself. There!"
I sat up, rubbing myself. I was quite stiff. "Now," said the Old Man, "how much do you remember? Report."
"Remember?"
"You were with them-remember? They caught you. Do you remember anything after the parasite got to you?"
I felt a sudden wild fear and clutched at the sides of the bed. "Boss! Boss-they know where this place is! I told them."
"No, they don't," he answered quietly, "because these aren't the Section offices you remember. Once I was convinced that you had made a clean getaway, I had the old offices evacuated. They don't know about this hang-out-I think. So you remember?"
"Of course I remember. I got out of here-I mean out of the old offices and went up-" My thoughts raced ahead of my words; I had a sudden full image of holding a live, moist master in my bare hand, ready to place it on the back of the rental agent.
I threw up on the sheet. The Old Man took a corner of it, wiped my mouth, and said gently, "Go ahead."
I swallowed and said, "Boss-they're all over the place! They've got the city."
"I know. Same as Des Moines. And Minneapolis, and St. Paul, and New Orleans, and Kansas City. Maybe more. I don't know-I can't be every place." He looked sour and added, "It's like fighting with your feet in a sack. We're losing, fast." He scowled and added, "We can't even clamp down on the cities we know about. It's very-"
"Good grief! Why not?"
"You should know. Because 'older and wiser heads' than mine are still to be convinced that there is a war on. Because when they take over a city, everything goes on as before."
I stared at him. "Never mind," he said gently. "You are the first break we've had. You're the first victim to be recaptured alive-and now we find you remember what happened to you. That's important. And your parasite is the first live one we've managed to capture and keep alive. We'll have a chance to-"
He broke off. My face must have been a mask of terror; the notion that my master was still alive-and might get to me again-was more than I could stand.
The Old Man took my arm and shook it. "Take it easy, son," he said mildly. "You are still pretty sick and pretty weak."
"Where is it?"
"Eh? The parasite? Don't worry about it. You can see it, if you wish; it's living off your opposite number, a red orangutan, name of Napoleon. It's safe."
"Kill it!"
"Hardly-we need it alive, for study."
I must have gone to pieces, for he slapped me a couple of times. "Take a brace," he said. "I hate to bother you when you are sick, but it's got to be done. We've got to get everything you remember down on wire. So level off and fly right."
I pulled myself together and started making a careful, detailed report of all that I could remember. I described renting the loft and recruiting my first victim, then how we moved on from there to the Constitution Club. The Old Man nodded. "Logical. You were a good agent, even for them. "
"You don't understand," I objected. "I didn't do any thinking. I knew what was going on, but that was all. It was as if, uh, as if-" I paused, stuck for words.
"Never mind. Get on with it."
"After we recruited the club manager the rest was easy. We took them as they came in and-"
"Names?"
"Oh, certainly. Myself, Greenberg-M. C. Greenberg, Thor Hansen, J. Hardwick Potter, his chauffeur Jim Wakeley, a little guy called 'Jake' who was washroom attendant at the club but I believe he had to be disposed of later-his master would not let him take time out for necessities. Then there was the manager; I never did get his name." I paused, letting my mind run back over that busy afternoon and evening in the club, trying to make sure of each recruit. "Oh my God!"
"What is it?"
"The Secretary-The Assistant Secretary of the Treasury."
"You mean you got him!"
"Yes. The first day. What
day was that? How long has it been? God, chief, the Treasury Department protect the President"
But I was not talking to anyone; there was just a hole in the air where the Old Man had been.
I lay back exhausted. I started sobbing softly into my pillow. After a while I went to sleep.
Chapter 9
I woke up with my mouth foul, my head buzzing, and a vague sense of impending disaster. Nevertheless I felt fine, by comparison. A cheerful voice said, "Feeling better?"
A small brunet creature was bending over me. She was as cute a little bug as I have ever seen and I was well enough to appreciate the fact, however faintly. She was dressed in a very odd costume, what there was of it-skin-tight white shorts, a wisp of practically transparent stuff that restrained her breasts, but not much, and a sort of metal carapace that covered the back of her neck, her shoulders, and went on down her spine.
"Better," I admitted, then made a wry face.
"Mouth taste unpleasant?"
"Like a Balkan cabinet meeting."
"Here." She gave me some stuff in a glass; it was spicy and burned a little, and it washed away the bad taste at once. "No," she went on, "don't swallow it. 'Pit it out like a little man and I'll get you some water." I obeyed.
"I'm Doris Marsden," she went on, "your day nurse."
"Glad to know you, Doris," I answered and stared at her with increasing appreciation. "Say-why the get up? Not that I don't like it, but you look like a refugee from a comic book."
She looked down at herself and giggled. "I feel like a chorus girl. But you'll get used to it-I did."
"I'm already used to it. I like it fine. But why?"
"The Old Man's orders."
I started to ask why again, then I knew why, and I started feeling worse again. I shut up. Doris went on, "Now for some supper." She got a tray and sat down on my bed.
"I don't believe I want anything to eat."
"Open up," she said firmly, "or I'll rub it in your hair. There! That's a good boy."
Between gulps, taken in self-defense, I managed to get out, "I feel pretty good. Give me one jolt of 'gyro' and I'll be back on my feet."
"No stimulants for you," she said flatly, still shoveling it in. "Special diet and lots of rest, with maybe a sleepy pill later. That's what the man says."
"What's wrong with me?"
"Extreme exhaustion, starvation, and the first case of scurvy I ever saw in all my born days. As well as scabies and lice-but we got those whipped. There, now you know-and if you tell the doctor I told you, I'll call you a liar to your face. Turn over on your tummy."
I did so and she started changing dressings. I appeared to be spotted with sores; the stuff she used stung a bit, then felt cool. I thought about what she had told me and tried to remember just how I had lived under my master.
"Stop trembling," she said. "Are you having a bad one?"
"I'm all right," I told her. I did manage to stop shaking and to think it over calmly. As near as I could remember I had not eaten during that period oftener than every second or third day. Bathing? Let me see– why, I hadn't bathed at all! I had shaved every day and put on a clean shirt; that was a necessary part of the masquerade and the master knew it.
On the other hand, so far as I could remember, I had never taken off my shoes from the time I had stolen them until the Old Man had recaptured me-and they had been too tight to start with. "What sort of shape are my feet in?" I asked.
"Don't be nosy," Doris advised me. "Now turn over on your back."
I like nurses; they are calm and earthy and very tolerant. Miss Briggs, my night nurse, was not the mouth-watering job that Doris was; she had a face like a jaundiced horse-but she had a fine figure for a woman her age, hard and well cared for. She wore the same sort of musical-comedy rig that Doris sported, but she wore it with a no-nonsense air and walked like a grenadier guard. Doris, bless her heart, jiggled pleasantly as she walked.
Miss Briggs refused to give me a second sleeping pill when I woke up in the night and had the horrors, but she did play poker with me and skinned me out of half a month's pay. I tried to find out from her about the President matter, for I figured the Old Man had either won or lost by that time. But she wasn't talking. She would not admit that she knew anything about parasites, flying saucers, or what not-and she herself sitting there dressed in a costume that could have only one purpose!
I asked her what the public news was, then? She maintained that she had been too busy lately to look at a 'cast. So I asked to have a stereo box moved into my room, so I could catch a newscast. She said I would have to ask the doctor about that; I was on the 'quiet' list. I asked when in the deuce I was going to see this so-called doctor? She said she didn't know; the doctor had been very busy lately. I asked how many other patients there were in the infirmary anyway? She said she really didn't remember. About then her call bell sounded and she left, presumably to see another patient.
I fixed her. While she was gone, I cold-decked the next deal, so that she got a pat hand-then I wouldn't bet against her.
I got to sleep later on and was awakened by Miss Briggs slapping me in the face with a cold, wet washcloth. She got me ready for breakfast, then Doris relieved her and brought it to me. This time I fed myself and while I was chomping I tackled her for news, with the same perfect score I had made with Miss Briggs. Nurses run a hospital as if it were a nursery for backward children.
Davidson came around to see me after breakfast. "Heard you were here," he said. He was wearing shorts and nothing else, except that his left arm was covered by a dressing.
"More than I've heard," I complained. "What happened to you?"
"Bee stung me."
I dropped that subject; if he didn't want to tell how he had gotten burned, that was his business. I went on, "The Old Man was in here yesterday, getting my report, when he left very suddenly. Seen him since?"
"Yep."
"Well?" I answered.
"Well, how about you. Are you straightened out? Have the psych boys cleared you for classified matters, or not?"
"Is there any doubt about it?"
"You're darn tootin' there's doubt. Poor old Jarvis never did pull out of it."
"Huh?" I hadn't thought about Jarvis. "How is he now?"
"He isn't. Never did get right in his head. Dropped into a coma and died the next day-the day after you left. I mean the day after you were captured. No apparent reason-just died." Davidson looked me over. "You must be tough."
I did not feel tough. I felt tears of weakness welling up again and I blinked them back. Davidson pretended not to see and went on conversationally, "You should have seen the ruckus after you gave us the slip. The Old Man took out after you wearing nothing but a gun and a look of grim determination. He would have caught you, too, my money says-but the civil police picked him up and we had to get him out of hock." Davidson grinned.
I grinned feebly myself. There was something both gallant and silly about the Old Man charging out to save the world single-handed dressed in his birthday suit. "Sorry I missed it. But what else has happened– lately?"
Davidson looked me over carefully, then said, "Wait a minute." He stepped out of the room and was gone a short time. When he came back, he said, "The Old Man says it's all right. What do you want to know?"
"Everything! What happened yesterday?"
"I was in on that one," he answered, "That's how I got this." He waved his damaged wing at me, "I was lucky," he added, "three agents were killed. Quite a fracas."
"But how did it come out? How about the President? Was he-"
Doris hustled into the room. "Oh, there you are!" she said to Davidson. "I told you to stay in bed. You're due in prosthetics at Mercy Hospital right now. The ambulance has been waiting for ten minutes."
He stood up, grinned at her, and pinched her cheek with his good hand. "The party can't start until I get there."
"Well, hurry!"
"Coming." He started out the door with her.
I called
out, "Hey! How about the President?"
Davidson paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, him? He's all right-not a scratch on him." He went on.
Doris came back a few minutes later, fuming. "Patients!" she said, like a swear word. "Do you know why they call them 'patients'? Because it's patience you have to have to put up with them. I should have had at least twenty minutes for his injection to take hold; as it was I gave it to him when he got into the ambulance."
"Injection for what?"
"Didn't he tell you?"
"No."
"Well . . . no reason not to tell you. Amputation and graft, lower left arm."
"Oh." Well, I thought, I won't hear the end of the story from Davidson; grafting on a new limb is a shock. They usually keep the patient hopped up for at least ten days. I wondered about the Old Man: had he come out of it alive? Of course he had, I reminded myself; Davidson checked with him before he talked.
But that didn't mean he hadn't been wounded. I tackled Doris again. "How about the Old Man? Is he on the sick list? Or would it be a violation of your sacred run-around rules to tell me?"
"You talk too much," she answered. "It's time for your morning nourishment and your nap." She produced a glass of milky slop, magician fashion.
"Speak up, wench, or I'll spit it back in your face."
"The Old Man? You mean the Chief of Section?"
"Who else?"
"He's not on the sick list, at least not here." She shivered and made a face. "I wouldn't want him as a patient."
I was inclined to agree with her.
Chapter 10
For two or three more days I was kept wrapped in swaddling clothing and treated like a child. I did not care; it was the first real rest I had had in years. Probably they were slipping me sedatives; I noticed that I was always ready to sleep each time after they fed me. The sores got much better and presently I was encouraged-"required" I should say-by Doris to take light exercise around the room.
The Puppet Masters Page 7
