“All right,” she said. “All right.”
When the pain got too much to permit him to remember any more, they tried a little morphine again. For a while they found a balance between recollection and agony, but the agony gained. Then they severed his spinal cord so he couldn’t feel it. They brought in people—psychiatrist, stenographers, even a professional historian.
In the rebuilt barn, Weber tried animal hosts, cows even, and primates—everything he could think of. He got some results, though no good ones. He tried humans too. He couldn’t cross the bridge of body tolerance; the uterus will not support an alien fetus any more than the hand will accept the graft of another’s finger.
So he tried nutrient solutions. He tried a great many. Ultimately he found one that worked. It was the blood plasma of pregnant women.
He placed the best of the quasi-ova between sheets of sterilized chamois. He designed automatic machinery to drip the plasma in at arterial tempo, drain it at venous rate, keep it at body temperature.
One day fifty of them died, because of the chloroform used in one of the adhesives. When light seemed to affect them adversely, Weber designed containers of bakelite. When ordinary photography proved impractical, he designed a new kind of film sensitive to heat, the first infrared film.
The viable fetuses he had at sixty days showed the eye-spot, the spine, the buds of arms, a beating heart. Each and every one of them consumed, or was bathed in, over a gallon of plasma a day, and at one point there were one hundred and seventy-four thousand of them. Then they began to die off—some malformed, some chemically unbalanced, many for reasons too subtle even for Weber and his staff.
When he had done all he could, when he could only wait and see, he had fetuses seven months along and growing well. There were twenty-three of them. Guy Gibbon was dead quite a while by then, and his widow came to see Weber and tiredly put down a stack of papers and reports, urged him to read, begged him to call her as soon as he had.
He read them, he called her. He refused what she asked.
She got hold of Keogh. He refused to have anything to do with such an idea. She made him change his mind. Keogh made Weber change his mind.
The stone barn hummed with construction again, and new machinery. The cold tank was four by six feet inside, surrounded by coils and sensing devices. They put her in it.
By that time the fetuses were eight and a half months along. There were four left. One made it.
Author’s note: To the reader, but especially to the reader in his early twenties, let me ask: did you ever have the feeling that you were getting pushed around? Did you ever want to do something, and have all sorts of obstacles thrown in your way until you had to give up, while on the other hand some other thing you wanted, was made easy for you? Did you ever feel that certain strangers know who you are? Did you ever meet a girl who made you explode inside, who seemed to like you—and who was mysteriously plucked out of your life, as if she shouldn’t be in the script?
Well, we’ve all had these feelings. Yet if you’ve read the above, you’ll allow it’s a little more startling than just a story. It reads like an analogy, doesn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t have to be a castle, or the ol’ swimmin’ hole, and the names have been changed to protect the innocent … author.
Because it could be about time for her to wake up, aged only two or three years for her twenty-year cold sleep. And when she meets you, it’s going to be the biggest thing that ever happened to you since the last time.
Holdup à la Carte
Gladys McGonigle, who was known as Happy, was not.
She stood behind the counter of Hart Calway’s restaurant, and cried. In her hand was the bakelite grip of a glass coffee-maker. At her feet were the glittering shards of what had been, until a moment ago, a twelve-cup lower bowl.
“It’s his fault and I hate him,” she said untruthfully. Of course, it was only remotely Hart’s fault that she had broken the coffee-maker, and burned sixteen slices of toast that morning, and told the milkman not to bring buttermilk when she knew buttermilk biscuits were on the menu. It was Hart’s fault because when he was not there her mind was full of Hart’s wide shoulders and Hart’s crisp blond hair and Hart’s smile.… Sometimes the smile made a small, sweet chucking noise, when it was sudden enough.
She began to smile at the thought, and the cry-puckers over her winged nostrils smoothed out and let the bright tears run. She set the bakelite handle down in the center of a bowl of mayonnaise and dabbed at her cheeks with a paper napkin. “I do try,” she sniffed.
It wasn’t the job. A girl as pretty as Happy could get plenty of jobs. A girl who was as good a waitress as Happy usually was, could get jobs easily too. “I’m just no good here,” she sobbed.
“I hate him,” she repeated, and then uttered a woeful moan as she saw the mayonnaise bowl. “He hates me too. He makes me do things like this.” She picked out the bakelite handle, shook the surplus mayonnaise from it, and dropped it into the garbage bin. “Leaving me alone with robbers and murderers,” she muttered.
She was thinking of the reason for Hart’s absence—a meeting of the Clay Street Merchants’ Association to discuss emergency measures for dealing with a particularly slick crook who was apparently determined to hold up every member of the Association, in turn. “It won’t be a long meeting,” he had said. “Hold the fort, will you, Hap? You don’t have to serve anything but short orders, and there’ll be enough customers in to make it safe.”
Well, he was wrong there. There hadn’t been a soul in the place except herself and one fly since he left. “But Hap—keep your eyes peeled all the same. The whole week’s receipts are in the cash drawer. I’d take ’em to the night depository before the meeting only I’m late already. I’ll do it as soon as I get back—got to run; the boys are waiting.”
The boys, Hap thought bitterly as she mopped the counter. He’ll entertain, the boys with tales of the big one that got away, and how hard the tarpon struck his line that day. Fishing and working—that’s all he ever thinks about! She could take fishing or she could leave it alone; but to be fair about it, she had to admit that the way he worked was one of the things she loved about him—that, and his eyes, of course. And the way he—
She smiled again as she thought of his intense face the day after he had hired her. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, Miss McGonigle. And tough too, maybe. But this place is all I have in the world. Every penny I could save by working for other people is in those fixtures and that equipment. It’s only a little short-order place, but a lot of big things have started small. And this is going to be as big as I can make it. Work and economize, work and economize—that’s all I can have around here.”
And she had looked up at him and said, “You call me Hap, then. It’s more economical”—and he had given her the smile, the wide sudden one, and had touched her shoulder.
“You’ll do.”
She touched the shoulder now. She hadn’t “done.” She had tried so hard to help, and had fallen all over herself, and everything had gone wrong.
She went to the end of the counter and slid open the old-fashioned cash drawer. There was no register—just a sturdy wooden drawer with partitions in front for change and a deep recess in the back for the heavy canvas sack the bank issued for night deposits. She felt the strong fabric and the chunky packet of notes inside it, and they gave her a sudden chill.
He’d been so patient with her. She had done some of the stupidest, stupidest things, and never once had he bawled her out. Well, not really. With his eyes, and twice with a sort of resigned sigh that made her want to run away and hide her head. Suppose she was held up tonight? Suppose he came back and found the entire week’s receipts gone, and the rent due, and the meat wholesaler not yet paid? What would he think of her then? What would he do?
He’d say quietly, “Hap, I’m sorry, but this is the last straw. This is too much. I’m afraid you’ll have to go.” That’s what he’d say, and she’d just die, right there in front of him.
>
Imagine going to work somewhere else, and never seeing him again! Imagine maybe meeting him on the street and see his politest, coldest smile flick at her as he walked past, not wanting even to talk to her.
“Oh, dear!”
She stood for a moment with her hand on the canvas bag, quite overcome by her own imagination. And then she began to think—hard.
And then she did an extraordinary thing. She got a hammer and nails from the tool chest. She got a needle and thread from the dish-towel closet. And with the claw of the hammer she grimly pried off the hasp of Hart Calway’s personal, private locker …
A half hour later Happy was standing by the door looking out, hoping that she might get a glimpse of Hart striding toward her down the dark street. The man she saw reminded her of him. Tall men reminded her of him because he was tall, and short men reminded her of him because he was tall.
She shook her head sadly and looked at the man who was now approaching.
He was short, balding, and pudgy. He wore a jacket almost the color of the pumpkin pies she had spoiled last week, and not-quite-shabby brown trousers. He glanced up at her as he shambled past. A few feet farther on he stopped and peered through the restaurant window, right at the end where he could see down behind the counter. He seemed to be thinking something over. Then he turned and came back.
“Got anything to eat?”
“Why, yes!” A customer, this late! Hart would be pleased. “Come in.”
He followed her in and sat down at one of the tables. She put a menu in front of him—the one Hart had laughed at so, because she had typed “Hart and Eggs” on it.
“Lamb chops,” said the pudgy man. “Peas and mashed. Apple pie and coffee.”
“Lamb chops,” she repeated, then “Lamb chops! But I—but the boss—” There are only two lamb chops left, you silly man, she thought, and Hart didn’t have his dinner yet, and he’ll want those lamb chops. He likes lamb chops! Aloud she said, “Maybe a nice small steak …”
“It says here—” the man pointed “—it says lamb chops. You got lamb chops?”
“I—” The customer, Hart kept saying, is always right. “Yes, sir.” She went dolefully back to the stove, and turned it on. Maybe, she thought as she greased the grill, maybe she could fix Hart something special. A potpie, perhaps. Then he would tell her that kind of food was for cash customers; he, Hart, was hired help the same as she was, even if he did own the place. But he did so like lamb chops …
She tonged a hot potato out of the steam table and pressed it through the ricer, mashed it deftly, and pulled it up to a cone with the tines of a fork. A pat of butter on top, the way Hart had shown her and a sprinkling of paprika to make it look luscious. Bright green peas around it in a ring, flanked by the sizzling chops. Pretty. Bread on a plate, a glass of water, and everything on a tray. Hart would have been proud of her. If, of course, she didn’t tangle up her feet on the way and drop the tray in his lap.
She set the plate before the customer, saw to his salt and pepper and catsup, and then went behind the counter again. The man ate steadily and hungrily. She kept an eye on him, and when he had only a single forkful left on his plate, she was there with the pie and coffee. That’s the way to do it. That’s how to run a restaurant. Let the boss go to his old cops-and-robbers merchant meetings. She’d run things like a clock.
She cleared off the dishes he had used, washed them immediately, and put them away. Then she made out the check, adding it three times to be sure it was right. She laid it properly, face down, at his left, and went away again.
He ate the pie as slowly and deliberately as he had the rest of the meal, then reached for the check and patted his right hip pocket.
Then he patted his left hip pocket. Then his coat pockets.
“Miss,” he called.
“Yes, sir?”
He coughed apologetically. “I—ah—seem to have left my wallet in my other clothes.”
“You—why you—”
The oldest gag in the restaurant business, and it had to happen to her! Fury mounted in her. Burned toast and broken coffee-makers—and now this! A free meal—and Hart’s lamb chops!
She searched futilely for a word, found an “Oh!”, tried again, and said, “Why, I ought to have you arrested!”
“I beg your pardon,” said the pudgy man. “Really, miss. It could happen to anyone. I don’t know what to say. I could—I could leave you my name and address.”
“I’m not interested in the address of an empty lot,” she said coldly. “Haven’t you any money at all?”
He shook his head, patting forlornly at his pockets.
Her eyes filled with tears—angry ones. “I don’t know what my boss will say. I wish a policeman would walk in here right now, that’s what I wish!”
And at that moment a policeman did walk in. The pudgy man half rose, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, and sat down again.
Happy whirled and stared. He was a big policeman, with hard eyes and a big face, and he had a big gun and a big nightstick. He said, “What’s going on here?”
The pudgy man seemed to wilt. He sagged down in his chair, but he said nothing. Happy suddenly felt a twinge of pity. “This man didn’t pay for his dinner,” she said, in a considerably softer voice. “But it’s all right. I can handle it, I—I think.”
“A deadbeat, eh?” said the policeman. He looked around the restaurant, out into the deserted street, and licked his lips. “I got just the treatment for deadbeats.” He swung his nightstick by its leather thong, caught the handle deftly and advanced on the pudgy man.
“No!” cried Happy. “Don’t hit him, officer! It’s—it’s all right. I’ll take care of the bill myself.” The look of fear on the pudgy man’s face as he started out of his chair had simply torn her apart. Why, he was little, and hungry, that was all!
“You keep out of this now, kiddo,” said the policeman. He brought his stick point downward on the checked tablecloth with a crash. “Out of my way—I’ll fix him!”
Happy pushed between him and the table. “No! No!”
The policeman swept her aside with one easy motion, leaned over, and tapped the pudgy man behind the ear with the stick. The deadbeat sighed and slid under the table.
“See how easy?” said the policeman.
“You pushed me!” gasped Happy.
“And you hit that poor little man, why you great big—” and she ran out of words. Then her temper burst through, and she rushed at him, forgetting his gun, his stick, his size, his uniform, everything. He was nothing but a cruel bully, and she felt just as she had when she was a child and saw a man beating a dog.
Her attack was so sudden that even though her figure was small and her pert face soft, Happy could pack a surprising wallop. She hit the policeman’s blue-clad chest as if she had been fired from a cannon, like the girl in the circus. The policeman staggered back, tripped over the pudgy man’s leg, which stuck out from under the table, and went down like tall timber.
For a blind moment the smoke of fury curled around Hap’s brain and she saw nothing—only a blur. Then her vision cleared.
Two broken chairs. A table and some dishes in a rubble on the floor. The still figure of the pudgy man. And the policeman, groaning, feebly feeling the side of his head where it had struck the counter. He rolled over and began to drag one knee under him.
Happy uttered a mouse-like squeak and fled.
This was the end. This was the complete, utter, final finish of everything.
She ran, sobbing, down the street, not caring where she was going. She had attacked a policeman, wrecked the restaurant, maybe cost Hart Calway everything he had worked so hard to accumulate. And now Hart would never want to see her again.
She ran right into his arms.
“Oh, oh dear!” she gasped. “Policeman. Oh, Hart! The little man couldn’t pay lamb chops hit him on the head!”
“What?”
There were two men with Hart. One of them said, “Sounds like so
meone got hit on the head with some lamb chops.”
“Shut up, Frank. There’s something wrong here. Bill, blow your whistle.”
A shrill blast ripped out. For some reason it loosed a flood of tears in Happy.
Hart put an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Happy darling,” he said gently. “Let’s go back and straighten it all out.”
Happy looked up into his face. She had caught one word, and fixed on it. She said it. “Darling.”
“Why—Happy!”
“Come on!” said the man called Bill.
Somehow Happy got her feet under her and found another breath or two. They ran back down the street. At the corner near the restaurant they were joined by two policemen.
“Who blew that whistle?”
“Come on!” Hart said urgently. They skidded to a stop in front of the restaurant. One of the policemen barked, “Down! Get down!”
The next thing Happy knew she was sitting on the pavement in front of the restaurant, dragged down by Hart. “Sorry, darling, but that man inside’s got a gun.”
Slowly she raised her head. She could just see into the restaurant.
The big policeman who had hit the deadbeat was behind the counter with his hand in the cash drawer. He was staring at the pudgy man, who was walking toward him on the balls of his feet. Suddenly the little man ran two delicate steps and leaped over the counter.
The policeman tried to reach his gun, but before he could grasp it, the little man was on him like a dervish. There was a flurry of action and the little man backed off, the gun in his hand.
The two policemen, the three merchants, and Happy crowded into the restaurant. One of the policemen said, “Why—it’s the Chief!”
The pudgy man straightened up. “Hello, boys,” he panted; “Get the handcuffs on him. We’ll book him for everything from armed robbery to impersonating an officer. Know him?”
Hart looked at the limp blue figure behind the counter. “I know him,” he said.
“Me too,” said the man called Frank. “That’s Eddie Lowell. He was bootlegging from the back room of a drug store, and the Merchants’ Association ran him out. No wonder he’s been working us over, one by one.”
The Nail and the Oracle Page 13
