The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Just a moment, please. There—that’s better. We seem to have had a bad connection. Now who is it, please?

  "Oh ... Mr. Hoag. Come up, Mr. Hoag." She punched the button controlling the electrical outer lock.

  He came in bobbing nervously. "I trust this is not an intrusion, but I have been so upset that I felt I couldn’t wait for a report."

  She did not invite him to sit down. "I am sorry," she said sweetly, "to have to disappoint you. Mr. Randall has not yet come home."

  "Oh." He seemed pathetically disappointed, so much so that she felt a sudden sympathy. Then she remembered what her husband had been put through that morning and froze up again.

  "Do you know," he continued, "when he will be home?"

  "That I couldn’t say. Wives of detectives, Mr. Hoag, learn not to wait up."

  "Yes, I suppose so. Well, I presume I should not impose on you further. But I am anxious to speak with him."

  "I’ll tell him so. Was there anything in particular you had to say to him? Some new data, perhaps?"

  "No—" he said slowly. "No, I suppose ... it all seems so silly!"

  "What does, Mr. Hoag?"

  He searched her face. "I wonder— Mrs. Randall, do you believe in possession?"

  "Possession?"

  "Possession of human souls—by devils."

  "I can’t say that I’ve thought much about it," she answered cautiously. She wondered if Teddy were listening, if he could reach her quickly if she screamed.

  Hoag was fumbling strangely at his shirt front; he got a button opened; she whiffed an acrid, unclean smell, then he was holding out something in his hand, something fastened by a string around his neck under his shirt.

  She forced herself to look at it and with intense relief recognized it for what it was—a cluster of fresh cloves of garlic, worn as a necklace. "Why do you wear it?" she asked.

  "It does seem silly, doesn’t it?" he admitted. "Giving way to superstition like that—but it comforts me. I’ve had the most frightening feeling of being watched—"

  "Naturally. We’ve been— Mr. Randall has been watching you, by your instructions."

  "Not that. A man in a mirror—" He hesitated.

  "A man in a mirror?"

  "Your reflection in a mirror watches you, but you expect it; it doesn’t worry you. This is something new, as if someone were trying to get at me, waiting for a chance. Do you think I’m crazy?" he concluded suddenly.

  Her attention was only half on his words, for she had noticed something when he held out the arlic which had held her attention. His fingertips were ridged and grooved in whorls and loops and arches like anyone else’s—and they were certainly not coated with collodion tonight. She decided to get a set of prints for Teddy. "No, I don’t think you’re crazy," she said soothingly, "but I think you’ve let yourself worry too much. You should relax. Wouldn’t you like a drink?"

  "I would be grateful for a glass of water."

  Water or liquor, it was the glass she was interested in. She excused herself and went out to the kitchen where she selected a tall glass with smooth, undecorated sides. She polished it carefully, added ice and water with equal care not to wet the sides. She carried it in, holding it near the bottom.

  Intentionally or unintentionally, he had outmaneuvered her. He was standing in front of the mirror near the door, where he had evidently been straightening his tie and tidying himself and returning the garlic to its hide-away. When he turned around at her approach she saw that he had put his gloves back on.

  She invited him to sit down, thinking that if he did so he would remove his gloves. But he said, "I’ve imposed on you too long as it is." He drank half the glass of water, thanked her, and left silently.

  Randall came in. "He’s gone?"

  She turned quickly. "Yes, he’s gone. Teddy, I wish you would do your own dirty work. He makes me nervous. I wanted to scream for you to come in."

  "Steady, old girl."

  "That’s all very well, but I wish we had never laid eyes on him." She went to a window and opened it wide.

  "Too late for Herpicide. We’re in it now." His eye rested on the glass. "Say—did you get his prints?"

  "No such luck. I think he read my mind."

  "Too bad."

  "Teddy, what do you intend to do about him now?"

  "I’ve got an idea, but let me work it out first. What was this song and dance he was giving you about devils and a man in a mirror watching him?"

  "That wasn’t what he said."

  "Maybe I was the man in the mirror. I watched him in one this morning."

  "Huh-uh. He was just using a metaphor. He’s got the jumps." She turned suddenly, thinking that she had seen something move over her shoulder. But there was nothing there but the furniture and the wall. Probably just a reflection in the glass, she decided, and said nothing about it. "I’ve got ‘em, too," she added. "As for devils, he’s all the devil I want. You know what I’d like?"

  "What?"

  "A big stiff drink and early to bed."

  "Good idea." He wandered out into the kitchen and started mixing the prescription. "Want a sandwich too?"

  Randall found himself standing in his pajamas in the living room of their apartment, facing the mirror that hung near the outer door. His reflection—no, not his reflection, for the image was properly dressed in conservative clothes appropriate to a solid man of business—the image spoke to him.

  "Edward Randall."

  "Huh?"

  "Edward Randall, you are summoned. Here—take my hand. Pull up a chair and you will find you can climb through easily."

  It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do, in fact the only reasonable thing to do. He placed a straight chair under the mirror, took the hand offered him, and scrambled through. There was a washstand under the mirror on the far side, which gave him a leg down. He and his companion were standing in a small, white tiled washroom such as one finds in office suites.

  "Hurry," said his companion. "The others are all assembled."

  "Who are you?"

  "The name is Phipps," the other said, with a slight bow. "This way, please."

  He opened the door of the washroom and gave Randall a gentle shove. He found himself in a room that was obviously a board room—with a meeting in session, for the long table was surrounded by about dozen men. They all had their eyes on him.

  "Up you go, Mr. Randall."

  Another shove, not quite so gentle and he was sitting in the middle of the polished table. Its hard top felt cold through the thin cotton of his pajama trousers.

  He drew the jacket around him tightly and shivered. "Cut it out," he said. "Let me down from here. I’m not dressed." He tried to get up, but he seemed unable to accomplish that simple movement.

  Somebody behind him chuckled. A voice said, "He’s not very fat." Someone answered, "That doesn’t matter, for this job."

  He was beginning to recognize the situation—the last time it had been Michigan Boulevard without his trousers. More than once it had found him back in school again, not only undressed, but lessons unprepared, and late in the bargain. Well, he knew how to beat it—close your eyes and reach down for the covers, then wake up safe in bed.

  He closed his eyes.

  "No use to hide, Mr. Randall. We can see you and you are simply wasting time."

  He opened his eyes. "What’s the idea?" he said savagely. "Where am I? Why’dju bring me here? What’s going on?"

  Facing him at the head of the table was a large man. Standing, he must have measured six feet two at least, and he was broad-shouldered and heavy-boned in proportion. Fat was laid over his huge frame liberally. But his hands were slender and well shaped and beautifully manicured; his features were not large and seemed smaller, being framed in fat jowls and extra chins. His eyes were small and merry; his mouth smiled a good deal and he had a trick of compressing his lips and shoving them out.

  "One thing at a time, Mr. Randall," he answered jovially. "As to where you are, this is the
thirteenth floor of the Acme Building—you remember." He chuckled, as if they shared a private joke. "As to what goes on, this is a meeting of the board of Detheridge & Co. I"—he managed to bow sitting down, over the broad expanse of his belly—"am R. Jefferson Stoles, chairman of the board, at your service, sir."

  "But—"

  "Please, Mr. Randall—introductions first. On my right. Mr. Townsend."

  "How do you do, Mr. Randall."

  "How do you do," Randall answered mechanically. "Look here, this has gone far—"

  "Then Mr. Gravesby, Mr. Wells, Mr. Yoakum, Mr. Printemps, Mr. Jones. Mr. Phipps you have et. He is our secretary. Beyond him is seated Mr. Reifsnider and Mr. Snyder—no relation. And finally Mr. Parker and Mr. Crewes. Mr. Potiphar, I am sorry to say, could not attend, but we have a quorum."

  Randall tried to get up again, but the table top seemed unbelievably slippery. "I don’t care," he said bitterly, "whether you have a quorum or a gang fight. Let me out of here."

  "Tut, Mr. Randall. Tut. Don’t you want your questions answered?"

  "Not that bad. Damn it, let me—"

  "But they really must be answered. This is a business session and you are the business at hand."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. You are, shall we say, a minor item on the agenda, but one which must be cleared up. We do not like your activity, Mr. Randall. You really must cease it."

  Before Randall could answer, Stoles shoved a palm in his direction. "Don’t be hasty, Mr. Randall. Let me explain. Not all of your activities. We do not care how many blondes you plant in hotel rooms to act as complacent correspondents in divorce cases, nor how many wires you tap, nor letters you open. There is only one activity of yours we are concerned with. I refer to Mr. Hoag." He spat out the last word.

  Randall could feel a stir of uneasiness run through the room.

  "What about Mr. Hoag?" he demanded. There was the stir again. Stoles’ face no longer even pretended to smile.

  "Let us refer to him hereafter," he said, "as ‘your client.’ It comes to this, Mr. Randall. We have other plans for Mr... . for your client. You must leave him alone. You must forget him, you must never see him again."

  Randall stared back, uncowed. "I’ve never welshed on a client yet. I’ll see you in hell first."

  "That," admitted Stoles, shoving out his lips, "is a distinct possibility, I grant you, but one that neither you nor I would care to contemplate, save as a bombastic metaphor. Let us be reasonable. You are a reasonable man, I know, and my confreres and I, we are reasonable creatures, too. Instead of trying to coerce or cajole you I want to tell you a story, so that you may understand why."

  "I don’t care to listen to any stories. I’m leaving."

  "Are you really? I think not. And you will listen!"

  He pointed a finger at Randall; Randall attempted to reply, found that he could not. "This," he thought, "is the damnedest no-pants dream I ever had. Shouldn’t eat before going to bed—knew better."

  "In the Beginning," Stoles stated, "there was the Bird." He suddenly covered his face with his hands; all the others gathered around the table did likewise.

  The Bird—Randall felt a sudden vision of what those two simple words meant when mouthed by this repulsive fat man; no soft and downy chick, but a bird of prey, strong-winged and rapacious— unwinking eyes, whey-colored and staring—purple wattles—but most especially he saw its feet, bird feet, covered with yellow scales, fleshless and taloned and foul from use. Obscene and terrible—

  Stoles uncovered his face. "The Bird was alone. Its great wings beat the empty depths of space where there was none to see. But deep within It was the Power and the Power was Life. It looked to the north when there was no north; It looked to the south when there was no south; east and west It looked, and up and down. Then out of the nothingness and out of Its Will It wove the nest.

  "The nest was broad and deep and strong. In the nest It laid one hundred eggs. It stayed on the nest and brooded the eggs, thinking Its thoughts, for ten thousand thousand years. When the time was ripe It left the nest and hung it about with lights that the fledglings might see. It watched and aited.

  "From each of the hundred eggs a hundred Sons of the Bird were hatched—ten thousand strong. Yet so wide and deep was the nest there was room and to spare for each of them—a kingdom apiece and each was a king—king over the things that creep and crawl and swim and fly and go on all fours, things that had been born from the crevices of the nest, out of the warmth and the waiting.

  "Wise and cruel was the Bird, and wise and cruel were the Sons of the Bird. For twice ten thousand thousand years they fought and ruled and the Bird was pleased. Then there were some who decided that they were as wise and strong as the Bird Itself. Out of the stuff of the nest they created creatures like unto themselves and breathed in their nostrils, that they might have sons to serve them and fight for them. But the sons of the Sons were not wise and strong and cruel, but weak and soft and stupid. The Bird was not pleased.

  "Down It cast Its Own Sons and let them be chained by the softly stupid— Stop fidgeting, Mr. Randall! I know this is difficult for your little mind, but for once you really must think about something longer than your nose and wider than your mouth, believe me!

  "The stupid and the weak could not hold the Sons of the Bird; therefore, the Bird placed among them, here and there, others more powerful, more cruel, and more shrewd, who by craft and cruelty and deceit could circumvent the attempts of the Sons to break free. Then the Bird sat back, well content, and waited for the game to play itself out.

  "The game is being played. Therefore, we cannot permit you to interfere with your client, nor to assist him in any way. You see that, don’t you?"

  "I don’t see," shouted Randall, suddenly able to speak, "a damn thing! To hell with the bunch of you! This joke has gone far enough."

  "Silly and weak and stupid," Stoles sighed. "Show him, Mr. Phipps."

  Phipps got up, placed a brief case on the table, opened it, and drew something from it, which he shoved under Randall’s nose—a mirror.

  "Please look this way, Mr. Randall," he said politely.

  Randall looked at himself in the mirror.

  "What are you thinking of, Mr. Randall?"

  The image faded, he found himself staring into his own bedroom, as if from a slight height. The room was dark, but he could plainly see his wife’s head on her pillow. His own pillow was vacant.

  She stirred, and half turned over, sighing softly. Her lips were parted a trifle and smiling faintly, as if what she dreamed were pleasant.

  "See, Mr. Randall?" said Stoles. "You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, now, would you?"

  "Why, you dirty, low-down—"

  "Softly, Mr. Randall, softly. And that will be enough from you. Remember your own interests— and hers." Stoles turned away from him. "Remove him, Mr. Phipps."

  "Come, Mr. Randall." He felt again that undignified shove from behind, then he was flying through the air with the scene tumbling to pieces around him.

  He was wide-awake in his own bed, flat on his back and covered with cold sweat.

  Cynthia sat up. "What’s the matter, Teddy?" she said sleepily. "I heard you cry out."

  "Nothing. Bad dream, I guess. Sorry I woke you."

  " ‘S all right. Stomach upset?"

  "A little, maybe."

  "Take some bicarb."

  "I will." He got up, went to the kitchen and fixed himself a small dose. His mouth was a little sour, e realized, now that he was awake; the soda helped matters.

  Cynthia was already asleep when he got back; he slid into bed quietly. She snuggled up to him without waking, her body warming his. Quickly he was asleep, too.

  " ‘Never mind trouble! Fiddle-de-dee!’ " He broke off singing suddenly, turned the shower down sufficiently to permit ordinary conversation, and said, "Good morning, beautiful!"

  Cynthia was standing in the door of the bathroom, rubbing one eye and looking blearily at him with
the other. "People who sing before breakfast—good morning."

  "Why shouldn’t I sing? It’s a beautiful day and I’ve had a beautiful sleep. I’ve got a new shower song. Listen."

  "Don’t bother."

  "This is a song," he continued, unperturbed, "dedicated to a Young Man Who Has Announced His Intention of Going Out into the Garden to Eat Worms."

  "Teddy, you’re nasty."

  "No, I’m not. Listen." He turned the shower on more fully. "You have to have the water running to get the full effect," he explained. "First verse:

  "I don’t think I’ll go out in the garden;

  I’ll make the worms come in to me!

  If I have to be miser’ble,

  I might as well be so comjort’bly!"

  He paused for effect. "Chorus," he announced.

  "Never mind trouble! Fiddle-de-dee!

  Eat your worms with Vitamin B!

  Follow this rule and you will be

  Still eating worms at a hundred ‘n’ three!"

  He paused again. "Second verse," he stated. "Only I haven’t thought up a second verse yet. Shall I repeat the first verse?"

  "No, thanks. Just duck out of that shower and give me a chance at it."

  "You don’t like it," he accused her.

  "I didn’t say I didn’t."

  "Art is rarely appreciated," he mourned. But he got out.

  He had the coffee and the orange juice waiting by the time she appeared in the kitchen. He handed her a glass of the fruit juice. "Teddy, you’re a darling. What do you want in exchange for all this coddling?"

  "You. But not now. I’m not only sweet, I’m brainy."

  "So?"

  "Uh-huh. Look— I’ve figured out what to do with friend Hoag."

  "Hoag? Oh, dear!"

  "Look out—you’ll spill it!" He took the glass from her and set it down. "Don’t be silly, babe. What’s gotten into you?"

  "I don’t know, Teddy. I just feel as if we were tackling the kingpin of Cicero with a pea shooter."

  "I shouldn’t have talked business before breakfast. Have your coffee—you’ll feel better."

  "All right. No toast for me, Teddy. What’s your brilliant idea?"