by Curt Siodmak
“I’ve heard of the church taking money,” Donovan said. “They even sold Christ for a price!”
Pulse was shocked beyond words, his large, fluid eyes fixed on Donovan. “I wish you would not bring religion into this business.” His voice was suddenly full and resonant. “We should grope after goodness as we grope after wisdom.”
“Listen to him. He’s just been talking to a minister!” Donovan jeered. “Just take me to him and I’ll show you whether he’ll take money! He’d be the first one who didn’t. The price tag on religious people is just a little higher, that’s all. You’re religious, aren’t you, Pulse?”
Pulse did not reply. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back with an angry gesture.
“Things you wouldn’t do for a cigar!” Donovan finished contemptuously.
That must have reminded Pulse of the money he expected to be paid, because he said quietly and docilely: “We have five ‘pills’ in our box already, Dr. Cory. Five jurors on our side! We’re pretty much on the safe side now.”
“Not so long as that girl is around,” Donovan muttered. “We must get her out of the way.”
He stared in front of him blankly, wrapped in thoughts which seemed far in the future.
“Go on. Quick!” Donovan suddenly shouted. “Fast, man!”
Pulse, shocked into activity, pressed down the accelerator, and the car shot forward along the broad Beverly Boulevard.
“The girl’s father lives at the Weather by Apartments on Van Ness,” Pulse said. Donovan did not seem to be listening. He kept on staring, sitting there motionless.
In my mental prison, I felt a nameless fear, which increased the nearer we got to Van Ness. I knew I was going insane; the clearness of my thinking began to dim.
The hope that the spell would be broken and I would again be in command of my own body suddenly dissolved into a screaming despair.
If only Schratt would kill that brain! Overturn the vessel in which it swam! Or cut off the electric current which kept it alive!
Schratt must be aware what I was going through. The encephalograph must have shown strange new signs, which he, the scientist, should have been able to interpret.
But he, too, might be out of action, ruled by the brain as I was!
“Here,” Pulse said, pointing at a big white building.
“Stop the car,” Donovan ordered, “and get out from behind that wheel!”
Pulse looked up, surprised, but then he consented, and while Donovan slid into the driver’s seat, Pulse walked around the car and got in beside him.
“What are we waiting for, Dr. Cory?” Pulse asked, suddenly apprehensive.
He could not understand Donovan’s strange behavior, first rushing him, now waiting. Donovan did not reply; he kept staring ahead of him. His features must have had a frightening expression, which was mirrored in those of Pulse.
“Why don’t we go inside and see the girl’s father? I can introduce you and maybe he’ll listen to you.”
No reply. Pulse moved uneasily in his seat.
The street was deserted.
A couple of people came out of the apartment house, one an elderly woman dressed in black, the other a pale, pretty girl of about thirteen.
Suddenly Donovan stirred, stepped on the gas, and the car jerked under the clutch. Its front wheels jumped the sidewalk. It shot straight toward the two women.
For a second Pulse was petrified; then he gave a hoarse cry of despair. His fat hand grabbed the steering wheel and he swung the car off the sidewalk. The coupe nearly turned over. Pirouetting on squeaking tires, it swerved, turned itself around, and then shot toward Melrose Avenue.
“Stop this car!” Pulse moaned. He looked bleary and there were heavy rings under his eyes.
Donovan cut off the engine.
“You nearly killed them,” Pulse said. His shock suddenly turned into a crying rage. “You tried to murder them! You wanted to kill that girl!” He ran out of breath.
Donovan stepped out of the car.
“We must get rid of her,” he said slowly, like a man in a trance, and walked away
“Not with my car!” Pulse shouted after him hysterically. “Not with my car!”
He stared at Donovan with tears streaming down his face.
Donovan walked on, limping. He hailed a taxi and said; “The Roosevelt Hotel.”
He sank onto the seat, breathing heavily, staring in front of him, holding his sides above the kidneys with both hands.
Suddenly he knocked at the glass partition.
The driver stopped.
Donovan went into a liquor store and bought a quart of gin, which he hid in his pocket.
Then he had himself driven back to the hotel.
I saw Janice the moment Donovan entered the lobby. He saw her too, but he passed her without any sign of recognition.
Janice had turned sharply. She took two quick steps in his direction, then hesitated, stopped by an intangible doubt. She watched him as he limped to the elevator, presumably puzzled that he moved so differently from me, with the step of an old, sick man.
Donovan went upstairs to the room, sat on the bed motionless, and waited.
He knew she would come.
I was praying for her to come in.
I could hardly bear the tension any longer. I wanted to cry, to shout, to sob. Then, in a last effort at sanity, I collected my strength to be able to concentrate on her, to make myself understand.
Janice knocked.
“Come in,” Donovan shouted.
Janice stood in the doorway as in a picture frame. She stared at Donovan with wide blue eyes, and when he did not ask her to come in, she closed the door behind her.
She has that indefinable intuition which can understand happenings outside everyday reality. Surely she would realize that it was not I, Patrick Cory, sitting on this bed, but Warren Horace Donovan.
“Patrick,” she said softly, and her voice was strained with uncertainty. Her eyes grew so dark the pupils were imperceivable.
She stood motionless. Her subconscious fear, which she controlled with singular bravery, gave her an untouchable, aloof air. She was not capable of fright. The more horrible the truth, the braver she would be. She stood taller than the mounting danger.
She wore her bravery like ah armor, and an air of virginity made her still less conquerable.
She gazed at Donovan with singular fixity.
“What do you want?” Donovan asked gruffly, and for the first time I knew the brain was afraid. It trembled, threatened by something intangibly stronger than itself. It was evil opposed.
She could only divine the strange change which had taken place in my body, but she knew the influence the brain had on me. Nobody who had not experienced it could imagine the brain’s power, but Janice did not need to be told. Clairvoyance is commonplace to those who have it and she knew.
I tried to call her. I tried to tell her that there in the writing-desk lay the case history of Donovan. Being a doctor’s wife she would think of that, and find it. She had to find it, to read it, to be able to understand that the monster I had created must be destroyed.
I shouted within my prison and, as if she had heard me, a shiver of fear shook her. But only for a second, and I could not be sure that she had understood.
“What do you want?” Donovan asked again.
She smiled disarmingly. “To stay with you. I thought you might need me.”
“Don’t run after me,” Donovan answered. “I don’t want to see you around here anymore. Go home to your mother. Go wherever you like. But leave me alone.”
His voice was without inflection, as people speak who are suffering physically. She recognized that and stepped closer.
“You are in pain,” she said.
Donovan jumped up and walked toward her. “Get out of here,” he shouted. “Out! Can’t you understand?”
He stepped in front of her and she looked into his eyes, searchingly, as if she would read the truth in them.
&nbs
p; He met her gaze for a few seconds, then turned away.
“Go on, get out!” he said hoarsely.
The door closed behind her.
My mind became suddenly quiet.
Now that I was sure she knew, I trusted her implicitly. All these years while she had lived close to me, she knew me so well, reading my thoughts before I was conscious of them myself, being there when I wanted her, and away when I wished to be alone. She was my thinking shadow.
All these years had been only a preparation for the great task, which, she knew, would ask one day for all her strength. Here it was. How could she fail me?
A bond exists between certain people which may bring death when it breaks. Two persons connected by those immaterial links might not be in love with each other, might hate each other even, but still a strange identification which cannot be put down in formulas binds them together. An abstract identification lying outside space and time.
Often these persons are not aware of the bond until a great disaster or a threat of extreme danger breaks down the barriers of their ignorance. In these moments we step over the threshold of the unknown world and use weapons we were not aware of before.
Donovan sat down on the bed again. With a sigh he opened the bottle of gin he had hidden under the pillow. He swallowed the liquid in great gulps. He wanted to get drunk, to drown his imaginary pains.
Taking heavy pulls from the bottle on his way, he got up again and locked the door.
If he got drunk enough, I would be free! Then I could call Janice. I could call anyone in the world for help!
But suddenly I realized it was I who was drunk, not Donovan! He lived in my body, but the nerves of my stomach influenced my brain, not his! The drink had affected me, not him!
I felt dizzy and the room began to swim
Donovan went on emptying the bottle.
I seldom touch alcohol, for I hate that fogginess of mind, that loss of the control over my body. Now I felt how I was losing consciousness, my mind being blotted out, but in my drunkenness the fear came back and the doubts that Janice might not have understood.
Donovan emptied the bottle hastily, eagerly, waiting for the alcohol to take effect. I was vaguely conscious of his surprise when he found himself still sober.
Then, like a man falling into a stagnant pool, I lost consciousness.
I do not know for how long I slept but a sudden terrifying premonition of approaching death tore me out of my drunken sleep.
I sat up in bed in full command of my body!
For the first time in days I could move my limbs at my own will. Like a man in the death house who unexpectedly finds the door open and the guards away, I was free. Donovan had left me.
I swung my feet out of bed, but I was too drunk to stand up.
I tried to crawl to the door. Prompted by that terrifying premonition of danger, I had to call Janice while Donovan was away.
But I was paralyzed. The alcohol in my blood halted the movements of my muscles. When I tried to pick myself up, my arms gave way and I fell flat on my face, hitting the rug, which was soft and smelled of disinfectant.
As I lay prostrate, I only remembered that I must move. I had forgotten why. The sense of mortal danger remained, but my body stayed fixed to the rug.
I was caught again. Donovan’s brain returned.
When the telephone rang, much later, I was in bed, and it was still dark night.
Donovan switched on the small lamp and picked up the receiver.
It was Schratt.
“Patrick?” he asked in a terrified voice.
Donovan did not answer and Schratt repeated his question.
“Yes,” Donovan finally said, as if he knew what Schratt wanted to tell him
“A man broke into the laboratory,” Schratt cried. “He tried to attack the brain. I heard him shouting for help while I was in bed!”
Schratt stopped, overcome by excitement.
“Yes,” Donovan repeated. It was an affirmation, not a question.
“He is dead,” Schratt reported hoarsely. “Collapsed when he touched the vessel. When I came in, he was already dead.”
“Yes,” Donovan said again, without emotion.
Schratt shouted: “The brain murdered him. The heart stopped, as if he had died of coronary thrombosis. He had the pallor that follows cyanosis and apprehensive anguish of death. But how can that be? Did he die under hypnotic command? It can’t be possible! The brain can kill. It is too horrible to imagine!”
His voice faltered and I in my mental cell became petrified. If the brain could kill from a distance, nobody had a chance to stop it from living!
Donovan was holding the telephone without uttering a word.
“Are you listening?” Schratt’s desperate voice came through again.
“Yes,” Donovan said quietly.
“Who was that man? How did it happen he knew about the brain? Why did he break into the house? I found his name. He had a driver’s license on him…Do you know him? His name is…”
“Yocum!” Donovan finished Schratt’s sentence impatiently. “Just forget about him. Only a cheap little chiseler. He should have stayed in his own back yard. I’m glad he’s dead!”
“What did you say?” Schratt shouted, not believing his ears.
“Send him to the morgue. He was due there anyhow.”
When Donovan put down the receiver, I could hear Schratt still shouting into the phone.
Donovan switched out the lamp and lay still.
The first streak of pale morning streaked through the blinds.
Now I understand why the brain had left me for a few minutes. To murder Yocum. It had had to defend itself and needed all its will-power to kill.
After it had murdered, it projected itself back into me.
Yocum wanted to destroy the evidence of his blackmail, the brain. This was what I had wanted him to do when I threatened him with arrest.
I did not know the brain could kill without using anyone’s hands. I had not meant for Yocum to die!
Again the telephone shrilled. It was Schratt.
“What’s the matter now?” Donovan asked, annoyed.
Schratt must have lost all his control.
“The encephalograph shows strange reactions,” he said. “I just wanted you to know. It jumps in dots. The electric energy shows up in explosions on the strip.”
“I am tired, I want to sleep.” Donovan cut him short, ending the conversation.
I became so frightened, my mind blacked out for several minutes.
The potentialities of the brain had no limits!
“Brain-power is unpredictable,” Schratt had warned me once. Where would it end?
Janice might try something foolish. As Yocum had Schratt would warn her. I was sure he kept in contact with her.
But if he did not—that would be her death! The brain would get rid of her as it had destroyed everything which stood in its way.
Janice had to be warned. How could I do it?
Maybe the brain could read my thoughts—thoughts created in the same cerebrum that served its consciousness. It might already be spying on me, amused at my impotence. It might find a fiendish pleasure in teasing me with its cruelty.
Was I insane?
I had to be quiet, thinking clearly, thinking clearly, thinking clearly! Thinking of Janice. She would not lose her head, she never did. She believed in me and I could not disappoint her. I, Patrick Cory, could not become mentally deranged, crazed by fear. She would never forgive me, she would despise me.
I had only to have patience. My moment would come. I had only to wait and to remember Janice, who did not want me to lose my mind.
In the morning, Donovan surprised me by quoting the mysterious line: “Amidst the mists…” as if, in his sleep, those words had tortured him too.
Donovan had changed in appearance since Yocum’s death. His face had hardened, his mouth had become thinner, the eyes were glaring and inhuman. Ontogeny, his personal experience, was r
eshaping my features.
I watched him with my innate curiosity, in a sudden reaction of fearless interest, as if I were able still to record on paper the concrete facts of my scientific observation.
The dreadful moments of terror and desperation had grown fewer. I was drifting through the center of the mental typhoon, but the big storm was to come.
As a man in the hour preceding his death has no apprehension of his impending end, but, on the contrary, is filled with new hope for a future life, so I watched that reflection of mine, which looked at itself in the mirror, the face immobile, pale, the hair graying, lines deep-bitten around its nostrils.
It was I, but at the same time not I at all! That face in there had aged during the last days. It was not the face of a man of thirty-eight any more, but of a man haunted by weary age and impending death.
Donovan talked to himself in a Slavic language, which I could not understand. He finished dressing, went out, stepped into his rented car, which still stood at the corner behind the hotel where he had left it days ago.
He drove toward Beverly Boulevard and then to Van Ness. A few hundred feet from the Weather by Apartments he stopped the car, folded ids arms, arid sat staring motionlessly ahead.
He was waiting for the girl to appear. Again he intended to kill her.
Donovan would never have acted in this manner when he was alive in his own body. But what chance did the brain take? If it murdered it was I who would go to the electric chair! It was I who would have to die, not this brain.
It could continue its parasitic life in any other body, perhaps Schratt’s or Sternli’s. Or a woman’s, or a child’s. Or, if it chose, a dog’s! There was no limit to its polymorphism.
I did not know if the brain had ever entertained these considerations in its diseased imagination. It behaved as if only its thalamus was working, without the restraining influence of the cortex.
People whose thalamus has been separated from the rest of the brain by surgical operation have no control. They become unpredictable, dangerous. Donovan’s brain acted precisely this way.
Donovan himself had never had a pronounced sense of ethics, but still he was forced to submit to the laws of society’. The brain had lost all ability to distinguish right from wrong new.
It had only the one idea, the one Donovan had died with: to make good for Roger Hinds’s death. It pursued that objective without restraint. Murder was only a means to achieve its objective. The brain was running amok!
