The Dead Man's Brother

by Zelazny, Roger

  All along the line to the ticket counter, I pondered. Then I said the hell with it and told my escorts I wanted to go to the men’s room and wash up. They agreed, and on the way there I bought a small throwaway razor and a tube of shaving cream. When I was finished scraping my face I saw them watching to see that I did indeed dispose of the instrument.

  I offered to spring for coffee or a beer, since a heavier than usual mixture of fog and air pollution had delayed the scheduled departure. They decided that coffee sounded like a good idea but they paid for their own.

  I dislike crowded, busy places, and when a place’s busy crowds are laden with luggage, briefcases, parcels, cameras, bags, hat boxes, umbrellas and God knows what all, garbed for every clime, babbling, rushing, waiting, standing, sitting, harassed by children and looking lost, with half-comprehensible announcements crackling above their heads, with sonic booms and growling engines somewhere without—all enacted before backdrops of flashing numbers and symbols and words that most ignore, I seldom fail to think of Breughel. It disturbs me, too, as I am rather fond of the mad Dutchman.

  We finished our coffee, made our way to our gate and waited through another delay. Four sleepy sailors, a family group, perhaps a dozen students and a number of men with briefcases waited with us. I returned to pondering.

  I tuned and focused on the big question again, the one that had occupied most of my thinking while I was in custody. Why did Carl Bernini die in my gallery? He might have gone there to steal something. He was a trifle too far along in years to be learning a new profession. On the other hand, he might have learned that the place was my home and have wanted to see me in a hurry. That didn’t wash, though, as there are plenty of other ways of getting in touch with someone. Whatever, though, he had apparently picked the lock neatly, entered, looked about a bit, gotten knifed, died where he fell.

  I reviewed my knowledge of the man: Carl was, or had been, somewhere in his middle fifties; height, about five feet, eight inches; his weight varied within the hundred-fifties; he wore glasses when he read or worked on locks; he seldom indulged in other forms of criminal activity than art theft; he did not drink much other than an occasional glass of wine; he was a heavy smoker; he never spoke of any relatives, though he had had a pretty steady girlfriend named Maria Borsini when I had known him; he was wearing a dark, somewhat shabby suit when I found him. Simple, basic facts, representing nearly everything I knew concerning him. And none of it seemed of use to me now. I felt as if I were trying to seize a fistful of water.

  At about this point we were allowed to board. As we did so, I reflected that I had not thought to ask either of my escorts for identification. That way, I might at least have learned their names. I had no doubts as to their authenticity, but it is nice to know who, specifically, is spiriting you away.

  They gave me the window seat, the larger fellow depositing himself beside me, the smaller man on the aisle. So I fastened my seatbelt, folded my hands and sighed. Above me, the air jets hissed sympathetically.

  May you burn in hell, Carl Bernini! I thought. Then I chuckled as I recalled how much he had loved Dante.

  After a time we taxied, turned, waited, then raced through fogs along the runway, were airborne, flew.

  II.

  I tried to take a nap and was just about to succeed when we landed at Dulles. Smothering a yawn, I stood with the others and bumped my head on the overhead storage compartment as I always do. I followed my escorts out, and while I dislike Dulles less than many airports I was pleased when we had passed through it and were headed toward a parking lot.

  Same seating arrangement, private car, sticker on the windshield.

  We drove beneath clear skies, and the air through the open window felt clean and cool. The countryside was not unattractive and traffic was light. There was a pleasant smell to the air and I counted a few squirrels. I wished for a while that I had found something in the country rather than settling in New York. Wishes are always fun for condemned people, old people and accident victims.

  I hoped fervently, though, that word of what had occurred in New York had not gotten back to my sister Susan, now a happily married mother of three, who still sends me greeting cards and occasional notes. She would worry. Or my father. He would be mad as hell. Possibly even somewhat concerned. After all, he likes to spend all of his waking hours retranslating Classics, except when he is teaching other people how to do it, and my situation could be distracting. My mother never told me whether he talked in his sleep, but if he did I’ll bet it was Greek or Latin. As for my brother Jim, that smug academic, I couldn’t care less.

  The green persisted, even into Langley township, and we passed several signs directing us toward our destination. Having never seen the place before, I must admit that the sight was only partly what I had anticipated. The place was surrounded by trees and situated on a large piece of real estate. It did not look especially sinister. The architectural style was Mid-Twentieth Century Government, and massive. The first two floors formed a base from which rose five towers that appeared to be connected. They reached five stories higher to attain a circlet of dull glass. The finish was of that white quartz aggregate stuff which is supposed to look spiffy. Would have made a nice hospital.

  We passed through the gates and drove to a parking lot, where a reserved place waited. As we walked away from it, heading toward that gleaming pile of concrete and secrets, I wondered idly to which portion of it I was being taken. I never did learn, either. Perhaps if I’d had along a pretty girl and a ball of string…Well.

  There were armed guards on the inside, and my escorts presented identification, spoke rapidly and quietly to a guard, then filled out a form. I presume the form concerned me, because they exchanged it for a huge plastic pass they handed to me and told me not to lose. They picked up a couple for themselves and led me away, pausing long enough for me to buy some cigarettes at a concession stand.

  As we walked through long, depressing halls, rode higher and walked through more long, depressing halls, occasionally having our passes scrutinized, I noticed signs explaining how to prepare classified wastepaper for destruction and schedules explaining when it would be picked up. I heard the sounds of typewriters and telephones. I felt more and more uneasy, in direct ratio to my escorts’ apparent relaxation. They smiled, nodded, even exchanged a few words with some of the people we passed. I was glanced at and dismissed. I felt alien.

  We had to pass through several locked doors in order to reach the one opened one, our destination. They gestured me into what proved to be an empty office and I entered.

  The room was about forty feet by thirty, its floor completely covered by pale yellow carpeting. Its brown walls were buttressed by five glass-doored bookcases, and several simple etchings were tastefully hung. There was a small conference table, numerous chairs and a wide, shiny desk sporting two telephones, a dictaphone, an intercom unit, an unblotted blotter and a neat arrangement of pens, pads, calendar and bronze baby shoes. The only five windows in the room filled the wall behind it. In the corner to my right were two filing cabinets and a secretarial desk.

  I crossed the room partway and seated myself at the end of the conference table closest to the big desk. After a small hesitation, my guides approached and seated themselves, also—the small one directly across from me, the larger to my left.

  I drew up an ashtray, opened my cigarettes, offered them around. They shook their heads, so I smoked alone.

  Finally, "How long?" I asked.

  The man across from me started to shrug, then, "We’re a little early," he said. "It shouldn’t be too long a wait."

  He did not meet my eyes as he spoke, but neither of them had been so inclined for our entire acquaintanceship. They always looked away when I looked directly at them, though I had felt their gazes upon me often and caught them scrutinizing me on several occasions.

  I heard footsteps and voices, glanced out the door at two men who were approaching. When they entered the room my companions st
ood. I didn’t.

  Both men appeared to be in their fifties. The one who headed toward the desk had gray hair about a shiny bald spot, wore very thick glasses, had a heavily lined face and was smiling. His companion was quite obese and very ruddy. He wore a dark suit complete with vest, chain and Phi Beta Kappa key. He gave me a fishy stare.

  The other man—as if it were an afterthought—turned toward me suddenly, stuck out his hand and said, "My name is Paul Collins. This is Doctor Berwick."

  So I rose and shook hands. Then Collins turned toward my escorts and said, "Thank you. You may go."

  They closed the door behind themselves and Collins told me to sit down. We all did, and then proceeded to scrutinize one another for several moments. While I did not recognize either man, the name "Berwick" served to mesh rusty gear-teeth somewhere in the back of my mind. Still, the memory machine failed to turn over and crank out an answer. I only knew that I had once known something concerning the man.

  "You seem to have left some trouble behind you in New York," said Collins, still smiling.

  I shrugged slightly.

  "I’m innocent," I said, "for whatever that’s worth. Anyway, the thing is out of my hands now."

  "…and into mine, perhaps," he replied.

  "Please explain."

  In apparent answer, he leaned to one side and unlocked a drawer or door in his desk—using several keys, it seemed. When he straightened, he brought up a fat manila folder. He proceeded to turn several of its pages.

  "It appears," he said, "that you speak German, Italian and French quite fluently, and various other languages with some degree of proficiency…And a solid grounding in classical languages, too. That’s always nice."

  "I attended school in Europe," I said. "I’m sure your organization doesn’t need another interp—"

  "Yes," he cut me off. "Tugingen, wasn’t it? But it was in Rome that you met Carl Bernini."

  When I did not reply, he continued, "On your return to the States you enlisted in the Army, attended OCS and received advanced training in intelligence work after receipt of your commission."

  I snorted.

  "…you were then sent into combat areas on numerous occasions," he went on, "and subsequently shifted to more sensitive work behind the lines. You were listed as missing in action on four different occasions and twice reported as dead."

  "I know all those things," I said.

  "I will not suppose that you were ever an art thief," he said, turning several more pages, "nor that you and the late Mister Bernini were once closely associated in such activities."

  "Thanks."

  "I do understand, however, that you make a considerable number of trips to Europe each year…"

  "As an art dealer, I visit numerous galleries and museums, attend exhibits and auctions, meet with artists and private collectors and do nothing illegal. I suppose you can supply me with the dates and places of all my trips?"

  He shrugged.

  "They are not important. I was merely laying some groundwork."

  "If you’ve laid enough now, why don’t you tell me what you want of me?"

  "It is a somewhat delicate matter," he said, "but you possess a background in intelligence work, as well as the ability to become unobtrusive overseas, and—"

  "No!" I said, standing. "I will not spy for you!"

  "I did not say anything about espionage," he told me, "though from your reaction I feel you must consider it a somewhat dirty business." He sighed and reached beneath his blotter, extracting a sheet of paper. "No, I did not ask you to be a spy," he said, regarding the page, "but for obvious reasons I am quite sensitive about the term. The image is all wrong, you know, what with newsstand and movie fare, with fanatic anti-Communists looking for enemies behind every door. Let me read you something Harold Macmillan once said concerning spies and defectors. It is quite correct, and I keep it around to cheer me up whenever business is going badly—or when someone reacts as you did if he feels the subject is coming up.

  " ‘Defection of anybody in a policy department is not very important,’ " he read. " ‘What does he give them? A few memoranda which, from my recollection of government memoranda, never come down on one side of the question or another…The really dangerous espionage is technical. Some machine, some improvement which probably has the life of what—a year at most? I think it’s all rather exaggerated, the importance of it.’ "

  He slipped the paper back beneath the blotter, sighed and said, "So much for spying. If I were a spymaster, Mister Wiley, I would like you to know that the supply exceeds the demand. I would have no need for you. I would employ a professional. I read you Macmillan’s words, though, for your own edification. Spying is dull, dry, uninteresting work—and as I began to say, what I have in mind for you is something of a delicate matter."

  I reseated myself.

  "Please continue," I said.

  He nodded.

  "Beyond the things concerning yourself which I’ve already mentioned, it appears barely possible that you may possess another useful quality. I’ll let Doctor Berwick tell you about it," he said, turning his head in that direction.

  "I am a statistician," said Berwick, beginning to locate me with his eyes. "Years ago, I was involved in a project funded by the military, two science foundations and a major insurance company. The military was interested in survival potential. Why does an Audie Murphy go through numerous battles virtually unscathed while stronger and perhaps cleverer men are dying all about him? Why does an Eddie Rickenbacker live through so many potentially fatal situations? Persons with similar histories were studied by our group, examined psychologically and physically, with hopes of determining the factors which underlie this sort of luck or good fortune or whatever you wish to name it. Conversely, the insurance company was interested in similar information with respect to accident-proneness. The two lines of occurrence seem part of the same thing, whatever that thing may be, so there was a coming together of interests. Upon completion of the project and submission of our final reports, this organization," and he glanced toward Collins, "retained several members of the original team to continue with the research under their auspices."

  At this point, the wheels began to turn and I remembered who Doctor Berwick was.

  "Did you find what you were looking for?" I asked.

  He looked to Collins once more, and Collins wagged his head slightly.

  "I’m not permitted to say," he told me.

  Thoughts now ricocheting like bullets in the boiler room of my mind, I inquired, "But you have reason to believe that it is somehow chromosome-linked?"

  After but a thick moment or two of silence, Collins came back with, "Quite nimble. But I thought you and your brother were not on speaking terms?"

  "That’s right," I said. "But we were back when he was in grad school, and I remember his telling me about some nutty experiments he was paid a buck and a half an hour to participate in. A Professor Berwick was one of the men in charge. You were fat then, too, weren’t you, Doctor?"

  He removed his glasses, wiped them, held them up to the light, replaced them, put away his handkerchief.

  "Yes," he said. "It runs in my family."

  "Well," I said, "since you’ve conned these nice bureaucrats into believing you’re onto something here, and since it seems logical to assume that you used my brother as an example of whatever it is you claim to have proved, why not sic him onto this delicate matter you’ve got in mind?"

  Berwick opened his mouth, but Collins’ audible sigh interrupted him. The smile was gone now.

  "Mister Wiley," he stated, "you may pat yourself on the back for having correctly guessed that we learned of you through your brother. Everyone in the initial tests had filled out questionnaires, and one item involved a listing of relatives. Only accident-prones and people who alleged several remarkable escapes from harm were accepted for those early tests. It had been suggested that their relatives be contacted to determine whether they, too, exhibited these tendencies.
This aspect was never pursued at the time, as the project was concluded prematurely. The government support was withdrawn during a period of budget-cutting and the insurance company lost interest after the preliminary reports. When we picked it up, though, we decided to check out the relatives, on the recommendation of the biological section of the team. That is how we came to locate your record of survival and escapes. I shan’t recite it, for I fear that you will reply, ‘I know all those things.’ "

  "Thank you."

  "…but on the basis of all these factors," he continued, "when we learned of your present difficulties, it was decided that perhaps you and the agency could be of some benefit to one another."

  The left corner of my mouth twitched upward involuntarily. It was decided. I have, for most of my adult life, noticed that whenever a large organization gets all impersonal and objective, it is about ready to throw you the shaft. No individual on their end is ever responsible, mind you. It is always the culprit, the maker of the sneaky, nasty decision.

  "You learned of my ‘present difficulties’ awfully quickly," I observed. "I want to thank you for being so prompt in attending to my welfare."

  Here, he reddened slightly, and I went on, "I can’t agree with anything I’ve heard of this idiotic survival bit, so far. It strikes me as a fund-raising scheme. I just believe in luck—good or bad—and I’m obviously having some bad just now. Also, I couldn’t really care less what you know about me. Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want of me and what you’re able to give me for it?"

  But Doctor Berwick had snorted, gotten to his feet, crossed the space that had separated us and was glaring down at me while moving his finger in rapid, salami-cutting motions near my nose, all before Collins could reply.

  "Young man!" he said. "To take pride in one’s ignorance is a mark of one’s stupidity! You do not know all the facts, yet you presume to pass judgment on years and years of careful, detailed research! Who are you to mock probability theory when you are living proof of its operation? You—"