“Were you?”
It was Omega’s turn to frown. “I don’t believe —” he began. “Aw Mark, don’t be foolish about this thing. If you go back, you’ll only get more homesick. And you won’t be able to make yourself heard, anyway. You haven’t sufficient mental control of the forces involved. And even if you had, you’d only scare the pants off somebody. I can’t give you another body, you know. Not in the past, at any rate.”
“I could see and hear, couldn’t I?”
“Sure,” Omega said. “Just as you could a little while ago. But I advise against it. You’ll wish you hadn’t...”
MARK felt the same feeling of faintness, accompanied by the blackout, which he had experienced before. This time it lasted slightly longer, but ended just as abruptly. But the return of his vision didn’t disclose anything as rustically beautiful as the landscape around the former creek.
It was beautiful, of course, but in a different way. Mark had to admit that the female figure which lay on the floor before his disembodied vision — it was quite comely.
And she was dressed to display all her pulchritude. There was only one thing wrong with her. Her throat was cut! He stared, stunned. For an instant he couldn’t marshal his brain — or the ethereal pattern which functioned as a brain — to bring him up to the present, or even the past. The sight of such a lovely creature, cut off in the prime... Dimly he realized that someone was speaking.
“... Thanks a lot for your help. But keep yourself available in case I need you.”
He looked up and saw the speaker. He was a small, dapper man who had the air of a professional of some sort. His words, however, indicated that he must be of the police. Mark was attracted by a movement at the door, and turned in time to see the backs of a man and woman pass through it. He recognized them immediately.
“That’s Harvey Nelson,” he exclaimed. “The girl’s the one he’s being going with for several years, but hasn’t gotten anywhere with.”
“Terrible English,” Omega remarked. “Well, take a good look at him, because we’re going back where we came from. I’m nervous.”
Mark started to move toward the now-closed door, knowing full well he would pass right through it, in his present bodiless state, but abruptly stopped at the sound of another voice.
“Hadn’t you better put a tail on him?” it said. “It’d be a swell gag to come back and discover a body you’d killed an hour ago.”
The dapper man snorted. “You state cops,” he said. “He’ll be looking for a tail. I know where I can get hold of him. I’ll put a man on him later, when he’s not looking for one.”
Mark shot a mental message to Omega to wait. “Nelson’s suspected of this murder,” he explained. “We’ve got to do something. Let’s hear...”
“I’ll bet his story will check,” remarked another man.
The dapper man sneered. “We’ll see,” he said, enigmatically.
Mark was alarmed. “He thinks he knows something to use against Nelson,” he told Omega. “I know these cops. If they’ve got a good suspect, they don’t bother to look further, just marshal all the evidence they can, whether it’s the right man or not.”
Omega groaned audibly. “So what?” he inquired wearily.
“Let’s go back further in time and see what caused the present state of affairs,” Mark suggested. “Maybe we can take a hand.”
“We?” asked Omega sarcastically. “Why it takes half my mental strength to drag you around with me. We’re not in the present, you know. We’re in the past, and it requires a special effort to even stay here. Unless, of course, we should happen to meet up with ourselves. Then we’d stay whether we wanted to or not. I tell you I’m getting nervous!”
“Calm yourself,” said Mark. “We’re almost a hundred miles away from our old selves. We’re safe. We can’t merge. Come on, be a sport. You wouldn’t want to see an innocent man convicted of a crime, would you?”
“How do I know he’s innocent? A friend of yours. Oh, all right. We’ll go back a few more days and see what led up to this. But I don’t mind telling you it’s hard to keep in one spot very long, this far back in time, let alone change events to any extent.
“You must remember that after six thousand years, the fabric of time has set itself quite firmly. And to make any change which would nullify things which have existed so long requires a lot of energy. And besides, I’m a mere shadow of myself, this far back. All right, brace yourself!”
In the instant before oblivion again claimed him, Mark noticed a husky man in a blue civilian suit, leaving by the door Nelson and the woman had gone through. Then darkness descended.
Chapter 3: Who’s Looney Now?
FOWLER’S third chin took on a crafty look. It was, of course, only aping the rest of his face — if the thing could be called a face at all. Pembroke, the party leader, considered it more like a slightly deteriorated pumpkin, than a physiognomy.
True, the thing had a nose, and most pumpkins are totally without noses: and then too, there was the multiplicity of chins — another unpumpkinlike attribute. But, on the other hand, it did bulge on all sides, and had a slightly yellowish cast — probably something to do with the liver.
It was a versatile thing, sometimes mirroring a benign, paternal emotion; or again expressing deep-felt horror or repugnance — as when viewing with alarm — or possibly portraying cheerful martyrdom. It all depended on the subject being discussed.
Right now it was crafty, which meant that it was crafty all over, from the most elevated lock of snowy hair to the nethermost chin.
Pembroke shuddered slightly as he brushed the tips of his fingers together and regarded his highly polished nails.
“It’s in the bag, boss,” said Fowler’s hearty voice. “Nelson will turn the trick. I’ve got him eating out of my hand.”
He waved a hand.
“I hope you’re right,” said Pembroke. “You’re well aware that we can’t afford to lose this time. If Nelson won’t play ball, we’ll make him see things our way.”
“No, no, no!” wailed Fowler, all three chins registering agitation. “Nelson trusts me. That’s why he takes my suggestions. But for God’s sake, don’t try to force him!
PEMBROKE stroked the sleeve of his coat with finger nails which were beyond improvement as far as luster was concerned. “All right,” he intoned. “You’ll get a chance to work out on him first. Persuasion is the better course if it’ll do the trick. But I can’t forget that Nelson’s been acting up a bit lately. That committee meeting last week...”
“Aw boss,” entreated Fowler. “He didn’t do that. I was looking right at him, and his feet were tucked under the chair. He never moved them!”
Pembroke shook his head doubtfully. “The committeemen didn’t think so. And neither did the mayor. As soon as I pulled that bass drum off his head he pointed a finger at Nelson and said he’d been kicked.”
“He must have tripped,” hazarded Fowler. “Some of that metal work around the footlights was loose. And anyway, it made a hit with the committeemen. They got a kick out of old Picklepuss poking his head in that drum.”
Pembroke allowed his face to come somewhere near a smile. “So did I,” he confessed. “But the fact remains that Nelson was the only one who could have done it. He was sitting right back of His Honor. Then of course there was that matter of the governor’s daughter...”
“She liked it, didn’t she?”
“She didn’t like Nelson denying it,” retorted Pembroke. “Why I even heard the smack of that kiss myself!”
“You were sitting alongside her too, weren’t you?” inquired Fowler meaningly. “It must have been pretty dark in that theater.”
Pembroke flushed. “You’re not insinuating that I —”
“No, no, no!” Fowler denied. “Only she’s a pretty neat looking frill, just the same.”
“Never mind that!” snapped Pembroke. “Now get out of here and line up Nelson. This election’s got to go our way, or we’ll be o
n the inside, looking out. Danvers must win the primary.”
Fowler suddenly whitened. He knew the chief was right. There were certain things which hadn’t been covered up too well. If a reform administration got in power, they’d start discovering things. There would be a howl which would bring St. Peter to the gates with a shotgun, ready to repel invaders. Fowler left the inner sanctum, quaking inwardly.
There was a very good reason for his concealed trepidation. He wasn’t at all certain that he could bring Harvey Nelson around to his way of thinking. For Harvey Nelson had been acting a little queerly of late. Kept looking around him as if he heard voices, or maybe was afraid of something. Then, just when you didn’t expect it, he’d pull some practical joke.
And he was clever about it too. Nobody had actually seen him do anything. He must have learned most of these tricks while he was on the other side. He’d never shown any sign of being a sleight-of-hand artist before. And he invariably denied pulling his tricks — and did it with such a bewildered air of innocence that everybody knew right away that it was an act.
BUT it really wasn’t the tricks that had Fowler worried. Harvey had shown signs of questioning the wisdom of his suggestions lately. And that was bad. If Nelson ever learned the truth... Fowler hated to think of it. Yet he had to think of it. His bread and butter, not to mention his freedom, was at stake.
Harvey Nelson had always been such a trusting soul. He had looked up to Fowler as being a man of integrity and civic-mindedness, ever since he’d been a high-school student. It seemed incredible that Nelson could be losing his trusting faith in his guide and mentor.
In fact, it was this unshakable belief in Fowler’s honesty, more than anything else, which had led Pembroke to place Nelson in his position as the leader of the most thickly-populated ward in the city. It was certain that he would allow Fowler, Pembroke’s stooge, to guide him in his inexperience.
And he had. Harvey’s popularity as a war hero and all-around athlete had enabled him to garner almost all the votes in the ward, directing them as Fowler suggested. But now...
That Art Museum thing, for instance. Nelson had asked why it had taken nineteen million dollars to complete a project which a local contractor could have put up for less than six million. That had been the present mayor’s baby, and Nelson had helped elect him. Fowler had said that he was a man of integrity, and, now he was having trouble, in the light of some of the administration’s acts, in making Harvey keep on believing that the mayor was a paragon of virtue.
Of course the mayor didn’t matter. The party was going to kick him out anyway. But it was important that Nelson keep faith in Fowler’s judgment, or they’d have plenty of trouble electing the right man in the coming election.
HARVEY NELSON was a sorely pressed man. It was getting so that every time he got near anybody, something happened. And everybody promptly blamed it on him. And those voices were bothering him, too. Voice, rather; it was always the same one. And the funny thing about it was that it always sounded like his own.
That, of course, he could keep to himself. In fact he’d better keep it to himself. People who hear voices are usually locked up in the silly-shanty. But these peculiar happenings were rapidly undermining his morale.
Fleetingly it occurred to him that perhaps everybody else was going crazy. But no, that was bad. Lunatics usually thought that, and he wasn’t quite ready to admit that he might belong in that category. And besides, these things frequently happened when there were too many people around. The incident of the mayor, for instance, had happened in front of a thousand people. And even the mayor himself had thought that Nelson had kicked him!
Harvey shuddered a frame-racking shudder at the thought of it. He had quite a frame to rack, too. To think that he would be accused of kicking the mayor! He had nothing but the most profound respect for His Honor. Hadn’t Jim Fowler himself vouched for the man’s high ideals?
Of course there was this matter of the Art Museum; but then His Honor was nothing but the innocent dupe in that. He had certainly had no hand in awarding the crooked bids which the papers were always talking about. If, indeed, there had been any crookedness. The papers were always howling about something.
“It was crooked, all right,” assured the Voice.
Nelson involuntarily spun around. He knew, even as he turned, that he would see nothing but the empty living room of his bachelor quarters. But the thing was so startling that it almost always caught him off guard. Except, of course, on those occasions when the voice seemed to come from a point in front of him, and he could see instantly that no one was there.
That was one of the peculiar things about the voice. It came, on different occasions, from all thirty-two points of the compass. It seldom repeated itself twice in succession from the same direction.
The desk lamp made Harvey’s shadow huge and grotesque as he hunched over the papers on the desk. He read them over carefully before signing. Fowler had once said to do that, always. But then Fowler had said that he had checked over these particular papers, and that they were okay. He’d sign them, therefore, even though some of the items listed seemed to be a bit high.
His office as county commissioner required that he affix his signature to the new budget estimates, though he really didn’t know what half the items were for. But Fowler did, and that made it all right. He ought to know; most of the county money went through his hands before it was finally paid out.
Harvey thanked his stars that he had such an honest man as Jim Fowler to help him with these complicated matters.
“He’s as crooked as a ram’s horn!” said the voice, disgustedly.
Nelson sat up rigidly. This was too much!
“He’s not!” Harvey exploded.
Then he stopped, ashamed of his lack of control. He’d let his imagination get the better of him that time. He’d actually answered the phantom voice. The voice seemed to be as surprised as he at this slip.
“Well, well, well,” it said. “So you finally admit that I exist. It’s about time!”
Harvey shuddered again, but not for the same reason as before. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t imagining this voice. It was real! He knew it because he was thinking rapidly while the voice was talking. Before, his mind had been comparatively at rest, and the voice had crept in between his thoughts. But now —
He couldn’t think of two things at the same time!
Chapter 4: Me and My Shadow
HARVEY was a very level-headed man, not given to fancies at all. And when he faced a situation, he faced it, no matter how incredible it appeared on the surface. He’d run across some pretty queer things in France, and had learned to take new ones at their face value.
That, though he didn’t know it, was one of the reasons why he was such a trusting soul. He didn’t look for concealed motives, convinced as he was that everyone was as straightforward and honest as himself.
“Who are you?” he asked, shakily.
The voice didn’t answer immediately. It seemed to be thinking over the desirability of revealing its identity.
“I’m your shadow,” it finally said, a bit sullenly.
“My what?”
Harvey wheeled and looked at the wall. His shadow was there, all right, and the voice had come from behind him this time. Vainly he tried to remember where his shadow had been on some of the other occasions. But his mind was so chaotic at the moment that he couldn’t be sure. Ordinarily he would have accepted the voice’s words at their face value, but in the case of this entity which seemed to be given to making such obviously lying statements, he was a little wary.
“I don’t lie!” said the voice, angrily. “I’ve tried, all right. I’d like to lie because it’s one of the things you never do. But it seems that’s one trait I’ve inherited from you. I’m glad there aren’t any others.”
Harvey thought that over carefully before answering. Whatever the voice was, it seemed that it could read his mind, and he didn’t like that a bit. And it might b
e lying, in spite of the denial. He’d never heard of a shadow that talked. But then the old lady had never heard of a giraffe, either. And if the voice really was incapable of falsehood, then it meant that the mayor...
“It sounds a bit fantastic,” he ventured. “Shadows are usually seen and not heard.”
“I know, I know,” said the voice. “I’m a bit puzzled about it myself. It’s very seldom us shadows ever get strength enough to do anything. But I imagine it had something to do with that light outside the taproom, last week.”
“What taproom?”
“The one on Fifty-Second Street, where you were hoisting them. There was a red neon sign with a blue ring around it. Then there was the full moon overhead. I think it was the combination of the three that brought me to life. Didn’t you feel me heave up beneath your feet when I felt the strength flowing through me?”
Harvey scratched his chin reflectively. He did remember the pavement had seemed a bit unsteady that night, but had attributed it to the poor quality of the soda which had been mixed with his Scotch.
“How is it that Fowler’s shadow didn’t do likewise?” he wanted to know. “He was just behind me, and the same light must have struck him.”
“Not quite,” said the voice. “The moon moves along, you know. The combination must have been slightly different when he passed beneath the sign. Naturally a very delicate balance of light properties must be required to bring a shadow to life, or the thing would happen more often.”
Harvey nodded. It all sounded very reasonable, he decided. But he didn’t believe it, just the same. He was willing to accept a disembodied voice as belonging to one of the dear departed, but the idea of a shadow owning one was a little too much for him. Cautiously he turned in his chair, until he was facing the desk once more.
“I hope you don’t mind my turning my back,” he said. “One can’t always have one’s shadow in front of one, you know.”
The Best of Argosy #8 - Minions of the Shadow Page 2
