by Isaac Asimov
I knew it was a mistake opening up the bedroom for disposal, but what choice did I have? There is simply no room left outside of here and I refuse to have corpses in the bathroom. There are, after all, limits. I’ll just have to do the best I can. After a while either I’ll get used to it or the smell will go away.
I should get rid of Brown’s body — the smell is impossible now — but I am reluctant to do so. It would set a dangerous precedent, it would break a pattern. If I were to dispose of his body he would not then be symbolically dead, and if I did it with him might I not then be tempted to do it with one of the others? Or with succeeding victims? My project would become totally self-defeating — I would have accomplished nothing.
It has of course occurred to me to call the real Brown to help me dispose of the body of the imaginary Brown, but I won’t do that either. It would be a nice irony but one he would not understand. I will either have to do the job myself or hold on.
Besides, I have not seen the foul man here in days...
It’s all too much. I couldn’t deal with it any more and accordingly dragged Brown’s body to the landing for pickup tomorrow morning. That should solve the problem, although I’m concerned at the rupture of my pattern and also by the curious weight of his body as I lumbered with it, fireman-carry fashion, to the stairwell. He’s the most unusually corporeal of all my victims. Even in imaginary death he seems capable, typically, of giving me real difficulties.
Two policemen at the door in full uniform, with grim expressions, demand entrance to the apartment. Behind them I can see a circle of some tenants from the building.
I seem to be in some kind of difficulty.
At my very first opportunity during this interview I intend to distract the police and kill them — put an end to this harassment — but I have a feeling that won’t work.
I should never have abandoned the living room as a disposal unit. That was my only mistake. I should have begun disposing of old corpses as they were replaced by the new. It would have been sufficient.
But it’s too late now, the police say.
The Bell
by Isak Romun
I’m standing here on the stairwell, waiting. He comes by here every evening, usually the last one out of the office. He takes this stairwell because it lets him out into that part of the parking lot where his car stands alone.
Not tonight, though. He’ll never make it to the lot. The steps are sharp, angular. And hard, made of unyielding metal. When he comes down, I’ll be waiting, a hello on my lips, an arm raised in greeting. A strong arm, an arm that will send him bouncing and bruising down the stairs. If that doesn’t kill him, I’ll simply finish the job by smashing his head against the angle of a step. An accident. That’s what it will look like. Something that could happen to anyone hurrying down these stairs.
It started early this morning with the forlorn shape of Yuddic — an old Gaelic name, he told me one time — with Yuddic McGill slouching against my desk. Mac isn’t a pushy sort, and it took me a few moments to become aware of his presence and a few more to note the worried look on his face.
“Talmage, I’ve got bad news.”
“Bad news?” I remarked unconcernedly. Mac was always blowing things out of proportion, so I rather pointedly kept on with my job of sorting and posting vouchers.
“Yes. Stromberg just fired me.”
Now, this gave me a turn, caused me to look up, perhaps feel a twinge of fear — you know, don’t ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee, and that sort of thing. Always believed in it. Well, I thought, who diminishes old Yuddic diminishes me. If Stromberg could get away with this arbitrary action, then the old domino theory might come into play and who knew who’d topple next?
Besides, the figure Mac cut was one to invite compassion. He was a diminutive, retiring, almost ridiculous man. Atop his sloping shoulders resided a head on which was impressed a face of such undistinguished features as to foster the belief that the die of character had been applied too lightly, or had been nudged at the precise moment of contact. Around this was arranged a head of listless, squirrel-gray hair allowed, mod fashion, to grow to his jawline, intimating a spirit to which the remaining cut of his Establishment jib lent the lie.
Mac’s news, matched with the sympathy that the image of Mac himself always evoked, goaded me. I jumped from my seat and said to him earnestly, “He can’t do that to you, Mac! You’re one of the key men in this outfit. Have you gotten the formal notice?”
“I’ll get written notice later today. The old pink slip. He called me into his office for a little oral preview so I wouldn’t faint dead away later on.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s not official until you receive the slip. You can’t let him get away with it, Mac. You’ve got to do something.”
“What’s to do?” He shrugged and stood there, a pitiable, defeated sight.
“March right back in there and let him know what’ll happen if he lets you go. Give him a picture of the impact that the loss of your expertise will have on this organization.”
“Oh, Tal, I can’t do that. I can’t blow my own horn,” he said despairingly. “He wouldn’t believe me as much as he would someone else.”
“By God, then I’ll do it!” I exclaimed, not unaware of the admiring attention I was receiving from the other workers sitting nearby. “I’ll go in and lay it out for Stromberg. Don’t worry, Mac, you’ll still have your job at the end of the day.”
Then to the silent huzzas of the people in the outer office I marched down the long aisle formed by two rows of identical desks to the ominous green door behind which sat the equally ominous Stromberg. I tell you it took nerve and I won’t say I didn’t look back. I did once and was confirmed in my resolve when I saw the glimmer of hope spreading across the face of my little buddy, Yuddic McGill.
I pushed myself forward, ignoring the protest of Miss Frisby, Stromberg’s secretary, and threw open the door. Stromberg looked up from a pink form in front of him and smiled inquiringly as if he had been expecting me (the man has spies everywhere). I recognized the form and noticed it was still blank. Talk about timing!
I moved into the office, slammed the door, and before Stromberg could say one word, was all over him.
“Mr. Stromberg, if you fill in that pink slip you’re getting rid of one of the best men we have. McGill’s a man of unquestioned ability. Firing him will be like slicing off your right arm. Accounts Receivable will pile up a week’s backlog in two or three days. He’s the real strength in this department.”
And I went on with much more of the same puffery, but that gives you the idea. All the time Stromberg just sat there silently and smilingly taking it in. When I paused to catch my breath, he said crisply, “Thanks. Appreciate it.” Then he picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button.
Miss Frisby came on and Stromberg barked, “Ring McGill’s desk!” A pause during which he smiled some more at me. “That you, Mac? Forget what I told you earlier. Right, you’re not fired. Good God, man, stop blubbering and get back to work!”
He slammed down the instrument and looked at me. I’m sure my face showed real gratitude as I said, “You won’t regret it, sir. McGill will give you a fair shake. Nine for every eight you pay him, I’m sure.”
“Took a lot of courage coming in here,” Stromberg said briefly and then went back to the pink form in front of him and began filling in the spaces.
What’s this? I thought. Was it all some sort of unfeeling joke played on poor Mac?
I was wrong. Stromberg handed me a copy of the completed form. My name was on it. There I had it, my two weeks’ notice. I was fired! I could hardly keep myself from strangling the man right there at his desk.
“It was either McGill or you,” Stromberg explained. “It was McGill until you barged in here and did a good selling job on him.”
“Oh, sir,” I whined, all the starch gone from my voice, “won’t you please reconsider?”
“Sure, if you can get McGi
ll to quit,” Stromberg said and cackled cruelly.
In the outer office I joined the others in congratulating Mac on his deliverance and in accepting accolades for my part in it. I didn’t tell anyone that I’d gotten the ax, particularly not Mac. I couldn’t spoil his good news with my bad; nor could I make the ridiculous request that he decline Stromberg’s benevolence so that I’d be kept on.
Instead, I put on a good face and only let it slip when my eye chanced on the green door at the end of the aisle. Then and there I devised a course of action that, while precipitate, would be extremely satisfying.
That’s why I am waiting now on this stairwell. My character is repulsed at what I have resolved to do, but a spirit of survival possesses me. I’ve finally learned that, these days, the bell tolls only for the guy going to his own funeral. A bystander’s got to close his ears to the ding-dong.
He’s up there in the office, concluding the conscientious extra hour he always puts in. Stromberg left some time ago. Only Mac and I are in the building.
Sorry, little buddy.
The Box
by Isak Romun
Working for Stromberg was like being locked in a box. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t get out. That’s how I felt — as if I were in a box, and only Stromberg had the key.
But one day I found another key, one that would unlock the lid of the box just as effectively as Stromberg’s key. Which he would never use. So I would use my own.
My key was death.
Once I had made the decision, I found it quite easy to live with. With something like gusto I attacked the matter of a plan — how I would kill Stromberg. It should not be something complex or difficult. Simple plans are usually the safest. But I had no experience.
Oh, certainly, I had read mystery stories, had even in my mind concocted ways and means of putting to rest the fictional victims I met on the printed page. And with more panache than many of their creators! But there’s a difference between a cold, paper thing and a warm, pulsing human organism. Not that Stromberg could be called warm and pulsing. He was like a fish, and it was my intent to hook that fish.
But how to hook him? I thought of poison. Traceable. A hit-and-run accident. Unpredictable — Stromberg might not die. A gun. Noisy and messy. Besides, none of these methods passed the test of simplicity. I determined to use materials and circumstances at hand.
I was evaluating the merits of a push down a stairway when Hopkinson came up to me. “I’ll need two dollars from you,” he said. I asked why. “Stromberg’s farewell gift. He’s put in for retirement. Lucky you. I hear he said you were the only man to fill his shoes.” Did I hear right? Was it true?
It was true! Suddenly I was outside my box. I would not have to kill Stromberg. Matter of fact, he began to look quite human to me. I realized with remorse that what I thought were constraints on me were, in reality, his way of testing me, of training me. That good fellow really had my best interests at heart. At his retirement bash we posed for a parting photo, smiling, each with an arm about the other’s shoulder.
I’ve been chief now for almost five years. But don’t think it’s been all fun. By no means. When you become a supervisor, you take on something called responsibility. Something only you have. It’s up to you to see that the job gets done, that your section functions smoothly.
I swear, though, there are times I throw up my hands in despair. I’m pressured to produce, but with what must I produce? A bunch of incompetents who’d rather hang around the water cooler than do an honest day’s work.
The worst is Hopkinson. He said a strange unsettling thing to me the other day. He said working for me is like being locked in a box.
Perhaps I should check with the personnel office about retirement.
The Physician and the Opium Fiend
by R. L. Stevens
The lamplights along Cavendish Square were just being lit, casting a soft pale glow across the damp London night, as Blair slipped from the court behind Dr. Lanyon’s house. It had been another failure, another robbery of a physician’s office that yielded him but a few shillings. He cursed silently and started across the Square, then drew back quickly as a hansom cab hurried past, the horse’s hoofs clattering on the cobblestones.
At times he wished it could end this easily, with his body crushed beneath a two-wheeler. Perhaps then he might be free of the terrible craving that growled within him, forcing him to a life of housebreaking and theft.
William Blair was an opium fiend. He still remembered the first time he had eaten opium, popping the little pill of brown gum into his mouth and washing it down with coffee as de Quincey had sometimes done. He remembered the gradual creeping thrill that soon took possession of every part of his body. And he remembered too the deadly sickness of his stomach, the furred tongue and dreadful headache that followed his first experience as an opium eater.
He should have stopped the diabolical practise then, but he hadn’t. In three days’ time he had recourse to the drug once more, and after that his body seemed to crave it with increasing frequency. It was his frantic search for opium which now led him nightly to the offices of famous physicians, to the citadels of medicine that lined Cavendish Square. He had broken into ten of them in the past fortnight, but only two had yielded a quantity of opium sufficient to ease his terrible burthen.
And so it was in a state bordering desperation that Blair entered the quiet bystreet that ran north from the Square. He had gone some distance past the shops and homes when he chanced to note a high, two-storey building that thrust forward its windowless gable on the street. He was familiar enough with doctors’ laboratories in this section of London to suspect that here might be one, hidden away behind this neglected, discoloured brick wall. But only a blistered and disdained wooden door gave entry into the building from this street, and the door was equipped with neither bell nor knocker.
Hurriedly he retraced his steps to the corner, avoiding a helmeted bobby who was crossing the street in the opposite direction. He waited until the police-officer had disappeared from view, his hand ready on the dagger in his pocket. As he moved on, a few drops of water struck his forehead. It was beginning to rain.
Round the corner he came upon a square of ancient, handsome houses. Though many were beginning to show the unmistakable signs of age, the second house from the corner still wore a great air of wealth and comfort. It was all in darkness except for the fanlight, but the glow from this was sufficient for him to decipher the lettering on the brass name-plate. He had guessed correctly. It was indeed a doctor’s residence. He set to work at once as the rain increased.
It took him only a few moments of skillful probing with the dagger to prize open one of the shuttered windows. Then he was through it and into a flagged hall lined with costly oaken cabinets. The doctor was obviously wealthy, and Blair hoped this meant a well-stocked laboratory. He moved cautiously along the hall, fearful of any noise which might give the alarm. The house could have been empty, but it was possible the good doctor had retired early and was asleep upstairs.
Blair made his way to the rear of the first floor, heading in the direction of the windowless gable he had observed from the street. He passed into the connecting building and through a large darkened area that, by the light of his Brymay safety-matches, appeared to be an old dissecting room, strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and dusty with disuse. Blair moved through it to a stairway at the rear. This would lead to the second floor of the windowless gable, his last hope of finding a supply of opium.
The door at the top of the stair was a heavy barrier covered with red baize, and it took him ten minutes ere he finally forced it inward with a loud screech. The disclosed room proved to be the small office-laboratory he sought — his work had not been in vain! The remains of a dying fire still glowed on the hearth, casting a pale orange glow about the room. The laboratory had been in use that very night, and in such a home the storage shelves would be well stocked.
It took him but
a brief search to discover, amidst the chemical apparatus, a large bottle labeled Laudanum. This was a tincture of opium, he knew, and no less an authority than de Quincey had reckoned twenty-five drops of laudanum to be the equivalent of one grain of pure opium. Yes, this would satisfy his need.
His hand was just closing over the bottle when a voice from the doorway rasped, “Who is there? Who are you?”
Blair whirled to face the man, the dagger ready in his hand. “Get back,” he warned. “I am armed.”
The figure in the doorway reached up to light the gas flame, and Blair saw that he was a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of perhaps fifty, with a countenance that was undeniably handsome. “What do you want here, man? This is my laboratory. There is no money here!”
“I need—” began Blair, feeling the perspiration collecting on his forehead. “I need opium.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the handsome doctor. “My God! Have conditions in London come to this? Do opium fiends now prowl the streets and break into physicans’ homes in search of this devilish drug?”
“Get out of my way,” returned Blair, “or I will kill you!”
“Wait! Let me — let me try to help you in some way. Let me summon the police. This craving that obsesses you will destroy you in time. You need help, medical treatment.”
As he spoke, the doctor moved forward slowly, forcing Blair back towards the far wall of the room. “I don’t want help,” sobbed the cornered man. “It’s too late to help me now.”
The doctor took a step closer. “It is never too late! Don’t you realize what this drug is doing to you, man? Don’t you see how it releases everything that is cruel and sick and evil in you? Under the influence of opium, or any drug, you become a different person. You are no longer in command of your own will.”
