Callahan looked up.
“Monty!” he croaked.
His face creased into a smile. “Monty!” he repeated. “ ‘Tis good to see ye, lad!”
Callaghan looked Montrose over carefully. Then he reached below the bar and took out a dusty bottle of very old Baltimore rye. It was his seal of approval on what he saw.
“Me boy,” he said, as he poured, “ye look very prosperous and I’m glad to see it.”
“Prosperous?” Montrose’s eyes grew bleak. “Well, I’ve got lots of money and I can do lots of things, but I wouldn’t exactly say I’d prospered.”
“Talkin’ in riddles, hey? Well, here’s to ye!”
They drank. Callaghan cast a look up and down the bar, saw nothing that needed his attention, then leaned forward, elbows on the bar.
“Last time I saw ye was over a year ago. Ye were on yer uppers, then.” Montrose laughed.
“I started my comeback that very night. Got a tip from Jack Rann. which reminds me.” His voice was casual. “Is he here?”
Callaghan scowled.
“He is.”
“That’s fine. I’ve been looking for him.”
“Why?”
Montrose waved his hand airily. “Well, to be frank with you, Cal, I’m going to kill Jack Rann.”
“Somebody should do that.” The Irishman did a double take. “What did ye say, Monty?” he whispered.
“I said I was going to kill Rann,” Montrose replied.
Callaghan threw up his hands.
“Ye’re drunk agin! Monty, why don’t you lay off the stuff! And don’t you start no ruckus in my place!”
Montrose took out an initialed leather cigarette case. With steady fingers he chose a smoke, lit it and flicked the match away. After a deep drag, he smiled at Callaghan.
“Cal, old boy,” he drawled, “I am not drunk and you know it! And I won’t start anything. I’ll just shoot him, that’s all!”
Callaghan’s face purpled.
“Did ye ever hear of the electric chair, boy! Didn’t ye know they execute people for murder?”
“Not me.” Montrose spoke quite seriously. “I’ve already tried it and I can’t be caught. You’ll see.”
Callaghan found himself believing the other. Unbelief could not stand up before the easy confidence of Montrose. The Irishman was afraid, terribly afraid.
“Ye’re not crazy,” Callaghan stated.
“No.”
“Then what have ye done—sold yer soul to the devil?”
Montrose shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Not my soul, Cal.
CALLAGHAN watched him walk to where Jack Rann sat. Unfortunately, a customer summoned him, so Callaghan never did hear what was said.
It wasn’t very much.
Montrose stared confidently into Rann’s slate eyes, watched them widen with recognition.
“ ’Lo, chum,” Rann said. “What are you doing back here?”
“Just a little visit,” smiled Montrose. “Came to pay you your commission on a sale.”
“Commission?”
“Yes. Remember when you advised me to sell my body to a hospital?”
Rann frowned, then he smiled what was, for him, a wide smile.
“Did that really work?” he chuckled. He hesitated, taking in Montrose’s appearance with a quick glance. Then he said, “Sit down and tell me about it. You know, I used to wonder just what put that idea in my mind?”
“Really?” Montrose remained standing.
“Yeah. I didn’t know anything about it, chum. I was just tryin’ to get rid of you.”
“It worked, Rann. I got the hundred. And a lot of other things. Things I didn’t bargain for. But you deserve your commission. Even on the other things.”
Montrose took a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Jack Rann.
“Hey!”
Rann’s face turned a dirty gray.
“I never liked you,” Montrose said calmly. That night I hated you. I still do. I wouldn’t bother with this if I thought I ran any risk.”
“Put that gun away, pal. You’ll—you’ll burn!”
“No. I won’t.”
Rann began to beg in a high, hysterical voice. He fell to the floor, and writhed like a worm among the litter of cigarette butts. Montrose watched with an almost clinical detachment.
In a fragment of time that seemed endless, Montrose recapitulated the situation. He was going to kill Jack Rann, this groveling creature who had lost all dignity. He felt a sense of pleasure, deep inside himself. This was the way to use a leased body to advantage. He could go about and destroy all worthless men—with impunity. Ano no man-made punishment would be his. This body was sacred to some higher power.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Callaghan had thrown a bottle of whiskey at him. Still with an amused detachment, Montrose marked the arc of the bottle. It looked like a true throw, yet it would not hit him, would not destroy his aim. As they had allowed him to kill Perry Hayes, so would they allow him to kill Jack Rann. And no reprisal.
It was really fun. He chuckled a little as he pointed the gun down at Rann. That bottle, flying hard and true, would be swerved aside by . . . something. Or it would disappear in mid-flight. How these barflies would goggle!
HE HELD the gun steady, and began to squeeze the trigger. The bottle reached the top of its flat parabola and began to drop toward his hand. He put a little more pressure on the trigger. The bottle came on. He squeezed hard on the trigger, a fraction of a second behind the impact of the bottle.
It crashed into the gun, knocked his hand to one side. The roar and flash of the gun deafened and blinded him. The bullet buried itself in the floor.
Montrose’s jaw went slack. He looked idiotically at the gun.
“What does it mean?” he muttered to himself. “What does it mean?”
Jack Rann leaped up, with desperate despair, and wrenched the gun from Montrose’s limp hand. He pointed it at Montrose.
“You saw him;” he babbled. “Tried to kill me! I’m protecting myself. You’re witnesses! He flung a wild glance at the bartender. “I’m justified in killing him! You’ll testify, Cal!”
“But you can’t kill me,” Montrose said, as if to a child. “This body can’t be hurt. It’s being saved for—something. I’m not afraid, you see.”
It struck him with a blinding impact. I’m not afraid!
What did it mean? He’d always been afraid before. A fear that came from outside himself had sent him fleeing from the gloved fists of Dr. Sam Halsey, had held him paralyzed when death plunged at Marcia. But now that fear was gone.
He thought: Why, I’m about to be killed. I can be killed.
He cried aloud, in wild exultation: “I can be killed! Oh, thank God, I can be killed! I’m free, free! Kill me, Jack This is wonderful!”
Jack Rann dropped his arm. He looked at Montrose with a kind of puzzled fear. “You’re crazy, Montrose. I can’t shoot a crazy man.”
“Then I’ll kill myself!” Montrose cried. “Oh, God, but I’m happy!”
He turned and ran out the door. Laughing insanely, he plunged into the street.
Brakes screamed. Horns cried in torture. A yellow laundry truck lifted Montrose on a front fender, sent him flying through a short arc.
DEAD men feel no pain. Through a fog of it, Montrose told himself this over and over and over. Dead men feel no pain.
He hadn’t died, then. Presently he opened his eyes. He saw brown hair curling gently against a remembered face. Grey eyes anxiously fixed on his. Powder blue sheathed a lovely figure.
“Marcia,” he said softly, without wonder, stating a simple but beautiful truth. “Marcia.”
“You’re going to live, Frank. You’re going to live, darling. That’s the important thing.”
“Is it?” he asked dully. “They cheated me again. They took away the fear, only to fool me. The evil, evil scum!”
“You mustn’t talk, dear,” she soothed. “You’ll b
e out of your head for a while, but you’re going to live.” He looked at her. He thought: Pain. I hurt. I am hurt. If this body has been hurt . . .
“What happened to me?” he asked. “My right foot hurts like hell.”
A nurse came in. “You mustn’t excite yourself,” she said pleasantly. “You must gain strength.”
“What’s the matter with my foot?” he said tensely. “It—feels strange. What happened to it?”
“Shh!” the nurse said. “Shhh!” He tried to sit up, but fell back gasping with pain. “I insist!” he cried. “Tell me!”
“Shh!”
Marcia set her jaw. “I’m going to tell him. I don’t care what the doctor said. Your foot was—”
“Miss Powers!” the nurse said sharply.
“Your foot,” Marcia said grimly, “had to be amputated, Frank, just above the ankle.”
“I must ask you to leave,” the nurse began.
“I will not! There’s nearly a quart of my blood in that body. I’m going to stay!”
Frank Montrose was suddenly at peace. A beatific smile overspread his face, and the two women looked wonderingly at him.
“I’ve only got one foot,” he said happily. “Nobody—no THING—would want me now.”
“I would,” Marcia said stoutly. “I would, Frank.”
She straightened it out for him, later. The news report she had seen. Man rushes to save alley cat in traffic, not expected to live. She had caught a plane, had given two transfusions over a period of six days. He had almost died.
“Alley cat?” he repeated. “I didn’t—”
“And it escaped,” Marcia burbled. “This roving reporter saw it wriggle through the traffic and streak into a barroom.”
“I’ve only got one foot,” he murmured. “I have never been so happy.” Marcia said, “And I accused you once of cowardice. You must have been just—sick.”
“I can go in that church now,” Montrose said. “Marcia will you—?”
“If I have to carry you,” she said.
“THEN I pronounce you man and wife,” the justice of the peace said. “Two dollars.”
Montrose kissed his bride, and she pulled back to look at him with a frown. She said nothing until she had wheeled him out into the lazy afternoon. “What’s come over you, Frank?”
“I was wondering,” he said, still abstracted. “If there are—uh, entities waiting outside the realm of ordinary existence, ready to pounce, then . . .”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “We’re married, darling!”
“They picked me up,” he went on. “There was no rhyme or reason, that I can see. Then they flung me aside, without warning. What purpose could they have had? What purpose?”
“Don’t talk like that! You’re giving me the shivers!”
He grinned up at her. “I’ll never mention it again. If you’ll wheel me home, my rickshaw coolie, I’ll show you what purpose really is. Chop-chop, now!”
“Yes, massa,” she said.
They’re out there, he thought as she wheeled him home. They’re out there, waiting. Who will be next? Who will—?
It seemed to him that an unseen hand had touched the breast pocket of his coat. He felt. He took out a creased paper. He opened it, remembering.
“I, Frank Montrose, of my own free will, do hereby assign to the full possession—”
It was signed by himself. This was the “doctor’s” copy of the agreement. Why had it been returned? He took the other from his wallet, and tore both copies to shreds.
“Is that our marriage license?” Marcia asked, chuckling.
“Just an old memorandum,” he said.
And it seemed to him that he heard soft laughter from—somewhere. From—some thing. It wasn’t jeering or ominous. It was merely laughter.
A weight seemed lifted from him. “Hurry!” he said to Marcia, and laughed with her.
THE two of them sat in impenetrable darkness. The darkness pulsated with their laughter.
“I believe I win our wager?” one asked suavely.
“Yes,” the other conceded. “I must admit, brother, that bodies, in their limited fashion, are quite amusing. However, I am convinced that the old ways are best. This was a pleasant experiment, but I shouldn’t like it as a regular routine.”
“I am enamored of it myself,” said the first. “The unsuspected histrionic talents I discovered in myself are fascinating. I am going to indulge in a variation of this experiment.”
“On whom, brother?”
“Ah, that is a question. Let me see, shall it be a man or a woman? Which?
“Why not both?”
“A brilliant thought! Brother, perhaps you have the makings of an imagination, after all. Would you care to join me?”
“To be sure, brother.”
“The Department of Abject Apology”
Promise by the Editors:
Much though the admission may pain ous,
We confess our behavior’s been heinous.
In the future we swear
To read proofs with due care
And keep Triton remote from Uranus.
[Although all that is classically pure in us
Insists that the word should be Uranus.]
Shock Treatment
J. Francis McComas was co-editor with the writer of Adventures in Time and Space, one of the very first science-fiction anthologies, and one which remains a keystone volume for collectors’ libraries. With Anthony Boucher he edits The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and also with Boucher, he edited Mercury’s True Crime Detective Magazine. His science-fiction criticism is seen often in the columns of the New York Times.
McComas has always been interested in the causes and punishment of crime and has fought for enlightened penology. He has lectured to the inmates of San Quentin Prison, incidentally . . . on science fiction. He is the author of a widely discussed article which detailed the history of capital punishment in the United States, the data for which was supplied by penologists from many states. McComas is in agreement with such leading penologists as Duffy, Lawes, and Teeters who hold that capital punishment is not only morally wrong but useless as a crime preventive.
In “Shock Treatment” we are proud to present his first fiction to be written or published in over ten years. Based upon the humane philosophy reflected in the article referred to above, McComas has conceived a brave, struggling—and frightened—new world, a world rising slowly from the shattered remnants of a giant space ship which has crashed on a small, Earth-type planet in an unknown system. The problem of the story, and of Brandt Cardozo, the penologist of the survivors, is what to do with the ruthless murderer discovered in their midst.
In this challenging story McComas gives science fiction a new subject for extrapolation . . . penology!
THE LAST WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION FINISHED HIS statement, rose from the witness chair, and walked back to the first row of the spectator section. His footsteps on the rough floor boards were loud in the quiet room. Hugo Blair, Citizens’ Counsel, glanced down at his papers, looked briefly at the defense table, then turned to the bench.
“That closes the Citizens’ case,” he rasped. “I think we have proven beyond any doubt that the defendant, David Tasker, entered the combination store and living quarters of our pharmacist, Leon Jacoby, with intent to steal Jacoby’s stock of the drug, dakarine. Jacoby discovered him, tried to reason with the thief, but Tasker stabbed Jacoby several times with a knife. Jacoby was killed instantly. Tasker then broke open a jar of dakarine, took most of the jar’s contents, and, we presume, returned to his quarters. He was found there the following morning, wallowing in a dakarine-induced stupor, the blood-stained knife on his person. This horrible crime has removed from the community its only qualified pharmacist. It has—”
“Have you any more witnesses, Counselor?” Judge Anthony Hrdlicka asked sharply.
“No, sir, I have not—”
“You will stand down then, Counselo
r. I must remind you that the law says Counsel is instructed to present evidence, not comment on it.” There was a brief pause, then Blair nodded jerkily and sat down at his table. “You’ve done very well in our first case, Mr. Blair,” Hrdlicka continued easily. “Very well, indeed. Um. I hope your conduct will serve as a model for all future Citizens’ Counsels.”
Blair’s narrow shoulders were hunched and he stared down at his table, unmindful of the jury’s vigorous nods of approval.
“Now,” said Hrdlicka, “we’ll hear from the defense. Counselor Giovannetti?”
Lisa Giovannetti arose. She still wore the skirt of her flight lieutenant’s uniform but her primly cut blouse was made of recently milled new-world cloth, that dull produce of the plant popularly called the “cotton weed.”
“I am faced with a severe problem . . .”
Her voice was almost inaudible.
“You’ll have to speak louder, my dear,” Hrdlicka said. “Remember, we’re all new to this, so there’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m sorry . . . I was saying that I have a problem. My—ah—my client has refused to give me any cooperation whatsoever. He just won’t talk to me. And I have no witnesses, of course. Frankly, since the defendant won’t take the stand—you know he has refused to plead one way or the other . . .” She paused, looked helplessly at the judge, then at Blair.
Dr. Pierre Malory leaned closer to Brandt Cardozo and said softly, “That’s the drug, you know.” Cardozo nodded, frowning. “Shouldn’t really be on trial yet,” he muttered.
“Um.” Hrdlicka scowled at the defendant. “Refuses to say anything, eh? That does put you in a spot, Miss Giovannetti. Any ideas on the problem?”
“I—under other conditions—back home, that is . . . I suppose I would just throw my client on the mercy of the court. That’s the correct phrase? But here—well, we have decided to do things differently. I’m glad . . . I think I will be right to leave everything up to the court—the way the court will operate according to our new penal code . . .”
“Uh. You’re just a little confused, Counselor, but I think I get your meaning. Yes. . .”
“I’m afraid I’m not a very eloquent counsel, Your Honor.”
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