“I’m going to the Convention,” Harvey announced. “I’ll see you later. If you should come up with something—which I doubt—you can get in touch with me there.” He strode to the door, and a moment later St. Cyr found himself alone.
Doggone it, St. Cyr said to himself. What’ll I do now? Maybe I ought to go to the Convention, too. But there was one more mortuary he wanted to check; his men had been there, but he also wanted to give it a try personally. It was just the sort that Louis would have liked, run by an unctuous individual named, revoltingly, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang, which meant, in German, Herbert Beauty of the Bird’s Song—a fitting name for a man who ran the Beloved Brethren Mortuary in downtown Los Angeles, with branches in Chicago and New York and Cleveland.
When he reached the mortuary, Claude St. Cyr demanded to see Schoenheit von Vogelsang personally. The place was doing a rush business; Resurrection Day was just around the corner and the petite bourgeoisie, who flocked in great numbers to just such ceremonies, were lined up waiting to retrieve their half-lifer relatives.
“Yes sir,” Schoenheit von Vogelsang said, when at last he appeared at the counter in the mortuary’s business office. “You asked to speak to me.”
St. Cyr laid his business card down on the counter; the card still described him as legal consultant for Archimedean Enterprises. “I am Claude St. Cyr,” he declared. “You may have heard of me.”
Glancing at the card, Schoenheit von Vogelsang blanched and mumbled, “I give you my word, Mr. St. Cyr, we’re trying, we’re really trying. We’ve spent out of our own funds over a thousand dollars in trying to make contact with him; we’ve had high-gain equipment flown in from Japan where it was developed and made. And still no results.” Tremulously, he backed away from the counter. “You can come and see for yourself. Frankly, I believe someone’s doing it on purpose; a complete failure like this can’t occur naturally, if you see what I mean.”
St. Cyr said, “Let me see him.”
“Certainly.” The mortuary owner, pale and agitated, led the way through the building into the chill bin, until, at last, St. Cyr saw ahead the casket which had lain in state, the casket of Louis Sarapis. “Are you planning any sort of litigation?” the mortuary owner asked fearfully. “I assure you, we—”
“I’m here,” St. Cyr stated, “merely to take the body. Have your men load it onto a truck for me.”
“Yes, Mr. St. Cyr,” Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang said in meek obedience; he waved two mortuary employees over and began giving them instructions. “Do you have a truck with you, Mr. St. Cyr?” he asked.
“You may provide it,” St. Cyr said, in a forbidding voice.
Shortly, the body in its casket was loaded onto a mortuary truck, and the driver turned to St. Cyr for instructions.
St. Cyr gave him Phil Harvey’s address.
“And the litigation,” Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang was murmuring, as St. Cyr boarded the truck to sit beside the driver. “You don’t infer malpractice on our part, do you, Mr. St. Cyr? Because if you do—”
“The affair is closed as far as we’re concerned,” St. Cyr said to him laconically, and signaled the driver to drive off.
As soon as they left the mortuary, St. Cyr began to laugh.
“What strikes you so funny?” the mortuary driver asked.
“Nothing,” St. Cyr said, still chuckling.
When the body in its casket, still deep in its original quick-pack, had been left off at Harvey’s home and the driver had departed, St. Cyr picked up the telephone and dialed. But he found himself unable to get through to the Convention Hall. All he heard, for his trouble, was the weird distant drumming, the monotonous litany of Louis Sarapis—he hung up, disgusted but at the same time grimly determined.
We’ve had enough of that, St. Cyr said to himself. / won’t wait for Harvey’s approval; I don’t need it.
Searching the living room he found, in a desk drawer, a heat gun. Pointing it at the casket of Louis Sarapis he pressed the trigger.
The envelope of quick-pack steamed up, the casket itself fizzed as the plastic melted. Within, the body blackened, shriveled, charred away at last into a baked, coal-like clinker, small and nondescript.
Satisfied, St. Cyr returned the heat gun to the desk drawer.
Once more he picked up the phone and dialed.
In his ear the monotonous voice intoned, “…no one but Gam can do it; Gam’s the man what am—good slogan for you, Johnny. Gam’s the man what am; remember that. I’ll do the talking. Give me the mike and I’ll tell them; Gam’s the man what am. Gam’s—”
Claude St. Cyr slammed down the phone, turned to the blackened deposit that had been Louis Sarapis; he gaped mutely at what he could not comprehend. The voice, when St. Cyr turned on the television set, emanated from that, too, just as it had been doing; nothing had changed.
The voice of Louis Sarapis was not originating in the body. Because the body was gone. There simply was no connection between them.
Seating himself in a chair, Claude St. Cyr got out his cigarettes and shakily lit up, trying to understand what this meant. It seemed almost as if he had it, almost had the explanation.
But not quite.
V
By monorail—he had left his ‘copter at the Beloved Brethren Mortuary—Claude St. Cyr numbly made his way to Convention Hall. The place, of course, was packed; the noise was terrible. But he managed to obtain the services of a robot page; over the public address system, Phil Harvey’s presence was requested in one of the side rooms used as meeting places by delegations wishing to caucus in secret.
Harvey appeared, disheveled from shoving through the dense pack of spectators and delegates. “What is it, Claude?” he asked, and then he saw his attorney’s face. “You better tell me,” he said quietly.
St. Cyr blurted, “The voice we hear. It isn’t Louis! It’s someone else trying to sound like Louis!”
“How do you know?”
He told him.
Nodding, Harvey said, “And it definitely was Louis’s body you destroyed; there was no deceit there at the mortuary—you’re positive of that.”
“I’m not positive,” St. Cyr said. “But I think it was; I believe it now and I believed it at the time.” It was too late to find out now, in any case, not enough remained of the body for such an analysis to be successfully made.
“But who could it be, then?” Harvey said. “My God, it’s coming to us from beyond the solar system—could it be nonterrestrials of some kind? Some sort of echo or mockery, a non-living reaction unfamiliar to us? An inert process without intent?”
St. Cyr laughed. “You’re babbling, Phil. Cut it out.”
Nodding, Harvey said, “Whatever you say, Claude. If you think it’s someone here—”
“I don’t know,” St. Cyr said candidly. “But I’d guess it’s someone right on this planet, someone who knew Louis well enough to have introjected his characteristics sufficiently thoroughly to imitate them.” He was silent, then. That was as far as he could carry his logical processes… beyond that he saw nothing. It was a blank, and a frightening one at that.
There is, he thought, an element of the deranged in it. What we took to be decay—it’s more a form of madness than degeneration. Or is madness itself degeneration? He did not know; he wasn’t trained in the field of psychiatry, except regarding its legal aspects. And the legal aspects had no application, here.
“Has anyone nominated Gam yet?” he asked Harvey.
“Not yet. It’s expected to come sometime today, though. There’s a delegate from Montana who’ll do it, the rumor is.”
“Johnny Barefoot is here?”
“Yes.” Harvey nodded. “Busy as can be, lining up delegates. In and out of the different delegations, very much in evidence. No sign of Gam, of course. He won’t come in until the end of the nominating speech and then of course all hell will break loose. Cheering and parading and waving banners… the Gam supporters are all prepared.”
“Any indication of—
” St. Cyr hesitated. “What we’ve assumed to be Louis? His presence?” Or its presence, he thought. Whatever it is.
“None as yet,” Harvey said.
“I think we’ll hear from it,” St. Cyr said. “Before the day is over.”
Harvey nodded; he thought so, too.
“Are you afraid of it?” St. Cyr asked.
“Sure,” Harvey said. “A thousand times more so than ever, now that we don’t even know who or what it is.”
“You’re right to take that attitude,” St. Cyr said. He felt the same way.
“Perhaps we should tell Johnny,” Harvey said.
St. Cyr said, “Let him find out on his own.”
“All right, Claude,” Harvey said. “Anything you say. After all, it was you who finally found Louis’s body; I have complete faith in you.”
In a way, St. Cyr thought, I wish I hadn’t found it. I wish I didn ‘t know what I know now; we were better off believing it was old Louis talking to us from every phone, newspaper and TV set.
That was bad—but this is far worse. Although, he thought, it seems to me that the answer is there, somewhere, just waiting.
I must try, he told himself. Try to get it. TRY!
Off by himself in a side room, Johnny Barefoot tensely watched the events of the Convention on closed-circuit TV. The distortion, the invading presence from one light-week away, had cleared for a time, and he could see and hear the delegate from Montana delivering the nominating speech for Alfonse Gam.
He felt tired. The whole process of the Convention, its speeches and parades, its tautness, grated on his nerves, ran contrary to his disposition. So damn much show, he thought. Display for what? If Gam wanted to gain the nomination he could get it, and all the rest of this was purposeless. His own thoughts were on Kathy Egmont Sharp.
He had not seen her since her departure for U.C. Hospital in San Francisco. At this point he had no idea of her condition, whether she had responded to therapy or not.
The deep intuition could not be evaded that she had not. How sick really was Kathy? Probably very sick, with or without drugs; he felt that strongly. Perhaps she would never be discharged from U.C. Hospital; he could imagine that.
On the other hand—if she wanted out, he decided, she would find a way to get out. That he intuited, too, even more strongly.
So it was up to her. She had committed herself, gone into the hospital voluntarily. And she would come out—if she ever did—the same way. No one could compel Kathy… she was simply not that sort of person. And that, he realized, could well be a symptom of the illness-process.
The door to the room opened. He glanced up from the TV screen. And saw Claude St. Cyr standing in the entrance. St. Cyr held a heat gun in his hand, pointed at Johnny. He said, “Where’s Kathy?”
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. He got slowly, warily, to his feet.
“You do. I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me.”
“Why?” he said, wondering what had brought St. Cyr to this point, this extreme behavior.
St. Cyr said, “Is it on Earth?” Still holding the gun pointed at Johnny he came toward him.
“Yes,” Johnny said, with reluctance.
“Give me the name of the city.”
“What are you going to do?” Johnny said. “This isn’t like you, Claude; you used to always work within the law.”
St. Cyr said, “I think the voice is Kathy. I know it’s not Louis, now; we have that to go on but beyond that it’s just a guess. Kathy is the only one I know deranged enough, deteriorated enough. Give me the name of the hospital.”
“The only way you could know it isn’t Louis,” Johnny said, “would be to destroy the body.”
“That’s right,” St. Cyr said, nodding.
Then you have, Johnny realized. You found the correct mortuary; you got to Herb Schoenheit van Vogehang. So that was that.
The door to the room burst open again; a group of cheering delegates, Gam supporters, marched in, blowing horns and hurling streamers, carrying huge hand-painted placards. St. Cyr turned toward them, waving his gun at them—and Johnny Barefoot sprinted past the delegates, to the door and out into the corridor.
He ran down the corridor and a moment later emerged at the great central hall in which Gam’s demonstration was in full swing. From the loudspeakers mounted at the ceiling a voice boomed over and over.
“Vote for Gam, the man what am. Gam, Gam, vote for Gam, vote for Gam, the one fine man; vote for Gam who really am. Gam, Gam, Gam, he really am—”
Kathy, he thought. It can’t be you; it just can’t. He ran on, out of the hall, squeezing past the dancing, delirious delegates, past the glazed-eyed men and women in their funny hats, their banners wiggling… he reached the street, the parked ‘copters and cars, throngs of people clustered about, trying to push inside.
If it is you, he thought, then you’re too sick ever to come back. Even if you want to, will yourself to. Had you been waiting for Louis to die, is that it? Do you hate us? Or are you afraid of us? What explains what it is you’re doing… what’s the reasonfor it?
He hailed a ‘copter marked TAXI. “To San Francisco,” he instructed the driver.
Maybe you’re not conscious that you’re doing it, he thought. Maybe it’s an autonomous process, rising out of your unconscious mind. Your mind split into two portions, one on the surface which we see, the other one—
The one we hear.
Should we feel sorry for you? he wondered. Or should we hate you, fear you? HOW MUCH HARM CAN YOU DO? I guess that’s the real issue. I love you, he thought. In some fashion, at least. I care about you, and that’s a form of love, not such as I feel toward my wife or my children, but it is a concern. Damn it, he thought, this is dreadful. Maybe St. Cyr is wrong; maybe it isn’t you.
The ‘copter swept upward into the sky, cleared the buildings and turned west, its blade spinning at peak velocity.
On the ground, standing in front of the convention hall, St. Cyr and Phil Harvey watched the ‘copter go.
“Well, so it worked,” St. Cyr said. “I got him started moving. I’d guess he’s on his way either to Los Angeles or to San Francisco.”
A second ‘copter slid up before them, hailed by Phil Harvey; the two men entered it and Harvey said, “You see the taxi that just took off? Stay behind it, just within sight. But don’t let it catch a glimpse of you if you can help it.”
“Heck,” the driver said, “If I can see it, it can see me.” But he clicked on his meter and began to ascend. Grumpily, he said to Harvey and St. Cyr, “I don’t like this kind of stuff; it can be dangerous.”
“Turn on your radio,” St. Cyr told him. “If you want to hear something that’s dangerous.”
“Aw hell,” the driver said, disgusted. “The radio don’t work; some kind of interference, like sun spots or maybe some amateur operator—I lost a lot of fares because the dispatcher can’t get hold of me. I think the police ought to do something about it, don’t you?”
St. Cyr said nothing. Beside him, Harvey peered at the ‘copter ahead.
When he reached U.C. Hospital at San Francisco, and had landed at the field on the main building’s roof, Johnny saw the second ship circling, not passing on, and he knew that he was right; he had been followed all the way. But he did not care. It didn’t matter.
Descending by means of the stairs, he came out on the third floor and approached a nurse. “Mrs. Sharp,” he said. “Where is she?”
“You’ll have to ask at the desk,” the nurse said. “And visiting hours aren’t until—”
He rushed on until he found the desk.
“Mrs. Sharp’s room is 309,” the bespectacled, elderly nurse at the desk said. “But you must have Doctor Gross’s permission to visit her. And I believe Doctor Gross is having lunch right now and probably won’t be back until two o’clock, if you’d care to wait.” She pointed to a waiting room.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll wait.” He passed through the waiting room and out the
door at the far end, down the corridor, watching the numbers on the doors until he saw room number 309. Opening the door he entered the room, shut the door after him and looked around for her.
There was the bed, but it was empty.
“Kathy,” he said.
At the window, in her robe, she turned, her face sly, bound up by hatred; her lips moved and, staring at him, she said with loathing, “I want Gam because he am.” Spitting at him, she crept toward him, her hands raised, her fingers writhing. “Gam’s a man, a real man,” she whispered, and he saw, in her eyes, the dissolved remnants of her personality expire even as he stood there. “Gam, gam, gam,” she whispered, and slapped him.
He retreated. “It’s you,” he said. “Claude St. Cyr was right. Okay. I’ll go.” He fumbled for the door behind him, trying to get it open. Panic passed through him, like a wind, then; he wanted nothing but to get away. “Kathy,” he said, “let go.” Her nails had dug into him, into his shoulder, and she hung onto him, peering sideways into his face, smiling at him.
“You’re dead,” she said. “Go away. I smell you, the dead inside you.”
“I’ll go,” he said, and managed to find the handle of the door. She let go of him, then; he saw her right hand flash up, the nails directed at his face, possibly his eyes—he ducked, and her blow missed him. “I want to get away,” he said, covering his face with his arms.
Kathy whispered, “I am Gam, I am. I’m the only one who am. Am alive. Gam, alive.” She laughed. “Yes, I will,” she said, mimicking his voice perfectly. “Claude St. Cyr was right; okay, I’ll go. I’ll go. I’ll go.” She was now between him and the door. “The window,” she said. “Do it now, what you wanted to do when I stopped you.” She hurried toward him, and he retreated, backward, step by step, until he felt the wall behind him.
“It’s all in your mind,” he said, “this hate. Everyone is fond of you; I am, Gam is, St. Cyr and Harvey are. What’s the point of this?”
“The point,” Kathy said, “is that I show you what you’re really like. Don’t you know yet? You’re even worse than me. I’m just being honest.”
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