Her name was Teenie and her job was licking stamps in Rockecenter’s Medical Association Control Department. I had gathered that she had not been on the job very long, had come straight out of some psychology sex-education group in grade school and had not been wholly converted to Psychiatric Birth Control yet. So, according to Adora, it was important that pains be taken with her: my pains, of course!
Last night Teenie had certainly expressed her enthusiasm for reeducation! But “enthusiasm” is too mild a word for it. She had been all over the place and me! ACTIVE! And the others had just smiled indulgently and wouldn’t pull her off!
It wouldn’t have been so bad, perhaps, except that she had expressed her passion with fingernails, time after time!
But she made me realize that my own education was deficient. I didn’t have a clue what “Ride ’em, cowboy!” meant. We don’t have any cows on Voltar and if we did, we wouldn’t keep hitting them with a hat! Or scratching them! Inhuman!
Yes, all in all, that very active Teenie had been a wearing experience. I hoped there would not be too many more like that! Too draining!
I put some patches on my face to hide the scratch marks. I hoped I would not be permanently scarred.
I thought I would cheer myself up by examining and counting and fondling the money. It was on the top shelf of my closet. I got it down. And then I just sat there staring at it. Was it worth it?
The thought had no more than begun when I sat up with alarm. Was something costing me my love of money? What if I went into a state of hypernegation?
Look at the state that Heller and the Countess Krak were bringing me to!
New alarm filled me. Heller might suspect me. And the Countess Krak, now that she had disappeared, might be looking for me. Supposing she took it into her head to turn Crobe loose on me when I went crazy!
I had not looked at Crobe’s viewer much. Was she in contact with him?
Anxiously, I turned Crobe’s viewer on. He could make it very hard to watch due to his one penetrative x-ray eye. But today it was quite clear.
Crobe was standing in front of a group of evident psychiatrists. It was probably the operating amphitheater at Bellevue. The audience was very intent.
Before him there was a patient strapped in a chair. I gasped: Crobe was up to his old grafting tricks.
A reptile was rearing out of the patient’s skull! The deadly snake head was moving about to right and left.
Crobe’s voice boomed out: “Dis broofs de t’eory dot man iss running on de reptile brain. By zimply feeding de batient Drug 32, de reptile gortex ’as been restimulated do grow! Und it ’as grow and grow. Und vinally ’ere iss de broof!”
The assembled psychiatrists were taking notes anxiously. A medical photographer was shooting flash shots.
The fraud! He was always monkeying around with grafts. That was how he made freaks and this is why he had been condemned to death before Lombar got him and put him to work in Spiteos. Here he was corrupting the sacredness of psychiatric science!
“Zo!” cried Crobe with a flourish, “you dgentmens iss zo right! Dere iss a reptile brain. Man runs on de reptile brain. It iss the zource which makes man zo evil! Zychiatric zience iss right!”
There was applause from the assembled learned men. Some cheers as well.
A spokesman stood up. “Dr. Crobe. I wish to announce to this gathering, now that we have seen it with our own eyes, that you are being proposed for the award of Psychiatric Genius of the Year.”
“No, no,” cried Crobe impatiently. “Zit down! I ’ave not vinished! Dere iss more broof!”
The hall went into a hush.
“Zis patient coom here zuffering from inanity. By feeding Drug 32, I ’ave brought de cause to light. Now, right beefoor yer eyes, I vill CURE de patient!”
The emotional-scale letters on the viewer said:
GLEE
The hall hushed. Crobe took a huge knife from the table. He flourished it. It whistled through the air.
THUNK!
It severed the snake from the skull!
Blood spurted all over the place!
The patient went into death seizures.
He died.
The letters on Crobe’s viewer flashed:
PLEASURE
Crobe’s voice rang out in triumph. “You zee? De end broduct uf psychiatry ’as been attained. ZE PATIENT ISS QUIET!”
Thunderous applause broke out. The psychiatrists were on their feet in a standing ovation!
Suddenly out of the cheering throng rushed a clot of media men. Foremost amongst them was a reporter with a Slime Magazine press card in his hatband. His voice could hardly be heard above the din. “Dr. Crobe! We want you on the cover of the magazine! Scientist of the Year!” A TV crew was pushing him aside. “We got it all but we gotta have close shots.”
Psychiatrists were pushing the newsmen back, trying to shake Crobe’s hand.
What a turmoil!
I averted my eyes and shut off the viewer.
I sat there. Psychology and psychiatry were stimulating Crobe. It was Heller’s fault for making it necessary to send Crobe to Earth.
A sullen rage began to grip me. Was there some way I could use this? Maybe even now I could steer Heller or the Countess Krak Crobe’s way. Courts sent felons to Bellevue. Better: the courts sent people there just to be examined. An examination by Crobe would be fatal!
I cheered up.
I thought I had better keep track of Heller. Down as he was, an opportunity might arise to get him sent to Bellevue by court order for examination. Somehow, I felt, I could overcome Krak’s influence. If Crobe didn’t see Heller’s face he wouldn’t run. Yes, I had better watch Heller and see if he found the Countess Krak. Then I could work something out. I had all the resources in the world. Rockecenter’s influence permeated everything and it was at my fingertips whenever I cared to use it.
I would strike back!
PART FORTY-NINE
Chapter 2
I phoned Dingaling, Chase & Ambo. I got Ambo.
“This is Smith,” I said. “How is everything going?”
“Wonderful,” said Ambo. “We’ve got his possessions tied in a knot. He’s still on the sidewalks but he won’t be long.”
“How’s that?”
“We’ve got a warrant now for bigamy. It’s moved from civil to criminal. Once we have him held in jail on this criminal charge we can beat him down and milk him for everything he has and then grab everything he ever will have. A wonderful case. He hasn’t got a chance.”
“You may have trouble arresting him.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Ambo. “We have connections in the police and we will now have every airport and bus station and train depot watched. They try to run when they get hit this hard. So we’ll pick him up, throw him in the can and then make him squirm. Standard legal procedure. The old routine shakedown. Sue them civilly, trump up something criminal and then bleed them to death. Routine.”
“There’s something else you can do,” I said.
“What?” he said eagerly. “We’re always open to innovations that make people even more miserable.”
“I want you to write a court order and put it on file that when he is arrested, he is to be sent for mental examination to Bellevue.”
“Oh, wonderful! That implies that, committing bigamy, he is irresponsible and of unsound mind and we can be appointed executors of his estate, split it up amongst ourselves and be rich! This is wonderful.”
“In the order,” I said, “specify that as his face is too attractive, it might pervert nurses and so it is to be blackened.”
“Nothing easier. You can write anything in a court order. Then all you have to do is get the judge to sign it and he never reads what he signs. An absolutely novel idea. Will make good press, too. Gives the whole thing a sinister ring. You can’t win these things, you know, unless you try them first in the press.”
“There’s another order you can write,” I said. “He has a gun
moll. Her name is Heavenly Joy Krackle. She has been known to help him. What can you do about her?”
“Oh, nothing easier. You just allege conspiracy and undue influence prejudicial to the interests of our clients, issue a restraining order which puts her in prison if she violates it, issue another order to have her picked up as a material witness and imprisoned until she sees it our way. You know, the usual things. Do you have a description of her?”
“Five feet nine and a half inches tall, blond hair, gray blue eyes. An absolute fiend in appearance. Goes into rages. Uses an electric whip. Hands like claws. Stamps men to death with scarlet heels caked with dried blood.”
“Oh, my God,” said Ambo. “That is a menace to the case. Yes, I’ll get out the orders immediately! Oh, I’m certainly glad you told us about this!”
“Be sure you specify the woman is sent to Bellevue masked as well. Her face has been known to turn men to stone!”
“That I will!” said Ambo. “It’s a relief to know that the courts and police always do their duty. This Wister and this Krackle should be locked up!”
“In Bellevue,” I repeated.
“Oh, there’s no trouble with that. Any citizen can be picked up and sent to Bellevue under existing laws. I’ll get a doctor’s commitment signature presigned to the order.”
I had a momentary qualm. Supposing they were sent to Bellevue and despite all these precautions, Crobe still recognized them. That would undo the whole plot. Wasn’t ordinary psychiatry enough? That would incapacitate them thoroughly forever.
“Specify in the order,” I said, “that Dr. Phetus P. Crobe, a leading psychiatrist there, is specifically forbidden to examine them. Get another psychiatrist to sign the order. After all, it is just a routine legal matter.”
“As you say,” said Ambo. “Just a routine order. My goodness, Mr. Smith, it’s wonderful to have your help. You think just like a lawyer, nicely circuitous. You have greatly assisted this case.” He rang off.
I glowed with the compliment. How unlike Madison’s sneers. My genius was appreciated.
I sat back, feeling really great. Then I began to giggle. Even if Crobe spotted them, he would not recognize them. He did not know the names Wister or Krackle. They would probably be delivered drugged, placed in electric-shock machines and ruined for the rest of their lives. Ordinary psychiatry was quite good enough for them.
The courts and the law and psychiatry were a priceless team. Why had I bothered to hire a hit man when I had them at my beck and call?
How could I miss? If Heller was not caught at once, he might find Krak and if he found Krak he might bring her straight into this morass the lawyers had made so they could become rich. It was a bottomless pit and would swallow them both! With a grinning gulp! Bless the Earth legal-psychiatric liaison! It might be totally insane but, good Gods, was it useful to the power elite!
PART FORTY-NINE
Chapter 3
When I turned my attention to Heller, he was standing at the water’s edge, watching a parade of ships en route to sea. The water before him was tinged with the blue of cloud-flecked sky, almost innocent of smog. It was a bright morning of a spring day. There was no wind; when he looked to his right, the grass was fresh and green. Then his eye shifted to a monument.
The Battery! Heller was standing near the statue of Verrazano, discoverer of Manhattan, who had landed, the sign said, near this very spot, the southern tip of the island, in 1524.
In Voltarian, he said to the statue, “Did the natives try to raise the mischief with you, too?” Then he read a recently erected plaque that was more extensive. It said that four years later, Verrazano had been eaten by cannibals. “I’m not at all surprised.” It seemed to make him restless and he scanned the walks of the park. “Where are you, Izzy?”
I acted!
Now that I knew for certain a warrant was out for him, I knew, too, that Police Inspector Grafferty, that glory hound, would be anxious to be in on the kill.
I got through to Grafferty’s office. I said, “Give me the Inspector quick. I have his quarry in sight!”
“The Inspector is out on a case,” his office man said.
“I’m sure it’s the Wister case,” I snapped. “You tell him that the man he wants is right down in Battery Park by the statue of Verrazano. He’s waiting for a contact. PICK HIM UP!”
“Very good, sir.” He rang off.
Heller drifted north up a curving path, the towering skyscrapers of the financial district visible past the stern, red sandstone walls of Castle Clinton. He was looking up at a gun port when a voice spoke behind him.
“Mr. Jet.” It was Izzy.
“Have you found her?” said Heller, his voice anxious.
“No, Mr. Jet. We have three private detectives out. No word.”
“Blast!” said Heller.
“Mr. Jet, you look awful,” said Izzy. “You must have slept in the park. Oh, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you’re being put through the wringer of this awful legal system. It’s the law that’s criminal, Mr. Jet.”
“Did you get the things I asked you for?”
Izzy handed him a bulky sack. “It’s the last thing I can get out. About a minute after I finished collecting these, they’d padlocked your office. Two patrolmen are waiting in the hall in case you show up. There’s a warrant out, Mr. Jet. Criminal charges. Bigamy. Look, Mr. Jet, Bang-Bang says they’ll be watching all the airports and bus and train terminals but he can steal a helicopter and pick you up anyplace you say. We can land you on a freighter for Brazil. You should go, Mr. Jet. I can’t stand the thought of you being in jail for years on some phony charge!”
“I’ve got to find my girl,” said Heller.
Izzy sighed deeply. “Then take this,” said Izzy, and pushed another thick roll of thousand-dollar bills in his hand. “Please don’t shoot anybody. It’s cheaper to buy them in the long run.”
“Thank you,” said Heller. “You’re a true friend, Izzy.”
“It’s really your money,” said Izzy. “I made that wad just this morning with the future device machine. Cotton went up. I wish I could help more.”
“Keep the projects going,” said Heller. “We’ll come out of this.”
“Oy, I wish I had your confidence. This legal system was designed only for bad-intentioned men so I’m afraid we haven’t got a chance. Please take care of yourself, Mr. Jet.”
Izzy walked swiftly away.
Heller walked toward the financial district. Shortly, he was into the crowds. He began to go quite fast.
He drew up before a very ratty-looking bar, the Stockbroker. He went in. The place was papered with old issues of shares and the cash register was a ticker-tape-looking thing. He sat down at the bar. Big signs said:
Crash Pick-Me-Up
for Those Dow Jones Blues
Suicide Special:
Why Throw Yourself Out of Windows
When Our Potion Can Do It Quicker?
His reflection in the mirror looked awful: hollow-eyed.
“Give me a Seven Up,” said Heller.
“The market is down this morning, sir,” said the barkeep. “More like a Suicide Special.”
“Can you change a thousand-dollar bill?”
“Seven Up it is, sir; you must be selling them short.”
“Somebody will wish he’d been sold short when I get through with him,” said Heller. “Can I use your washroom?”
“Help yourself, sir. Anybody with a thousand-dollar bill could buy the place.”
Heller went into the washroom. It was a dingy lavatory. Not even scraps remained of the mirrors. Heller hung his coat up on a hook. He opened the big sack Izzy had given him. I couldn’t tell what was in it.
Heller muttered, “Blast, what’s this?” He was holding up a triple-blade razor that Izzy must have bought. Then he looked into the sack again and apparently decided he would have to use the thing in lieu of his own spin razor.
He tried to shave. He cut himself. He tried again a
nd cut himself again. He finished somehow.
He found a small Voltar vial of lotion. He put it on his face. Then he got out a little light that I had seen used in cellology. He beamed that at his face. Then he got out some bandages and put them on his face.
He spin brushed his teeth.
Mission Earth Volume 6: Death Quest Page 25
