The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

  “Well?” he said.

  “I know you’re not going to sacrifice one for the other; that’s why you never handled these cases before. But”— she flapped her hands helplessly—”even if Newell could carry the equipment around, I’d never sleep nights, thinking that Anson had to go through the agony of that ten-five note just so Newell would be a decent human being. Or even, for that matter, vice versa.”

  “It wouldn’t be either humane or practical,” he said. “Well?”

  “Do they take turns being dominant, one day on, one day off?”

  “That still would be sacrificing each half the time.”

  “Then what? You said it would be ‘Newell, meet Anson. Anson, meet Newel.’ But you don’t have the same problem you’d have with Siamese twins or the same solution.”

  “Which is?”

  “Separating them without killing either one. All these two have is a single brain to share and a single body. If you could cut them free—”

  “I can’t,” he said bluntly. “I don’t intend to.”

  “All right,” she conceded in defeat. “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

  “Just what you said—the Morton Prince cases were in communication.”

  “And Newell and Anson are, just because we gave Anson a vocabulary? What about that cantilever effect you explained to Newell? You can’t let them go through life counterbalancing each other—Newell pulling violently to the other side of Anson’s reactions, Anson doing the same with Newell’s. Then what?” she repeated almost angrily. “If you know, why put me through this guessing game?”

  “To see if you’d come up with the same answer,” he said candidly. “A check on my judgment. Do you mind?”

  She shook her head again, but this time with a little complimentary smile. “It’s a painful way to get co-operation, only it works, damn you.” She frowned then, considering. “The two of them are compartmented. Are they different in that way from the other multiples?”

  “Some, yes—the ones that are detected because there is communication. But not the others. And those cases rate treatment (because all people in difficulty do) and Newell-Anson, if we work it out properly, will show us how to help them. There’s an obvious answer, Miss Thomas. I’m hoping—almost desperately—that you come up with the one I thought of.”

  She made a self-impatient gesture. “Not the psychostat. Definitely not eliminating one or the other. Not making them take turns.” She looked up with a questioning awe on her face. “The opposite of treating Siamese twins?”

  “Like what?” he asked urgently, leaning forward.

  “Don’t separate them. Join them. Make a juncture.”

  “Keep going,” he pressed. “Don’t stop now.”

  “Surgical?”

  “Can’t be done. It isn’t one lobe for Newell, the other for Anson, or anything that simple. What else?”

  She thought deeply, began several times to say something, dismissed each intended suggestion with a curt head-shake. He waited with equally deep intensity.

  She nodded at last. “Modulate them separately.” She was no longer asking. ‘Then modulate them in relation to each other so they won’t be in that awful cantilever balancing act.”

  “Say it!” he nearly yelled.

  “But that isn’t enough.”

  “No!”

  “Audio response.”

  “Why?” he rapped out. “And which?”

  “Sixty cycles—the AC tone they’ll be hearing almost all the time. Assign it to communication between them.”

  The doctor slumped into a chair, drained of tension. He nodded at her, with the tiredest grin she had ever seen.

  “All of it,” he whispered. “You got everything I thought of . . . including the 60 cycles. I knew I was right. Now I know it. Or doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  “Now?” she asked, astonished. “You’re too tired—”

  “Am I?” He jacked himself out of the chair. “Try stopping me and see.”

  * * * *

  They used the EEG resultants, made two analogs and another, and used all three as the optimum standard for the final fixing process in the psychostat. It was a longer, more meticulous process than it had ever been and it worked; and what shook the doctor’s hand that last day was an unbelievable blend—all of Newell’s smoothness and a new strength, the sum of powers he had previously exhausted in the dual struggle that neither had known of; and, with it, Anson’s bright fascination with the very act of drawing breath, seeing colors, finding wonderment in everything.

  “We’re nice guys,” said Richard Anson Newell, still shaking the doctor’s hand. “We’ll get along great.”

  “I don’t doubt it a bit,” the doctor said. “Give my best to Osa. Tell her . . . here’s something a little better than a wet handkerchief.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Richard Anson Newell.

  He waved to Miss Thomas, who watched from the corridor, and behind her, Hildy Jarrell, who wept, and he went down the steps to the street.

  “We’re making a mistake, Doctor,” said Miss Thomas, “letting him—them—go.”

  “Why?” he asked, curious.

  “All that brain power packed in one skull . . .”

  The doctor wanted to laugh. He didn’t. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he agreed.

  “Meaning it’s not so at all,” she said suspiciously. “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t twice the amount of brains any individual has. It’s only as much as any two distinct individuals have. Like you and me, for instance. Mostly we supplement each other—but just here and there, not everywhere, adding up to a giant double brain. Same with Newell and Anson. And any two people can be counted on to jam one another occasionally. So will they—but not like before treatment.”

  They watched until Richard Anson Newell was out of sight, then went back to check the multiple personality cases that Miss Jarrell had dug out of the files.

  * * * *

  Four months later, the doctor got a letter:

  Dear Fred,

  I’ll write this because it will do me good to get it off my chest. If it doesn’t do enough good, I’ll send it. If that doesn’t help, I don’t know what I’ll do. Yes, I do. Nothing.

  Dick is...incredible. He takes care of me, Fred, in ways I’d never dreamed of or hoped for. He cares. That’s it, he cares—about me, about his work. He learns new things all the time and loves old things over again. It’s . . . could I say miracle?

  But, Fred—this is hateful of me, I know—the thing I told you about, the thing I used to wish for and live to remember, no matter what. . . it’s gone. That’s probably good, because of what happened between times.

  But sometimes I’d trade my perfect husband for that louse and a wet handkerchief, if I could have the other thing along with it somehow.

  There, I’ve said it.

  Osa

  The doctor galloped through the clinic until he found his head technician in the electrical lab.

  “Tommie,” he said jovially, “did you ever go out and get drunk with a doctor?”

  The tears were streaming down his face. Miss Thomas went out and got drunk with the doctor.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE DAMNEDEST THING

  by Garson Kanin

  It may have occurred to you (even before the excursion with flashbulbs and amplifiers into the darkest interior of “The Other Man”) that the psychiatric profession is one requiring considerable poise and equanimity. But have you ever really thought of what it takes to be an undertaker?

  Garson Kanin, the celebrated actor-director-playwright, herewith presents a homey scene in the life of one of the unsung heroes whose work begins where the doctor’s ends.

  * * * *

  The undertaker came home early. He kissed his wife, then went upstairs to wash up for supper. When he came down, she kissed him.
<
br />   “Be five, six minutes,” she said. “Legga lamb.”

  “Okay. I’ll get me a drink,” said the undertaker.

  “And boiled leeks,” she added, before returning to the kitchen.

  The undertaker went into the sitting room and sat. Beside his chair, on a large end table, lay a copy of the evening paper. Beside it stood a nearly full bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He put the paper on his lap and smiled at the bottle as he would at a friend.

  “Boy, oh, boy,” he mumbled. He reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about two inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. His face was without expression as he scanned the top half of the front page, but when he flipped the paper over to look at the bottom half, a small headline took his attention, and he said to it, quietly, “You don’ say so!”

  He returned the paper to his lap, reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about four inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. As he did so, his wife appeared in the archway which led to the dining room.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Everything’s on.”

  “Right there,” he replied, and made his way to his place at the table. His wife was already seated at hers, piling food onto her plate. He reached to the platter of lamb and served himself, meagerly.

  His wife bristled. “What’s the matter? Against lamb?”

  “No.”

  “Then so what?”

  “I think I just killed off my whole appetite.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean it, only I did. With an extry slug of whisky.”

  “What’d you want t’do that for?”

  “I didn’t want, I just did. A double slug, if you want the truth.”

  “You’da told me in time, I coulda saved myself in the kitchen, Arthur. Far as I’m personally concerned, delicatessen suits me as soon as lamb.”

  “I didn’t know I was going to.”

  “How about tomorrow you cook a legga lamb and I’ll get crocked an’ not eat? Why not?”

  “Don’ make a situation, Rhoda. I said I’m sorry.”

  “When? I didn’ hear no sorry.”

  “All right, I’m saying it now. Sorry.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They ate in silence, until Arthur ended it. “Good piece of meat. Gristede’s?”

  “A lot you know. Drunk.”

  He put down his fork. “Rhoda, I want to assure you this much. That I’m not drunk. Far from it. In fact, I wish we had the habit of a glass of wine with meals. Red, white, I don’ know which it is you’re supposed to with lamb. But in the store, they prob’ly give a free booklet. It’s a nice habit to have. Very civilized. In many countries they wouldn’t think of without it. And got nothing to do with drunk in any way, shape, manner or form.” He picked up his fork and resumed the meal.

  “If I knew what’s got into you all of a sudden,” said Rhoda, “I would be happy. I’m always telling how at least you, whatever faults you got, don’t make a pig of yourself when it comes to alcoholic beverage. You’ve always been strictly moderation. Practice and preach.”

  “I’m still.”

  “So what’s all this extry slugs and you want suddenly wine in addition?”

  “The wine I just happened to mention. A civilized habit.”

  “An’ the extry slugs?”

  “Slug, not slugs.”

  “So slug?”

  “That’s something else again.”

  “What else again?”

  “Rhoda, if you knew the thing happened to me today, you absolutely wouldn’ begrudge me.”

  “I don’t begrudge, Arthur. I like you to have anything in the world if you want it. Only I worry if I see you turning into like Gunderson over there with nothing in his stomach only rye whisky and prunes for a year an’ two months, Mrs. Gunderson tells me.” She munched her food sadly.

  “Rhoda, I advise you put your mind at rest. With all my faults, as you mentioned—an’ one of these days, by the way, if I get the time I appreciate you telling me just what you call faults; not now, though—one of them is not I’m alcoholic or even nearly. The wine talk was one thing, just a topic of conversation, figure of speech, y’might say. The other thing, the extry slug—not slugs, slug—this is something else again. This I admit to, in fact, brought up myself. An’ the reason was what happened to me today down to the place. When I tell you, if I tell you, you will definitely not begrudge me. In fact, take a slug yourself, I wouldn’ be surprised. Only I don’ know should I tell you.”

  “Tell, don’ tell,” chanted Rhoda.

  “It was the damnedest thing ever happened to me in my entire life. In fact, God damnedest,” said the undertaker.

  “Eat your meat.”

  “Rhoda, listen. Because this is it.” He took a breath and swallowed before continuing. “I had an argument with a corpse today.”

  “Eat a few vegetables, at least, if not meat.”

  “Did you hear what I just told?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s more. Not only I had this argument with this corpse, but I lost the argument, what’s more.”

  “The feature goes on 7:10,” replied Rhoda. “But if you wanna catch the newsreel an’ cartoon, then ten to.”

  “I just as soon.”

  “All right, then, don’t dawdle. Salad?”

  “Yes. Look, I can’t seem to put my point over. Oh! You think I’m affected by the—but no, Rhoda. I take an oath, I raise my hand. I know what I’m talking of and this is the God’s truth what I’m on the verge to tell you.”

  “All right, Arthur. But eat meanwhile.”

  “Now the stiff I had the run-in with, the corpse, is Stanton C. Baravale. Was.”

  “The department store.”

  “That’s him. Last night he died, in the private wing of Summit General. 10:53 p.m.”

  “I read it, yes.”

  “This morning they brought him in early; in fact, they were waiting out front when I got there.”

  “Because you got a late start, I told you. You wanna watch that.”

  “You’re one hundred per cent wrong, Rhoda, but I got no time to argue because I don’ want to lose my thread. So they brought him in and we laid him out careful in the big room, and just about we were getting ready to go to work, Thor says to me, ‘Mr. Roos, could I be excused?’”

  “I like to see you excuse him for good,” said Rhoda. “That dope.”

  “No, he’s a good boy. But he says further, ‘I slammed out with no breakfast an’ I like to go to the Whelan’s get a bite to eat.’ ‘Go ahead,’ I says, ‘only I hope no trouble home.’ So Thor tells me how again his mother starts on him regarding learning the embalming game. How it makes her nervous he’s an embalmer’s apprentice. Some people!”

  “How’d she like it there was nobody doin’ the type work?”

  “The very point I made to Thor, darling.”

  “An’ what’d he say?”

  “That it was the very point he made to her.”

  “I should think so, f’God’s sake!”

  “Anyway, he goes to the Whelan’s, an’ I start in gettin’ the stuff prepared. An’ I was whistling, I remember well, because I was whistling ‘There Is Nothing Like a Dame’ an’ I was havin’ trouble to recall the middle part which slipped my mind.”

  “Ta da da da da da da!” sang Rhoda, helpfully.

  “Yes, I know. It came to me later. But while I was w
histling, I heard this noise. Like the clearing of a throat. Well, I turned.”

  “An’ what was it?” asked Rhoda, interested for the first time.