“Very well,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But I don’t have much time.”
They found stools at a luncheonette and Kirkland ordered toast and coffee, and then, overcome by the smells of cooking, he asked for bacon and eggs. Dr. Rilke had coffee, black.
Kirkland ate ravenously. His body required considerable nourishment, but frequently he was forced to go without food, decent food, for days at a stretch. That was what angered him so terribly; that he, whose appetites were so keen, whose enjoyment of fine things was so superior to that of most other men, should be denied even the elementals of pleasant living. And burning in him even more hotly, was his indignation at not being listened to, and submitted to, by the fools and dolts he met every day of his life. He had the brains, the energy, the ambition, to mould empires; but no one would let him.
But now, as he finished the last of his food, he was in a somewhat better mood than usual. To repay the doctor for his meal, he decided to treat him as an equal.
“What sort of work are you interested in?” he said.
Dr. Rilke shrugged. “I have worked most of my life to determine the nature of the mind and its operations, but it seems now that my experimentation will be fruitless. I cannot get anyone even to listen to what I have discovered.”
“Well, what have you discovered?”
“I have an instrument that is capable of destroying a person’s will,” Dr. Rilke said, and smiled at Kirkland as if afraid of being taken too seriously.
“Are you being humorous?” Kirkland said. He had a fear of being made a laughingstock; and Rilke’s nervous smile irritated him, made him uneasy.
“No, of course not,” Dr. Rilke said hastily. “I think my developments would be of great value to surgeons and psychiatrists; but I cannot raise the necessary capital to perfect my machine.”
“This machine of yours can destroy a person’s will?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Kirkland ate the last of his toast, his mind racing pleasurably. He didn’t believe Dr. Rilke, of course; but it was interesting to speculate on a device that would eliminate another’s will. That was the trouble with the world. Will power! Every bit of human flotsam had a will, could do as he wished, could ignore and contradict his superiors.
“What happens to the people whose wills have been destroyed?” he asked.
“Nothing at all. They are unchanged in every other way, except that they have no power to decide their own conduct or actions.”
Kirkland smiled. “They will do what they’re told?”
“Yes, they are hyper-sensitive to suggestion.” Dr. Rilke smiled in a depreciating manner. “My theories are rather intricate, and I don’t feel I can present them adequately in so—hasty—a manner.”
“Come to my hotel room now,” Kirkland said, rising. “Pay the check first,” he said, as Dr. Rilke got to his feet. “This project of yours interests me. I wish to know more about it.” Kirkland no longer saw the need to treat Rilke as an equal. He snapped the orders at him brusquely. When they went outside Kirkland saw that the doctor was carrying a large suitcase of stout construction with reinforced corners.
“We shall take a cab,” Kirkland said, and hailed the first one that came along. He climbed in, feeling peaceful and strong . . .
FOR PURPOSES of illustration, you might say it affects the mind as a pre-frontal lobotomy does. Only my machine accomplishes its purpose by electrical currents, and, of course, it does much more than a lobotomy.”
Dr. Rilke was standing at a table in Kirkland’s small but tidy room. On the table rested a machine that looked somewhat like a motion picture projector. Its casing was of black metal, and at the front there was a tube that projected about ten inches. On top of the machine was a switch and two rheostats.
Kirkland strode up and down the floor, occasionally running a hand through his hair. There was a tense, exultant expression on his blunt face, and his bulging eyes were shining with excitement.
“I understand, I understand,” he said, in a charged voice. “It’s a tremendous concept. Tremendous! Where are the records of your tests? I must see them immediately.”
“Tests?”
“Yes, yes,” Kirkland said impatiently. “The tests! What have been the reactions of the people you’ve tried the machine on? Can’t you understand English?”
“I have never used a human being for testing purposes,” Dr. Rilke said; his tone was somewhat apologetic.
Kirkland stopped in his tracks, glared at the doctor from shining hypnotic eyes. “You’ve never tried the machine? You don’t know if it works?”
“My theory is without flaws,” Dr. Rilke said stiffly. “I never had the opportunity to test it, however. We had not perfected the model machine before the war—” The doctor stopped, wet his lips. His eyes shifted away from Kirkland.
Kirkland caught the doctor’s shoulders in his big hands. “Before the war was over, eh? You were a Hitler scientist? Weren’t you? Damn it, answer me!”
“I—they made me work for them,” Dr. Rilke said, trembling in Kirkland’s grasp. “I was no Nazi, I swear it.”
“Of course not,” Kirkland said In a soothing voice. “You did work on this machine for them though; and before they could supply you with some human guinea pigs the war ended.”
He released the doctor and resumed his pacing. “A pity,” he muttered. “All those useless human beings to experiment with and then—” He snapped his fingers. “The chance gone!”
KIRKLAND’S heart was pumping harder than usual and his cheeks were flushed with excitement. The prospect that had been dangled so invitingly before his eyes had been enough to inflame all of his latent needs and ambitions. Something to make people do what you wanted! He crashed a fist into his open palm and groaned aloud. That was what he needed, what the world needed! The brains, the drive, the ambition—be had them in abundance! All he needed was enough automatons to work them out.
Suddenly Kirkland turned and strode to the door. He opened it and looked into the corridor, not sure what he was looking for, or what he wanted.
A girl came out of a room several doors away and walked briskly toward him, and Kirkland then realized why he had stepped into the corridor.
He recognized the girl; she and her sister ran a stenographic service in the hotel. Their names were Denise and Carol Masterson; and this was Carol. She carried a notebook in her hand, and everything about her, from her navy-blue suit to her patent-leather pumps, was crisp, efficient, and intelligent. She had dark hair, softly waved, a fair complexion, and a slim, healthy body.
With a brief, impersonal smile at Kirkland, she walked past him toward the elevators.
“Oh, Miss Masterson,” he called. “May I see you a moment?”
“Yes, what is it?” she said, turning; and then as he made no move to leave his doorway, she walked back to him, an expression of polite curiosity on her face.
“I was wondering if you’d be able to help me out for a few minutes,” he said, smiling broadly. “My friend, Dr. Rilke, and I are conducting a little experiment and we find the need of a third person. Could you come into my room for a moment please?” The girl glanced over Kirkland’s shoulder and saw Dr. Rilke, looking the soul of old-fashioned respectability. She said: “I’ll be glad to help out, Mr.—” She paused.
“Kirkland is the name.”
“However, I don’t have too much time.” Carol said, glancing at her wrist-watch.
“This won’t take a moment.” Kirkland ushered the girl into the room and presented her to Dr. Rilke. “Miss Masterson has consented to help us out with our experiment, doctor.”
Dr. Rilke wet his lips nervously. “That is very good of you, young lady,” he said to the girl. His eyes met Kirkland’s, and he shook his head quickly, frantically. “However, I’m afraid we’re not quite ready at the moment.”
“We are quite ready,” Kirkland said in a firm voice. “Would you sit here for just a moment?” he said to the girl, indicating a chair at t
he table.
The girl sat down slowly. There was something in Dr. Rilke’s manner that made her uneasy. “This won’t take long, I hope,” she said.
KIKRLAND was caught in an excitement almost too keen to bear. His hands trembled slightly as he turned the machine and pointed the projecting tube at the girl’s forehead. He swallowed to clear the sudden dryness from his throat, and said, “No, no, it won’t take long at all, Miss Masterson. It’s wonderful of you.to help us out this way, perfectly wonderful. Dr. Rilke has been working for years on a device to—er—to test a person’s eyesight. There will be a beam from the end of this tube when I throw the switch, and that’s all there is to it. Yes, all there is to it. You may close your eyes if you like. I can’t tell you how helpful you’re being, Miss Masterson.” Kirkland realized that he was talking too much, that he was literally babbling in his excitement; but he couldn’t stop himself. “Now are you ready, Miss Masterson?”
“Yes, I’m quite ready,” Carol said.
“Excellent!” Kirkland flipped the switch and a beam of blue light struck the girl between the eyes. She winced and leaned back in the chair, turning her head slightly.
“That’s rather bright,” she said.
“You’ll get used to it,” Kirkland said, hastily, soothingly. “How long will it take, doctor?”
“At least half an hour,” Rilke said. He was watching the girl intently, his forehead furrowed with anxiety.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly stay that long,” Carol said. “I have letters to type for the next mail collection. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Kirkland.”
“Please wait another few minutes,” Kirkland said imploringly. “I’m sure the doctor’s estimate is rather pessimistic. You know how scientists are, I’m sure. Always taking the dim view.” He laughed and rubbed his damp palms along the sides of his trousers. The thought that this girl, this intelligent lovely girl, was slowly losing her power to question his orders, was as exhilarating to him as strong drink.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Carol said. She rose from the chair, and blinked her eyes. “That light is really quite unpleasant, you know.”
Kirkland caught her shoulders in his hands and pushed her back in the chair. “You mustn’t leave now. You don’t understand how important this is. You can’t leave, you can’t!”
“Please, Mr. Kirkland,” Carol said sharply. She pushed his hands away and got quickly to her feet. “You’re behaving very rudely. I offered to help you for a few minutes, but it’s impossible for me to stay half an hour.” Slipping around him, she walked quickly to the door. Kirkland stood rooted to the spot for an instant, working his hands desperately; and then he leaped after her and clapped his big meaty hand across her mouth. “Shut the door I” he snapped at Rilke.
“You fool!” the doctor cried. “You’ll have us in trouble.”
“Shut the door!”
The girl struggled furiously against Kirkland. Her notebook fell to the floor as she clawed his hands with her sharp nails. He felt the pain but it meant nothing to him; he was gripped by an ambition that defied pain, as it defied logic and sense.
Pulling the girl toward the bed, he gasped to Rilke: “Get neckties from my closet. Move, you fool!”
He forced Carol onto the bed and put his knee into the small of her back. When Rilke handed him a necktie he slipped it twice about her head and forced it under his hand and into her mouth. He pulled the ends powerfully and her jaws were forced apart; and then he tied two knots in the tie and the girl was effectively and cruelly gagged. Another tie secured her elbows, and Rilke, who had suddenly come to life, threw himself across her legs and bound a tie about her ankles.
Together the two men hoisted the girl back into the chair. Kirkland stood behind her and held her head rigidly in place with his hands; and Rilke adjusted the tube until the light was playing across her forehead.
In a tense silence, broken only by the girl’s painful breathing, the minutes went slowly by . . .
IN FIFTEEN minutes Carol lost consciousness; in thirty Rilke snapped off the machine.
“Now we will know,” he said in a hushed voice. “If it doesn’t work we’re in a pretty mess.”
They untied the girl’s arms and legs, and unwound the gag from her mouth. Kirkland stood in front of her, his heart pounding with agonizing speed.
“Wake up I” he said. “Open your eyes, Carol.”
The girl’s lids fluttered open. Her eyes were blank, unseeing.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are Mr. Kirkland.”
“Carol, stand up and smooth your dress and hair.”
Kirkland held his breath as the girl got to her feet and ran her hands down her skirt, and then patted her hair into a semblance of order.
“Kneel down, Carol,” Kirkland said, in a voice that was suddenly throbbing with power.
The girl obeyed instantly; and Kirkland drew a long breath and looked triumphantly at Rilke. “She does as she is ordered. She obeys me,” he cried.
For five minutes Kirkland experimented with the girl’s unhesitating reactions. He made her stand up, sit down, flex her arms and legs; he gave her dictation and made her read it back to him, he ordered her to fetch him various articles from about the room.
Kirkland was in a frenzy of excitement. This was what he had needed! Mindless, automatic obedience. Half an hour ago this girl, lovely, intelligent, efficient, could have defied him, scorned him, ignored him; but now she was his slave. Kirkland wasn’t an unkind man; he wouldn’t take advantage of the girl’s helplessness to hurt her or humiliate her in any way. All he wanted from other human beings was complete obedience; and that was little enough since he knew best how to make them happy.
“What are we going to do with her?” Rilke said.
Kirkland frowned. He hadn’t thought of that; and it occurred to him that the situation was a bit awkward. He wasn’t ready to put his plans into effect yet, and the machine wasn’t perfected; so he couldn’t risk anyone’s learning what had happened here in this room.
Turning to the girl he put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “You must leave here now,” he said. Kirkland’s eyes were suddenly moist. He had to sacrifice this lovely girl so that millions might be happy. It wasn’t an easy thing to do; but Kirkland knew that the Individual was nothing, the group everything. That knowledge gave him strength. “Go outside and walk to the windows at the end of the corridor, Carol. The windows are open now—”
“No!” Rilke gasped.
“Shut up!” Kirkland said harshly. “Carol, go to the windows and leap out. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Kirkland.”
“That’s a good girl. Hurry now.” The girl left the room, closing the door behind her; and then Rilke saw her notebook lying on the table. “We can’t have that found here,” he cried. “The police will think it’s funny that she doesn’t have it with her.”
“Stop worrying,” Kirkland said, but he was frowning. He stepped quickly to the door, opened it, and peered after the girl. She was walking briskly toward the open window. There wasn’t time to call her back. Someone might hear or see him, and so, with a last admiring glance at her straight back and slim legs, he closed the door and shrugged. “We will burn the notebook,” he said.
Rilke pressed his forehead tightly with both hands and sank into a chair. “She was so pleasant, so—so alert.”
“We mustn’t be sentimental,” said Kirkland. He lit a cigarette and sat down and stared at the machine.
He was still smoking that cigarette when they heard the faint wail of a siren floating up from the street.
CHAPTER II
“HOW MUCH money will you need?”
Kirkland asked the question of Rilke, who was sitting across from him at a restaurant table the following morning. The little doctor was studying the front page of a newspaper.
“I hardly know,” he said. “You haven’t looked
at this yet. Are you afraid to?”
Kirkland took the paper from the doctor’s hands. “I haven’t looked at it, because I am not interested. However, if it will make you happier, I’ll read the details.”
He sipped his coffee and studied Carol Masterson’s smiling portrait. The story read: “A twenty-four year old girl leaped to her death yesterday afternoon from the twelfth floor of the Ridgely Hotel. The victim, Carol Masterson, of 2643 High Place, operated a secretarial service in the hotel with her sister Denise. Denise, questioned by police last night, said she knew of no reason for her sister’s action. She was in good health and cheerful and happy, her sister added.”
There was more to it, but Kirkland put the paper aside. “It’s extremely unfortunate, of course,” he said, attacking his eggs, “but it was inevitable. Now let us come back to the important issue: Your machine must be perfected to a point where it operates instantly. One flash and the will is destroyed I We won’t always have time to put people under its effects for half an hour. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Dr. Rilke said reluctantly. “It’s a question of intensifying the ray for maximum effectives, but not to the point where it will destroy the mind itself. It’s a neat problem, but we can solve it.”
“Of course,” Kirkland said. “Now the second point: the machine must be reduced in bulk. Ideally it should be no larger than a fountain pen. Can that be done?”
“Perhaps,” Rilke said doubtfully. “Anything is possible. But I will need a laboratory, assistants, equipment.”
“Very well. How much money will that take?”
Rilke said. “Fifty thousand, sixty thousand.”
“Don’t worry, I will get the money. Now there’s one other thing.” Kirkland put his elbows on the table and studied Dr. Rilke with his pale bulging eyes. “How did you get into America?”
Rilke shrugged. “There are ways. After the war, I got false papers, was cleared by a de-nazification court, and, after a bit, got to America.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 268
