The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (70 page)

“I’m worried.”

“It’s Hugh. He’s upset you.”

“He’s a maniac!”

“I suppose he is…Sometime I’m going to take an hour off and try to visualize the world as he sees it.” He looked through a door into the next room. A man wielding an electric drill at the instrument panel nodded. He was about forty-five, round-bodied but sturdy, with a blond forelock hanging into his eyes. He finished drilling, came into the outer room.

“Doctor Clark,” said Don, “I didn’t expect to see you installing your own equipment.”

“Just a small refinement,” said Dr. Clark. “Everything’s working beautifully—better than we had hoped.”

“Then there’s no danger?” asked Jean anxiously.

“No fatalities since our first two days. Last night we held a chimpanzee under for an hour and a half. She’s bright as a dime this morning.”

“Then we’re ready to roll on the big one,” said Don.

Dr. Clark nodded. “We’re ready to roll.”

Don peered into the tank. “Make it comfortable, Doctor—I’ve a long way to go.”

XVI

The room was the same; the night was two weeks later. Nine men and three women sat or stood in their assigned positions.

Doctors Clark, Aguilar and Foley stood beside the glass-walled tank. Godfrey Head, Howard Rakowsky, Kelso, Vivian Hallsey and a cameraman sat in chairs to one side of the door; to the other sat Jean and Ivalee Trembath. Doctor James Cogswell stood by the foot of the tank and with him was Donald Berwick.

Don wore a blue terry-cloth bathrobe. His face was composed but the skin at his jawline shone pale. He turned his head, met Jean’s eyes. He smiled, muttered to Cogswell, crossed the room, took her hand.

“I can’t help but worry,” she whispered.

“There’s nothing to fear,” said Don. “The technique has been practiced on dogs and chimpanzees till they can do it in the dark.”

“I’ve heard that when men return to life, they’re not always—sane.”

“Nothing like that’s going to happen.”

“Another thing—that article in today’s paper. Won’t it prejudice some people, alter the archetype?”

Don shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. It makes the archetype more exactly me. It focuses a lot more attention on me, from people who before paid small attention…”

At this moment Fighting Hugh Bronny stood in the Orange City Auditorium, reading the article to seventeen thousand rapt followers. He leaned his gaunt body forward over the podium, spoke with the sly breathless relish of a dog stealing garbage. As he read he raised his head to glance across the auditorium. To his eyes the scene appeared as an over-exposed photograph—burnt by glaring lights, marked by shadows and smoky air, and the mosaic of pale faces was blurred, out of focus. He no longer thought of the audience as human beings. They comprised a unique substance, malleable as candle-wax, but with a responsive fiber that stimulated and excited him like a bath-brush on his long bony back.

Fighting Hugh Bronny read in triumph. He finished the article. The audience was silent; Hugh could sense the seventeen thousand pulsing hearts, the prickle and minuscule multitudinous shine of thirty-four thousand eyes. He felt a great glow of power. These people were waiting for him to tell them, to lead them; he could fix and form their minds, whip them back and forth like a fisherman dry-casting.

“I’ll read the article again,” said Hugh in a throaty voice. “And as I read, ponder the audacity of these hermetic imps.” He looked around his audience, raised his voice to oboe pitch. “These atheists.” He peered into the blur of faces. “These nasty vandals, breaking a way even into God’s own Heaven.” He paused. Even the sibilant sound of breath and stirring cloth had stopped. There was as deep a hush as is possible when seventeen thousand people gather under a roof hung with bright lights.

Hugh’s voice dropped an ominous octave. “If your blood doesn’t boil like mine—then never call me Fighting Hugh Bronny, and never call yourselves Christian Crusaders.”

He bent his head over the clipping and read.

Lucky Don Berwick
To Plumb Psychic Region
by Vivian Hallsey

“Three months ago Lucky Don Berwick was a man known to comparatively few people; today his name is on everyone’s tongue. Wherever men and women get together, chances are they’re talking about Lucky Don Berwick. Now comes news of an adventure to pale all the fabulous exploits in Berwick’s fabulous life—if it works. Tonight at nine o’clock Donald Berwick will be killed. By every medical and legal definition he will be dead. His heart will be still. His lungs will pump no air. There will be no sign of life in Berwick’s body; there will be no spark of life in Berwick’s body; he will have passed beyond.

“At nine-thirty Drs. Cogswell, Clark, Aguilar and Foley of Los Angeles Medical Research Center will attempt to revive Donald Berwick by techniques conceived during World War II, improved upon, and now perfected. At ten o’clock it is hoped that Lucky Donald Berwick will be lucky enough to be once more alive.

“What is the purpose of this experiment? Hang on to your seats, ladies and gentlemen; this is a jolt. Donald Berwick has volunteered to undertake the most daring exploration of his existence (although it’s a journey all of us must make). He will endeavor to bring back a report on the land beyond the grave, if there be any.”

Hugh looked up, carefully crumpled the clipping into a ball, cast it away with a gesture of revulsion.

“There, Christian Crusaders, you have it. You say with wrath in your hearts, God will punish these men. I say to you, God will certainly punish Donald Berwick and his kind! He has sent me—” Hugh became suddenly magnificent; he soared to his full height, an arm stretched high; his voice was a trumpet. “He has sent me! He has sent me as his strong right arm!” And in Hugh’s voice was the sudden certainty, and every heart felt a pang, every throat contracted, gulped for air, expanded in a great guttural moan. “He has sent me!—and I will lead!—first against the Devil’s Imp Berwick!—then against the vile forces that seek to befoul and destroy this dear America of ours! I can’t tell you, go to 26 Madrone Place, make your wishes known. I can’t urge you—as I might wish—to tear that cursed haunt of evil stone from stone. No! They’d say I was inciting you to riot! I can’t say that! No, brothers! All I can say is that’s where I’m going! Now is the time for Christian Crusaders to ask themselves to enforce the will of God. By fighting? Or by reading in the papers of blasphemy and sacrilege? The address, brothers and Crusaders! 26 Madrone Place. I will be there!”

XVII

Don looked at his watch. “Time grows short…I suppose I should be more alarmed, but I’m not.”

He grinned. “Just another dull evening.”

Head said drily, “You’re starting to take the exploits of Lucky Don Berwick seriously.”

Don grinned. “It’s hypnotic; I can’t help it. The synthetic personality is taking me over.” He caught Jean’s half-alarmed glance, laughed. “I’ll resist it.”

Clark and Aguilar were giving the tank a final cursory inspection, looking without seeing, since the entire apparatus had been checked and re-checked during the day.

The cameraman walked here and there, taking photographs.

Don glanced around the faces, meeting the eyes that watched him with covert speculation. “Everybody looks comfortable.” He prodded Cogswell’s plump ribs. “Cheer up, Doctor. After all, it’s me that’s being killed.”

Cogswell mumbled unhappily. “Do you think there’ll be time for materialization?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Dr. Foley touched Berwick’s elbow. “Come on, Lucky; take the dive.”

Don slipped out of the bathrobe. He wore the Russian colonel’s uniform to identify himself as completely as possible with the archetypal image of himself in the mass mind. A Polaroid camera hung around his neck; at his hip, a holster held a .45 army automatic.

“Take a good look,” said Don. “And remember—Lucky Don Berwick! Concentrate on it! The ‘Lucky’ part especially.” He stepped into the tank, stretched out.

Foley started a timer; Clark and Aguilar gave him intravenous injections in the right and left thighs, then the right and left shoulders. At one minute Foley threw a switch; motors under the tank began to whine. The glass was quickly frosted, Don’s shape became indistinct.

At two minutes Clark and Aguilar repeated the injections, while Foley clamped a soft band around Don’s wrist, looped a metal ribbon around his neck. Dials on the panel indicated pulse and body temperature. The pulse indicator quivered, sank: 60, 55, 50, 45; the temperature gauge hovered at 98.6 for thirty seconds, then began to dive. When it hit 90 degrees Foley threw in another switch; the motors below the cabinet sang.

Don was now unconscious. His pulse sank swiftly: 20—15—10—5…It quivered to a stop. The temperature gauge began to plummet: 80°—70°—60°. Dr. Clark and Dr. Foley reached into the tank, flexed Berwick’s legs, arms. The temperature dropped: 50°—40°—now far below room temperature.

Dr. Aguilar worked a knob; the motor sound declined in pitch. The temperature gauge moved more slowly, came to a halt at 34°.

Drs. Foley and Aguilar slid a glass cover over the tank, Clark opened a valve; there was a sound of pumps.

Dr. Cogswell turned to the spectators. “At this time—he’s dead. The pumps are drawing the air out of his lungs; the tank will be refilled by an atmosphere of nitrogen.”

Foley reached through a port, rubber gauntlets over his hands. He put a bracket against the waxy temples, pressed contacts against various parts of Don’s close-cropped scalp. Aguilar watched a dial muttering, “No—no—no…No—no—nothing. No activity.” Cogswell turned to the others. “He is now dead.”

Kelso said, “Okay to take pictures into the tank?”

Dr. Cogswell nodded shortly.

Kelso motioned to the photographer.

Jean was looking at Ivalee Trembath. “Can you get anything?”

Ivalee shook her ice and silver head. “No…Not in here. There’s too much infringement—disturbance.”

“Want to leave the room?” Rakowsky asked her.

“Yes, please.”

Rakowsky and Jean took her to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Suddenly conscious of noise, Rakowsky looked out the window. He touched Jean’s arm. “The street—all of a sudden it’s full of cars.”

The cars crowded bumper to bumper along the street, glowing-eyed black fish. They roared and groaned and choked to a halt. The doors opened; men and women with twisted faces squeezed out, struggled and sidled to the sidewalk. They started to chant—off-key, off-beat. The tune suddenly emerged.

“Listen,” said Jean.

“‘Onward Christian Soldiers’,” said Rakowsky.

Jean shuddered. “It sounds weird—music from the future…What are they doing here?…A convention? A gathering?”

“A demonstration,” said Rakowsky.

“An attack,” said Ivalee Trembath.

The voices rose into the night, the faces looked up, pale as clamshells. A tall figure, larger and more definite than the faceless crowd, stalked to the door.

Rakowsky muttered, “I’m going to call the police.”

Hugh’s bony knuckles echoed on the door. “Open up, open up, in the name of the Lord God Most High. Open this cursed door!”

Jean suddenly snapped out of it to find Ivalee’s hands clutching her. Ivalee was crying. “Jean! Jean! Don’t!” Jean had a heavy earthenware vase in her hand; the window was open in front of her. She stopped struggling, put down the vase. “What a horror!” she whispered. “I would have killed him…”

The knocks were sounding again. “For the last time!” blared Hugh’s voice; then the door swung open. Godfrey Head’s calm quiet voice rose up to them.

“I have called the police. You’re disturbing a delicate scientific experiment. I advise you to leave before you get in serious trouble.”

“Anti-Christ!” crackled Hugh’s voice. “Stand aside.” He put a great hand on Head’s thin chest, pushed. Kelso stepped out on the porch. Hugh attempted to thrust him aside. Kelso swung a bony fist into Hugh’s mouth, sent him reeling off the porch.

From the distance came the eery moan of sirens. It seemed to stimulate the crowd, to heighten their mood.

Hugh staggered around, faced them. His mouth oozed black blood, his shirt was befouled. “They have drawn my blood! In the name of my blood, forward! The time is now! Such a great fire we will kindle to carry us across the world! Onward, you Crusaders, you soldiers of Christ! With fire and sword—onward!”

The crowd roared, surged. Jean caught a horrifying glimpse of Godfrey Head being yanked by his necktie, flung down from the porch, disappearing under the dark rush.

An enormous baby-faced young man with side-burns wearing a leather jacket charged into the hall, clamped Kelso’s arms; they fell heavily, Kelso on the bottom.

Hugh stalked forward, kicked. The young man jumped up, kicked too, again and again with booted feet.

Hugh looked about him, majestic, flaming-eyed. “Fire and sword!” came the cry behind him; and a woman who looked like a consumptive stenographer began keening “Onward Christian Soldiers!” And the baby-faced young man yelled, “Kill the devils! Kill the atheists!”

At the foot of the staircase, the cameraman snapped pictures—one, two, three—then prudently retreated down the hall. Hugh ignored him. The four doctors came forward, so cool and inquiring that Hugh was momentarily taken aback.