The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 40
"Of course, you would think of that!" Down came the hand again. The milk went over the top with fixed bayonets, flopped, made a spatter in No Man's Land. "Let him fire you. It'll be your chance. Tell him you've waited for it fifteen years, then hand him a poke in the gizzard. Find another job."
"What if there ain't another job?" he asked, almost tearfully.
"There're plenty. Dozens of them." She stood up, her mighty bulk still awing him despite years of familiarity. "Unfortunately, they're for men!"
He flinched, reached for his hat.
"I'll see," he murmured.
"You'll see! You were going to see a year back. And the year before that."
Her voice followed him out the front door and a hundred yards down the street. "And the year before that, and the one before that. Pfah!"
HE MIRRORED himself in a window farther down. There he was, well under average height, paunchy, flabby, insignificant. Guess everybody was pretty well right about him. Just a fat little slob.
A downtown bus came along. He reached the door, got boosted in by a brawny hustler behind. The hustler rough-housed past him while he stood dumbly tendering the driver a quarter.
Trimble didn't say anything when a hard, heavy elbow dented the flabbiness over his ribs. He was used to it.
The driver slapped five nickels into his hand, scowled, shoved his machine into gear. Dropping a coin into the box, Trimble wandered to the back.
There was a vacant seat blocked by a blue-jowled individual. The sitter undressed Trimble with one contemptuous rip of his eyes, made no attempt to move.
Stretching himself, Trimble inserted pudgy fingers in a swinging handle, hung on without remark.
Dismounting ten blocks down, he crossed the road, his path including a deep safety curve around the backside of a policeman's horse. Trotting along the sidewalk, he reached the office.
Watson was already in. Trimble said, "Good morning!" and Watson growled, "Humph!" Every day their exchange was the same—good morning, and humph.
The others came in later. One replied to Trimble's greeting with what might have been, "Marn!" or "Garn!" The rest grunted, snorted, or grinned as if at a secret joke.
At ten, the boss made his advent. He never just turned up, or arrived, or landed. He always made an advent. This time was the same. The boss entered with the air of one about to lay a foundation-stone, or launch a battleship, or something. Nobody greeted him. They tried to look extremely respectful and very busy at one and the same time. Except Trimble, who managed to depict servile idleness.
He gave the boss an hour to get through the morning mail, then prayed for strength, knocked, went in.
"Excuse me, sir."
"Hey?" The bison head came up, savage eyes transfixed the petitioner. "Well, what d'you want?"
"Nothing, sir, nothing," assured Trimble, his blood turning to water. "It wasn't important, and I've forgotten it."
"Then get out!"
Trimble got out. Twelve o'clock came, and he tried to steel himself once more. There seemed to be a shortage of steel. He sat down again wearily.
At ten minutes to one, he tried for the third time, stood outside the boss's door, lifted his knuckles, and then changed his mind. He'd leave it until after lunch. The food would fortify him.
THERE WAS a bar on the way to the cafeteria. He'd passed it a thousand times, but had never gone inside. This time, it struck him that a shot of whisky might help. He'd heard it called Dutch courage, and any sort of courage—Dutch or Zulu—was something he could do with aplenty.
Warily, his gaze went up and down the street. If Martha caught him in this sink of iniquity she'd fell him in his tracks. Yes, another Indian would bite the dust. But there wasn't any Martha. Greatly daring, he entered the bar.
The clients, or inmates, or whatever they're called, stared at him with open suspicion. Six of them were propped against the lengthy counter, their eyes summing him up as a barleywater addict. He'd have gone back if it hadn't been too late.
A bartender came along, said curtly, "What's yours?"
"A drink."
Somebody's snicker brought home to Trimble that one couldn't very well ask for a drink. One had to be more specific. For the life of him, he couldn't think of anything but beer. He didn't want beer.
"What's good?" he asked brightly.
"It depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Whether you've got a thirst, a yen, or a woe!"
"I have," said Trimble fervently, "got a woe!"
"Leave it to me." With an assured flick of his cloth, the bartender went away. He did things with bottles, came back, placed before the customer a glass of cloudy, yellow liquid. "That'll be forty."
Trimble paid, sat and stared at the glass. It fascinated him. It frightened him. It was as full of invitation and terror as an uncoiled cobra. He was still looking at it five minutes later when his neighbour, a hefty six-footer, casually put out a hairy hand, took the glass, drained it at a gulp. On no one but Trimble could such a breach of saloon etiquette be perpetrated.
"Always glad to help a pal," jeered the speaker's mouth, while his eyes said, "Well, d'ya want to make anything out of it?"
Offering no retort, no protest, Trimble went out. The contempt on the bartender's face was a hurtful thing. The others' raucous laughter was a dancing flame that scorched his neck and ears.
Safely outside, he communed with himself. What was the matter with him that he should be at the receiving end of all the kicks and butts? Could he help it that he was not a rip-roaring tough? Wasn't it the way he was made? Most important of all, what could he do about it—if anything?
There were these something-analysts to whom one could appeal. But they were doctors of a sort. He was terrified of doctors with their background of hospitals and operations. Besides, he feared appealing to anyone lest his reward be ridicule. He'd had plenty of ridicule ever since he was a kid. Was there a thing he didn't fear—just one, single thing of which he wasn't scared?
Somebody spoke close by him.
"Now don't be frightened. Maybe I can help you."
Turning, Trimble saw a little, white-haired man with a shrivelled form topped by a parchment face from which peered eyes of the clearest blue. The clothes this man wore were old-fashioned, curious, but his general appearance served to strengthen his expression of amiable understanding.
"I saw what happened in there." The little man nodded toward the bar. "I appreciate your position."
"Why should it interest you?" asked Trimble, guardedly.
"I'm always interested in people." His friendly hand took Trimble's arm and they walked along side by side. "People are infinitely more interesting than things." The blue eyes twinkled gently. "It is an iron rule that everybody has one outstanding fault, or, if you prefer, one fundamental weakness. The commonest one is fear. The man who fears no man may yet fear cancer. The dictator fears hidden thoughts. Many people fear death, and those who don't, fear life."
"True," conceded Trimble, thawing in spite of himself.
"You are a slave of fear," went on the ancient. "Your case is made malignant by your own consciousness of it. You are too aware."
"Don't I know it!"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you! You know it. And it is always with you. You cannot forget it."
"I wish I could," said Trimble. "Maybe someday I shall. Maybe I'll get guts. Heavens knows I've tried!"
"I'm sure you have." The wizened one smiled happily. "All a trier needs is the support of an ever-present friend. He craves encouragement, and, if need be, assistance. Every man has a friend of his own."
"Show me mine," challenged Trimble lugubriously. "I'm a hell of a pal to myself."
"You shall have the support gained only by a favoured few," promised the other.
He looked around very cautiously, then felt in the depths of a pocket.
"You shall quaff from a fountain in nethermost Tibet."
He produced a long, thin vial filled with liquid of irridescent green.
"This," he whispered, "will give you ears to hear the voice of darkness, a tongue to talk in tones of a ghost."
"It'll what?"
"Take it," urged the other. "I give it because it is the law of Shan that grace shall beget grace, and strength shall father strength." Another gentle smile. "You have now only one fear to conquer—the fear to drink!"
He was gone. How he went was a mystery to the astonished Trimble. First, the little man was there, the next instant his wraithlike form had merged with distant pedestrians. Trimble stood, stared up the street, then at the vial clenched in plump fingers. He put the thing in his pocket.
TEN MINUTES to spare outside the time required to get back to the office. Trimble exited from the cafeteria, his stomach only half filled, his soul troubled. The choice lay between a scene with the boss or a scene with Martha. He was between the devil and the deep sea and the fact had spoiled his appetite.
Detouring around the block, he found a vacant lot free from scurrying people. Seeking the comparative privacy of the space's farthest corner, he took out the shining vial, had another look at it.
The contents were brilliantly green and looked oily. The stuff might be a drug, or even poison. If a drug could make gangsters hold up banks, what could it make him do? Or, if it was a poison, would it make him die peacefully and without pain? Would Martha weep when she saw him lying stiff and cold, a saintlike expression upon his waxen face?
Uncapping the vial, he put his nose to it, got a whiff of dreamy, elusive odours. He stuck in the tip of his tongue, licked it around his mouth, absorbing the flavour. Strong, aromatic, enticing. Putting the vial to his lips, he swigged the contents to the last drop. It was the first chance he had ever taken, the most reckless thing he had ever done.
"And about time, too!" commented an eerie voice.
Trimble looked around. There wasn't anybody near him. He threw away the empty vial, decided he'd been deluded.
"Down here," hinted the voice.
"Uhn?" Trimble stared in a circle. Nobody! Gosh, that must have been a potent brew—he was imagining things already.
"Down here," urged the voice with sudden impatience. "On the floor, you barrel-shaped lump of stupidity!" A pause, then complainingly: "I'm your shadow."
"Oh, suffering snakes!" mouthed Trimble, covering his face with quivering hands. "I'm talking to my shadow! I've got the rats on one drink!"
"Don't be such a damned dope!" reproved the shadow. "Every man's got his black ghost, but not every guy can use or understand shady language." Silence, while the shade pondered, then the blunt command: "Come on—we're going places."
"Where?"
"We're going to beat up that bum in the bar."
"What?" yelled Trimble, at the top of his voice. A couple of pedestrians stopped dead on the sidewalk, gaped across the lot. Trimble took no notice. His mind was a whirl of wild confusion, his whole being tormented by fear of the strait-jacket and the padded cell.
"Don't be so all-fired noisy."
THE GHOST faded slightly as a cloud crossed the sun, then came back at full strength. "Now that we can pow-wow, I reckon I'd better have a name. You can call me Clarence."
"CI ... CI ... CI ..."
"Sure! Anything wrong with it?" demanded the other aggressively. "Shut up! Get over here, nearer the wall—that's right! See me sitting up? See me big—bigger'n you? Now bend that right arm. Okay, take a look at mine. A humdinger, huh? What wouldn't Dempsey give for a limb like this!"
"God!" groaned Trimble pitifully, his arm bent, his eyes turned appealingly to the sky.
"You'n me," went on Clarence, "can now co-operate. You do the aiming, and I'll hand the wallops. You've got to make sure you get the right side of the light to make me big and strong, then we'll lash out together. Just take good aim, remembering that I'm with you. Every time you hand a guy a prod, I'll paste him one that'll hang him on a ledge twelve floors up. D'you understand?"
"Y-yes," admitted Trimble, his voice almost inaudible. He cast a leery glance at his rear, saw that the number of onlookers had increased to ten.
"Turn around so's I'll be behind you," ordered the shadow. "Take a swipe by yourself, then another one with me. You'll be surprised at the difference."
Obediently, Trimble turned, faced the grinning audience, plunged his pudgy fist into thin air. It was a futile effort, and he knew it. Drawing back, he swung again, using all his strength and weight. His arm shot out like a piston, dragging his body off balance. He stumbled forward. The spectators laughed.
"See? What did I tell you? Not one guy in ten knows his own strength." Clarence permitted himself a ghostly chuckle. "Now we're all set. How about laying those kibitzers in a row, just to get our hand in?"
"No!" shouted Trimble. He wiped perspiration from a crimson half-crazed face. The audience went up to fifteen.
"Okay, have it your own way. Now let's get back to the bar, and remember I'm always with you!"
With his feet dragging more and more reluctantly, Trimble reached the bar. He stood outside, knees knocking, while his bellicose shade gave quick instructions.
"Nobody can hear me but you. You're one of the favoured few who can hear and speak the language of the dark. We'll go in there together, and you'll do what I tell you to do, say what I tell you to say. Whatever happens, don't get scared—I'll be with you, and I could flop a bull elephant."
"You b-bet," agreed Trimble with total lack of enthusiasm.
"All right. What in hell are you waiting for?"
LIKE A condemned criminal pacing the thirteen fateful steps, Trimble moved through the doors and into the bar. The same gang was still there, the same beefy hijacker lounging at the nearer end.
The bartender took one look at the entrant, smirked, then jerked an informative thumb. The hijacker sat pat and scowled. Still smirking, the bartender came up.
"What can I do for you?"
"Switch on the lights," gasped Trimble in an unearthly voice, "and I'll show you something."
Now he'd done it! He'd committed himself beyond withdrawal He'd have to go through with the whole whacky affair right until the interns came and bore him away.
The bartender considered. Whatever was going to be shown, it could be twisted into something that would add to the day's fun—He decided to oblige.
"Sure!" he said, and switched them on.
Trimble looked around, absorbed a sudden dose of confidence. It was the sight at his side. There was Clarence towering up the wall like a mighty djinn.
"Go on," commanded the tremendous shadow. "Do your stuff!"
Taking one step forward, Trimble snatched up the hijacker's glass, flung its contents into the fellow's face.
The recipient arose like one in a dream, gasped, mopped his streaming features, gasped again. Then he removed his jacket, folded it carefully, placed it on the counter. He spoke to his opponent very slowly, very deliberately, and very politely.
"I ain't rolling in money, but my heart is bursting with charity. I'll see that you get a decent burial!" With that, he released a pile-driver.
"Duck!" yelped Clarence.
Trimble pulled his head into his boots, felt an express locomotive rush across his hair.
"Now!" screamed Clarence frantically.
Popping up, Trimble slammed out a fist, concentrating on his aim, but putting all his weight and strength behind the blow. He tried for the Adam's apple, got it, and for a moment thought he was going to stick his arm through the bum's neck. It was something like walloping the sixtieth floor of the Empire State, and the effect was just as spectacular. The fellow went down like a poled ox. Oh boy, had he got power!
"Again!" raved Clarence, "Lemme soak him another as he gets up."
The smitten one was struggling to rise, an expression of absolute incredulity upon his face. He got halfway, making uncertain motions with his arms and legs.
Trimble wound up his right arm until he could almost hear it whiz. Then he let his fist fly, this time trying for the other's smeller. He got it with a loud swack like the sound of a skied baseball. The victim tried to throw his head clean off his shoulders, then collapsed and slid a foot along the floor.
"G-g-gosh!" stuttered an awed voice.
Shaking with excitement, Trimble turned his back on his supine opponent, went to the counter. The bartender came up, his features wearing an expression of deep respect. Trimble licked his own forefinger, drew a spit face inside a beer-ring on the counter.
"Put curls on that!"
The bartender hesitated, looked around with beseeching air, swallowed hard. Meekly, he licked his finger, added the curls.
Reaching over, Trimble snatched the fellow's cloth.
"This is what'll happen next time you pull faces at me." He rubbed out the face.
"Now, Mister, don't get tough," pleaded the bartender.
"Nuts!" It was the first time Trimble had used the word as a retort. He shied the cloth back, had a look at his snoring victim, walked out.
As his plump little form passed through the doors, a customer said, "That guy sure is dynamite! Looks to me like he's full of dope, and ripe for a killing."
"I dunno." The bartender was both subdued and sheepish. "You can't never tell from the looks of them. Take Slugs McKeefe, he's a world-beater at his weight, but he's only a fat little guy. I didn't like that feller's looks from the first—he might be Slug's brother."
"He might," conceded the critic thoughtfully.
Down on the floor, the stricken one's bubbling snore ended in a gasp, a gulp, and an oath. He stirred, tried to sit up.
"Now for the boss," said Clarence, delight in his voice.
"No, no, not that!" Trimble's apologetic face was crimson from the strain of his recent adventure. His eyes kept flickering back, searching for the murderous pursuit that he thought was inevitable. It was hard to believe that he'd actually done what he had done, and he couldn't understand how he'd escaped alive.
"I said now for the boss, you animated pumpkin!" repeated the shadow, with much asperity.
"But I daren't batter the boss." Trimble's voice grew to a loud, protesting wail. "It'll get me in stir."
