The Fredric Brown Megapack (31 page)

I shoved aside a pile of papers on the bed—I’d been going through some old clunker manuscripts seeing if I could find something good enough to rewrite from a new angle—and sat down.

“O.K.,” I said. “Tell him to bring me a drink.”

“What kind?”

I looked at Charlie, and he didn’t look like he was kidding. He had to be, of course, but—

“Gin buck,” I told him. “A gin buck, with gin in it, if Yehudi knows what I mean.”

“Hold out your hand,” Charles said.

I held out my hand. Charlie, not talking to me, said, “Bring Hank a gin buck, strong.” And then he nodded his head.

Something happened either to Charlie or to my eyes, I didn’t know which. For just a second, he got sort of misty. And then he looked normal again.

And I let out a kind of a yip and pulled my hand back, because my hand was wet with something cold. And there was a splashing noise and a wet puddle on the carpet right at my feet. Right under where my hand had been.

Charlie said, “We should have asked for it in a glass.”

I looked at Charlie and then I looked at the puddle on the floor and then I looked at my hand. I stuck my index finger gingerly into my mouth and tasted.

Gin buck. With gin in it. I looked at Charlie again. He asked, “Did I blur?”

“Listen, Charlie,” I said. “I’ve known you for ten years, and we went to Tech together and— But if you pull another gag like that I’ll blur you, all right. I’ll—”

“Watch closer this time,” Charlie said. And again, looking off into space and not talking to me at all, he started talking. “Bring us a fifth of gin, in a bottle. Half a dozen lemons, sliced, on a plate. Two quart bottles of soda and a dish of ice cubes. Put it all on the table over there.”

He nodded his head, just like he had before, and darned if he didn’t blur.
Blur
was the best word for it.

“You blurred,” I said. I was getting a slight headache.

“I thought so,” he said. “But I was using a mirror when I tried it alone, and I thought maybe it was my eyes. That’s why I came over. You want to mix the drinks or shall I?”

I looked over at the table, and there was all the stuff he’d ordered. I swallowed a couple of times. “It’s real,” Charlie said. He was breathing a little hard, with suppressed excitement. “It works, Hank. It
works
. We’ll be rich! We can—”

Charlie kept on talking, but I got up slowly and went over to the table. The bottles and lemons and ice were really there. The bottles gurgled when shaken and the ice was cold.

In a minute I was going to worry about how they got there. Meanwhile and right now, I needed a drink. I got a couple of glasses out of the medicine cabinet and the bottle opener out of the file cabinet, and I made two drinks, about half gin.

Then I thought of something. I asked Charlie, “Does Yehudi want a drink, too?”

Charlie grinned. “Two’ll be enough,” he told me.

“To start with, maybe,” I said grimly. I handed him a drink—in a glass—and said, “To Yehudi.” I downed mine at a gulp and started mixing another.

Charlie said, “Me, too. Hey, wait a minute.”

“Under present circumstances,” I said, “a minute is a minute too long between drinks. In a minute I shall wait a minute, but—Hey, why don’t we let Yehudi mix ’em for us?”

“Just what I was going to suggest. Look, I want to try something. You put this headband on and tell him to. I want to watch you.”

“Me?”

“You,” he said. “It can’t do any harm, and I want to be sure it works for everybody and not just for me. It may be that it’s attuned merely to my brain. You try it.”

“Me?” I said.

“You,” he told me.

He’d taken it off and was holding it out to me, with the little flat dry cell dangling from it at the end of the wire. I took it and looked it over. It didn’t look dangerous. There couldn’t possibly be enough juice in so tiny a battery to do any harm.

I put it on.

“Mix us some drinks,” I said, and looked over at the table, but nothing happened.

“You got to nod just as you finish,” Charlie said. “There’s a little pendulum affair in the box over your forehead that works the switch.”

I said, “Mix us two gin bucks. In glasses, please.” And nodded. When my head came up again, there were the drinks, mixed. “Blow me down,” I said. And bent over to pick up my drink.

And there I was on the floor.

Charlie said, “Be careful, Hank. If you lean over forward, that’s the same as nodding. And don’t nod or lean just as you say something you don’t mean as an order.”

I sat up. “Fan me with a blowtorch,” I said.

But I didn’t nod. In fact, I didn’t move. When I realized what I’d said, I held my neck so rigid that it hurt, and didn’t quite breathe for fear I’d swing that pendulum.

Very gingerly, so as not to tilt it, I reached up and took off the headband and put it down on the floor.

Then I got up and felt myself all over. There were probably bruises, but no broken bones. I picked up the drink and drank it. It was a good drink, but I mixed the next one myself. With three-quarters gin.

With it in my hand, I circled around the headband, not coming within a yard of it, and sat down on the bed.

“Charlie,” I said, “you’ve got something there. I don’t know what it is, but what are we waiting for?”

“Meaning?” said Charlie.

“Meaning what any sensible man would mean. If that darned thing brings anything we ask for, well, let’s make it a party. Which would you rather have, Lili St. Cyr or Esther Williams? I’ll take the other.”

He shook his head sadly. “There are limitations, Hank. Maybe I’d better explain.”

“Personally,” I said, “I would prefer Lili to an explanation, but go ahead. Let’s start with Yehudi. The only two Yehudis I know are Yehudi Menuhin, the violinist, and Yehudi, the little man who wasn’t there. Somehow I don’t think Menuhin brought us that gin, so—”

“He didn’t. For that matter, neither did the little man who wasn’t there. I was kidding you, Hank. There isn’t any little man who wasn’t there.”

“Oh,” I said. I repeated it slowly, or started to. “There—isn’t any—little—man—who—wasn’t—” I gave up. “I think I begin to see,” I said. “What you mean is that there wasn’t any little man who isn’t here. But then, who’s Yehudi?”

“There isn’t any Yehudi, Hank. But the name, the idea, fitted so well that I called it that for short.”

“And what do you call it for long?”

“The automatic autosuggestive subvibratory super-accelerator.”

I drank the rest of my drink.

“Lovely,” I said. “I like the Yehudi principle better, though. But there’s just one thing. Who brought us that drink-stuff? The gin and the soda and the so forth?”

“I did. And you mixed our second-last, as well as our last drink. Now do you understand?”

“In a word,” I said, “not exactly.”

Charlie sighed. “A field is set up between the temple-plates which accelerates several thousand times, the molecular vibration and thereby the speed of organic matter—the brain, and thereby the body. The command given just before the switch is thrown acts as an autosuggestion and you carry out the order you’ve just given yourself. But so rapidly that no one can see you move; just a momentary blur as you move off and come back in practically the same instant. Is that clear?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Except for one thing. Who’s Yehudi?”

I went to the table and started mixing two more drinks. Seven-eighths gin.

Charlie said patiently, “The action is so rapid that it does not impress itself upon your memory. For some reason the memory is not affected by the acceleration. The effect—both to the user and to the observer—is of the spontaneous obedience of a command by…well, by the little man who wasn’t there.”

“Yehudi?”

“Why not?”

“Why not why not?” I asked. “Here, have another drink. It’s a bit weak, but so am I. So you got this gin, huh? Where?”

“Probably the nearest tavern. I don’t remember.”

“Pay for it?”

He pulled out his wallet and opened it. “I think there’s a fin missing. I probably left it in the register. My subconscious must be honest.”

“But what good is it?” I demanded. “I don’t mean your subconscious, Charlie, I mean the Yehudi principle. You could have just as easily bought that gin on the way here. I could just as easily have mixed a drink and known I was doing it. And if you’re
sure
it can’t go bring us Lili St. Cyr and Esther Williams—”

“It can’t. Look, it can’t do anything that you yourself can’t do. It isn’t an it. It’s you. Get that through your head, Hank, and you’ll understand.”

“But what good is it?”

He sighed again. “The real purpose of it is
not
to run errands for gin and mix drinks. That was just a demonstration. The real purpose—”

“Wait,” I said. “Speaking of drinks, wait. It’s a long time since I had one.”

I made the table, tacking only twice, and this time I didn’t bother with the soda. I put a little lemon and an ice cube in each glass of gin.

Charlie tasted his and made a wry face.

I tasted mine. “Sour,” I said. “I should have left out the lemon. And we better drink them quick before the ice cubes start to melt or they’ll be weak.”

“The real purpose,” said Charlie, “is—”

“Wait,” I said. “You could be wrong, you know. About the limitations. I’m going to put that headband on and tell Yehudi to bring us Lili and—”

“Don’t be a sap, Hank. I made the thing. I know how it works. You can’t get Lili St. Cyr or Esther Williams or Brooklyn Bridge.”

“You’re positive?”

“Of course.”

What a sap I was. I believed him. I mixed two more drinks, using gin and two glasses this time, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed, which was swaying gently from side to side.

“All right,” I said. “I can take it now. What is the real purpose of it?”

Charlie Swann blinked several times and seemed to be having trouble bringing his eyes into focus on me. He asked, “The real purpose of what?”

I enunciated slowly and carefully. “Of the automatonic autosuggestive subvibratory super-accelerator. Yehudi, to me.”

“Oh, that,” said Charlie.

“That,” I said. “What is its real purpose?”

“It’s like this. Suppose you got something to do that you’ve got to do in a hurry. Or something that you’ve got to do, and don’t want to do. You could—”

“Like writing a story?” I asked.

“Like writing a story,” he said, “or painting a house, or washing a mess of dishes, or shoveling the sidewalk, or…or doing anything else you’ve got to do but don’t want to do. Look, you put it on and tell yourself—”

“Yehudi,” I said.

“Tell Yehudi to do it, and it’s done. Sure, you do it, but you don’t know that you do, so it doesn’t hurt. And it gets done quicker.”

“You blur,” I said.

He held up his glass and looked through it at the electric light. It was empty. The glass, not the electric light. He said, “You blur.”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer. He seemed to be swinging, chair and all, in an arc about a yard long. It made me dizzy to look at him, so I closed my eyes, but that was worse so I opened them again.

I said, “A story?”

“Sure.”

“I got to write a story,” I said, “but why should I? I mean, why not let Yehudi do it?”

I went over and put on the headband. No extraneous remarks this time, I told myself. Stick to the point.

“Write a story,” I said.

I nodded. Nothing happened.

But then I remembered that, as far as I was supposed to know, nothing was supposed to happen. I walked over to the typewriter desk and looked.

There was a white sheet and a yellow sheet in the typewriter, with a carbon between them. The page was about half filled with typing and then down at the bottom were two words by themselves. I couldn’t read them. I took my glasses off and still I couldn’t, so I put them back on and put my face down within inches of the typewriter and concentrated. The words were “The End.”

I looked over alongside the typewriter and there was a neat, but small pile of typed sheets, alternate white and yellow.

It was wonderful. I’d written a story. If my subconscious mind had anything on the ball, it might be the best story I’d ever written.

Too bad I wasn’t quite in shape to read it. I’d have to see an optometrist about new glasses. Or something.

“Charlie,” I said, “I wrote a story.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I blurred,” I said. “But you weren’t looking.”

I was back sitting on the bed. I don’t remember getting there. “Charlie,” I said, “it’s wonderful.”

“What’s wonderful?”

“Everything. Life. Birdies in the trees. Pretzels. A story in less than a second! One second a week I have to work from now on. No more school, no more books, no more teacher’s sassy looks! Charlie, it’s
wonderful!”

He seemed to wake up. He said, “Hank, you’re just
beginning
to see the possibilities. They’re almost endless, for any profession. Almost
anything.
”

“Except,” I said sadly, “Lili St. Cyr and Esther Williams.”

“You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“Two-track,” I said. “I’d settle for either. Charlie, are you
positive—
”

Wearily, “Yes.” Or that was what he meant to say; it came out “Mesh.”

“Charlie,” I said. “You’ve been drinking. Care if I
try?
”

“Shoot yourself.”

“Huh? Oh, you mean suit yourself. O.K., then I’ll—”

“Thass what I shaid,” Charlie said. “Suit yourshelf.”

“You did not.”

“What did I shay, then?”

I said, “You shaid—I mean said: ‘Shoot yourself.’”

Even Jove nods.

Only Jove doesn’t wear a headband like the one I still had on. Or maybe, come to think of it, he does. It would explain a lot of things.

I must have nodded, because there was the sound of a shot. I let out a yell and jumped up, and Charlie jumped up too. He looked sober.

He said, “Hank, you had that thing on. Are you—?”

I was looking down at myself and there wasn’t any blood on the front of my shirt. Nor any pain anywhere. Nor anything. I quit shaking. I looked at Charlie; he wasn’t shot either. I said, “But who—? What—?”

“Hank,” he said. “That shot wasn’t in this room at all. It was outside, in the hallway, or on the stair.”

“On the
stair?
”
Something prickled at the back of my mind. What about a stair?
I saw a man upon the stair, a little man who was not there. He was not there again today. Gee, I wish he
’
d go away.
“Charlie,” I said. “
It was Yehudi!
He shot himself because I said ‘shoot yourself’ and the pendulum swung. You were wrong about it being an—an automatonic autosuggestive whatzit. It was Yehudi doing it all the time. It was—”

“Shut up,” he said.

But he went over and opened the door and I followed him and we went out in the hallway.

There was a decided smell of burnt powder. It seemed to come from about halfway up the stairs because it got stronger as we neared that point.

“Nobody there,” Charlie said, shakily.

In an awed voice I said,
“
He was not there again today. Gee, I wish—
”

“Shut up,” said Charlie sharply. We went back into my room.

“Sit down,” Charlie said. “We got to figure this out. You said, ‘Shoot yourself,’ and either nodded or swayed forward. But you didn’t shoot yourself. The shot came from—” He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Let’s have some coffee,” he suggested. “Some hot, black coffee. Have you got— Hey, you’re still wearing that headband. Get us some, but for Heaven’s sake be careful.”

I said, “Bring us two cups of hot black coffee.” And I nodded, but it didn’t work. Somehow I’d known it wouldn’t.