Halsyon gripped the pocket watch in his big fist and drove the fist cleanly into Derelict’s jaw. The dealer dropped without a sound. Halsyon dragged him to the wall, stripped him naked, dressed himself in his clothes, repacked the portfolio and closed it. He picked up the dollar bill and pocketed it. He picked up the bottle of carbon ink warranted nonpoisonous and smeared the contents over his face.
Choking and shouting, he brought the nurse to the door.
“Let me out of here,” Halsyon cried in a muffled voice. “That maniac tried to drown me. Threw ink in my face. I want out!”
The door was unbolted and opened. Halsyon shoved past the nurse-man, cunningly mopping his blackened face with a hand that only masked it more. As the nurse-man started to enter the cell, Halsyon said, “Never mind Halsyon. He’s all right. Get me a towel or something. Hurry!”
The nurse-man locked the door again, turned and ran down the corridor. Halsyon waited until he disappeared into a supply room, then turned and ran in the opposite direction. He went through the heavy doors to the main wing corridor, still cleverly mopping, still sputtering with cunning indignation. He reached the main building. He was halfway out and still no alarm. He knew those brazen bells. They tested them every Wednesday noon.
It’s like a game, he told himself. It’s fun. It’s nothing to be scared of. It’s being safely, sanely, joyously a kid again and when we quit playing, I’m going home to mama and dinner and papa reading me the funnies and I’m a kid again, really a kid again, forever.
There still was no hue and cry when he reached the main floor. He complained about his indignity to the receptionist. He complained to the protection guards as he forged James Derelict’s name in the visitors’ book, and his inky hand smeared such a mess on the page that the forgery was undetected. The guard buzzed the final gate open. Halsyon passed through into the street, and as he started away he heard the brass of the bells begin a clattering that terrified him.
He ran. He stopped. He tried to stroll. He could not. He lurched down the street until he heard the guards shouting. He darted around a comer, and another, tore up endless streets, heard cars behind him, sirens, bells, shouts, commands. It was a ghastly Catherine Wheel of flight. Searching desperately for a hiding place, Halsyon darted into the hallway of a desolate tenement.
Halsyon began to climb the stairs. He went up three at a clip, then two, then struggled step by step as his strength failed and panic paralyzed him. He stumbled at a landing and fell against a door. The door opened. The Faraway Fiend stood within, smiling briskly, rubbing his hands.
“Glückliche Reise,” he said. “On the dot. God damn. You twenty-three skidooed, eh? Enter, my old. I’m expecting you. Be it never so humble . . .”
Halsyon screamed.
“No, no, no! No Sturm und Drang, my beauty,” Mr. Aquila clapped a hand over Halsyon’s mouth, heaved him up, dragged him through the doorway and slammed the door.
“Presto-changeo,” he laughed. “Exit Jeffrey Halsyon from mortal ken. Dieu vous garde.”
Halsyon freed his mouth, screamed again and fought hysterically, biting and kicking. Mr. Aquila made a clucking noise, dipped into his pocket and brought out a package of cigarettes. He flipped one out of the pack expertly and broke it under Halsyon’s nose. The artist at once subsided and suffered himself to be led to a couch, where Aquila cleansed the ink from his face and hands.
“Better, eh?” Mr. Aquila chuckled. “Non habit-forming. God damn. Drinks now called for.”
He filled a shot glass from a decanter, added a tiny cube of purple ice from a fuming bucket, and placed the drink in Halsyon’s hand. Compelled by a gesture from Aquila, the artist drank it off. It made his brain buzz. He stared around, breathing heavily. He was in what appeared to be the luxurious waiting room of a Park Avenue physician. Queen Anne furniture. Axminster rug. Two Hogarths and a Copley on the wall in gilt frames. They were genuine, Halsyon realized with amazement. Then, with even more amazement, he realized that he was thinking with coherence, with continuity. His mind was quite clear.
He passed a heavy hand over his forehead. “What’s happened?” he asked faintly. “There’s like . . . Something like a fever behind me. Nightmares.”
“You have been sick,” Aquila replied. “I am blunt, my old. This is a temporary return to sanity. It is no feat, God damn. Any doctor can do it. Niacin plus carbon dioxide. Id genus omne. Only temporary. We must search for something more permanent.”
“What’s this place?”
“Here? My office. Anteroom without. Consultation room within. Laboratory to left. In God we trust.”
“I know you,” Halsyon mumbled. “I know you from somewhere. I know your face.”
“Oui. You have drawn and redrawn me in your fever. Ecce homo. But you have the advantage, Halsyon. Where have we met? I ask myself.” Aquila put on a brilliant speculum, tilted it over his left eye and let it shine into Halsyon’s face. “Now I ask you. Where have we met?” Hypnotized by the fight, Halsyon answered dreamily. “At the Beaux Arts Ball . . . A long time ago. . . . Before the fever . . .”
“Ah? Si. It was one half year ago. I was there. An unfortunate night.”
“No. A glorious night . . . Gay, happy fun . . . Like a school dance . . . Like a prom in costume . . .
“Always back to the childhood, eh?” Mr. Aquila murmured. “We must attend to that. Cetera desunt, young Lochinvar. Continue.”
“I was with Judy. . . . We realized we were in love that night. We realized how wonderful life was going to be. And then you passed and looked at me. . . . Just once. You looked at me. It was horrible.”
“Tch!” Mr. Aquila clicked his tongue in vexation. “Now I remember said incident. I was unguarded. Bad news from home. A pox on both my houses.”
“You passed in red and black. . . . Satanic. Wearing no mask. You looked at me . . . A red and black look I never forgot. A look from black eyes like pools of hell, like cold fires of terror. And with that look you robbed me of everything . . . of joy, of hope, of love, of life. . . .”
“No, no!” Mr. Aquila said sharply. “Let us understand ourselves. My carelessness was the key that unlocked the door. But you fell into a chasm of your own making. Nevertheless, old beer and skittles, we must alter same.” He removed the speculum and shook his finger at Halsyon. “We must bring you back to the land of the living. Auxilium ab alto. Jeez. That is for why I have arranged this meeting. What I have done I will undone, eh? But you must climb out of your own chasm. Knit up the raveled sleeve of care. Come inside.”
He took Halsyon’s arm, led him down a paneled hall, past a neat office and into a spanking white laboratory. It was all tile and glass with shelves of reagent bottles, porcelain filters, an electric oven, stock jars of acids, bins of raw materials. There was a small round elevation in the center of the floor, a sort of dais. Mr. Aquila placed a stool on the dais, placed Halsyon on the stool, got into a white lab coat and began to assemble apparatus.
“You,” he chatted, “are an artist of the utmost. I do not dorer la pilule. When Jimmy Derelict told me you were no longer at work, God damn! We must return him to his muttons, I said. Solon Aquila must own many canvases of Jeffrey Halsyon. We shall cure him. Hoc age.”
“You’re a doctor?” Halsyon asked.
“No. Let us say, a warlock. Strictly speaking a witch-pathologist. Very high class. No nostrums. Strictly modern magic. Black magic and white magic are passé, n’est-ce pas? I cover entire spectrum, specializing mostly in the 15,000 angstrom band.”
“You’re a witch-doctor? Never!”
“Oh yes.”
“In this kind of place?”
“Ah-ha? You too are deceived, eh? It is our camouflage. Many a modem laboratory you think concerns itself with tooth paste is devoted to magic. But we are scientific too. Parbleu! We move with the times, we warlocks. Witch’s Brew now complies with Pure Food and Drug Act. Familiars 100 per cent sterile. Sanitary brooms. Cellophane-wrapped curses. Father Satan in rubber gloves.
Thanks to Lord Lister; or is it Pasteur? My idol.”
The witch-pathologist gathered raw materials, consulted an ephemeris, ran off some calculations on an electronic computer and continued to chat.
“Fugit hora,” Aquila said. “Your trouble, my old, is loss of sanity. Oui? Lost in one damn flight from reality and one damn desperate search for peace brought on by one unguarded look from me to you. Helas! I apologize for that, R.S.V.P.” With what looked like a miniature tennis line-marker, he rolled a circle around Halsyon on the dais. “But your trouble is, to wit: You search for the peace of infancy. You should be fighting to acquire the peace of maturity, n’est-ce pas? Jeez.” Aquila drew circles and pentagons with a glittering compass and rule, weighed out powders on a microbeam balance, dropped various liquids into crucibles from calibrated burettes, and continued: “Many warlocks do brisk trade in potions from Fountains of Youths. Oh yes. Are many youths and many fountains; but none for you. No. Youth is not for artists. Age is the cure. We must purge your youth and grow you up, nicht wahr?”
“No,” Halsyon argued. “No. Youth is the art. Youth is the dream. Youth is the blessing.”
“For some, yes. For many, not. Not for you. You are cursed, my adolescent. We must purge you. Lust for power. Lust for sex. Injustice collecting. Escape from reality. Passion for revenges. Oh yes, Father Freud is also my idol. We wipe your slate clean at very small price.”
“What price?”
“You will see when we are finished.”
Mr. Aquila deposited liquids and powders around the helpless artist in crucibles and petri dishes. He measured and cut fuses, set up a train from the circle to an electric timer which he carefully adjusted. He went to a shelf of serum bottles, took down a small Woulff vial numbered 5-271-009, filled a syringe and meticulously injected Halsyon.
“We begin,” he said, “the purge of your dreams. Voilà.”
He tripped the electric timer and stepped behind a lead shield. There was a moment of silence. Suddenly black music crashed from a concealed loudspeaker and a recorded voice began an intolerable chant. In quick succession the powders and liquids around Halsyon burst into flame. He was engulfed in music and fire. The world began to spin around him in a roaring confusion. . . .
*
The president of the United Nations came to him. He was tall and gaunt, sprightly but bitter. He was wringing his hands in dismay.
“Mr. Halsyon! Mr. Halsyon!” he cried. “Where you been, my cupcake? God damn. Hoc tempore. Do you know what has happened?”
“No,” Halsyon answered. “What’s happened?”
“After your escape from the looney bin. Bango! Atom bombs everywhere. The two-hour war. It is over. Hora fugit, old faithful, Virility is over.”
“What!”
“Hard radiation, Mr. Halsyon, has destroyed the virility of the world. God damn. You are the only man left capable of engendering children. No doubt on account of a mysterious mutant strain in your makeup which it makes you different. Jeez.”
“No.”
“Oui. It is your responsibility to repopulate the world. We have taken for you a suite at the Odeon. It has three bedrooms. Three; my favorite. A prime number.”
“Hot dog!” Halsyon said. “This is my big dream.”
His progress to the Odeon was a triumph. He was garlanded with flowers, serenaded, hailed and cheered. Ecstatic women displayed themselves wickedly before him, begging for his attention. In his suite, Halsyon was wined and dined. A tall, gaunt man entered subserviently. He was sprightly but bitter. He had a list in his hand.
“I am World Procurer at your service, Mr. Halsyon,” he said. He consulted his list. “God damn. Are 5,271,009 virgins clamoring for your attention. All guaranteed beautiful. Ewig-Weibliche. Pick a number from one to 5,000, 000.”
“We’ll start with a redhead,” Halsyon said.
They brought him a redhead. She was slender and boyish, with a small hard bosom. The next was fuller with a rollicking rump. The fifth was Junoesque and her breasts were like African pears. The tenth was a voluptuous Rembrandt. The twentieth was wiry. The thirtieth was slender and boyish with a small hard bosom.
“Haven’t we met before?” Halsyon inquired.
“No,” she said.
The next was fuller with a rollicking rump.
“The body is familiar,” Halsyon said.
“No,” she answered.
The fiftieth was Junoesque with breasts like African pears.
“Surely?” Halsyon said.
“Never,” she answered.
The World Procurer entered with Halsyon’s morning aphrodisiac.
“Never touch the stuff,” Halsyon said.
“God damn,” the Procurer exclaimed. “You are a veritable giant. An elephant. No wonder you are the beloved Adam. Tant soit peu. No wonder they all weep for love of you.” He drank off the aphrodisiac himself.
“Have you noticed they’re all getting to look alike?” Halsyon complained.
“But no! Are all different. Parbleu! This is an insult to my office.”
“Oh, they’re different from one to another, but the types keep repeating.”
“Ah? This is life, my old. All life is cyclic. Have you not, as an artist, noticed?”
“I didn’t think it applied to love.”
“To all things. Wahrheit und Dichtung.”
“What was that you said about them weeping?”
“Oui. They all weep.”
“Why?”
“For ecstatic love of you. God damn.”
Halsyon thought over the succession of boyish, rollicking, Junoesque, Rembrandtesque, wiry, red, blonde, brunette, white, black and brown women.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.
“Observe today, my world father. Shall we commence?” It was true. Halsyon hadn’t noticed. They all wept. He was flattered but depressed.
“Why don’t you laugh a little?” he asked.
They would not or could not.
Upstairs on the Odeon roof where Halsyon took his afternoon exercise, he questioned his trainer who was a tall, gaunt man with a sprightly but bitter expression.
“Ah?” said the trainer. “God damn. I don’t know, old Scotch and soda. Perhaps because it is a traumatic experience for them.”
“Traumatic?” Halsyon puffed. “Why? What do I do to them?”
“Ah-ha? You joke, eh? All the world knows what you do to them.”
“No, I mean . . . How can it be traumatic? They’re all fighting to get to me, aren’t they? Don’t I come up to expectations?”
“A mystery. Tripotage. Now, beloved father of the world, we practice the push-ups. Ready? Begin.”
Downstairs, in the Odeon restaurant, Halsyon questioned the head waiter, a tall, gaunt man with a sprightly manner but bitter expression.
“We are men of the world, Mr. Halsyon. Suo jure. Surely you understand. These women love you and can expect no more than one night of love. God damn. Naturally they are disappointed.”
“What do they want?”
“What every woman wants, my gateway to the west. A permanent relationship. Marriage.”
“Marriage!”
“Oui.”
“All of them?”
“Oui.”
“All right. I’ll marry all 5,271,009.”
But the World Procurer objected. “No, no, no, young Lochinvar. God damn. Impossible. Aside from religious difficulties there are human also. Who could manage such a harem?”
“Then I’ll marry one.”
“No, no, no. Pensez à moi. How could you make the choice? How could you select? By lottery, drawing straws, tossing coins?”
“I’ve already selected one.”
“Ah? Which?”
“My girl,” Halsyon said slowly. “Judith Field.”
“So. Your sweetheart?”
“Yes.”
“She is far down on the list of 5,000,000.”
“She’s always been number one on my list. I want Judith.”
Halsyon sighed. “I remember how she looked at the Beaux Arts Ball. . . . There was a full moon. . . .”
“But there will be no full moon until the twenty-sixth.”
“I want Judith.”
“The others will tear her apart out of jealousy. No, no, no, Mr. Halsyon, we must stick to the schedule. One night for all, no more for any.”
“I want Judith . . . or else.”
“It will have to be discussed in council. God damn.”
It was discussed in the U. N. council by a dozen delegates, all tall, gaunt, sprightly but bitter. It was decided to permit Jeffrey Halsyon one secret marriage.
“But no domestic ties,” the World Procurer warned. “No faithfulness to your wife. That must be understood. We cannot spare you from our program. You are indispensable.”
They brought the lucky Judith Field to the Odeon. She was a tall, dark girl with cropped curly hair and lovely tennis legs. Halsyon took her hand. The World Procurer tip-toed out.
“Hello, darling,” Halsyon murmured.
Judith looked at him with loathing. Her eyes were wet, her face was bruised from weeping.
“Hello, darling,” Halsyon repeated.
“If you touch me, Jeff,” Judith said in a strangled voice, “I’ll kill you.”
“Judy!”
“That disgusting man explained everything to me. He didn’t seem to understand when I tried to explain to him. . . . I was praying you’d be dead before it was my turn.”
“But this is marriage, Judy.”
“I’d rather die than be married to you.”
“I don’t believe you. We’ve been in love for—”
“For God’s sake, Jeff, love’s over for you. Don’t you understand? Those women cry because they hate you. I hate you. The world loathes you. You’re disgusting.”
Halsyon stared at the girl and saw the truth in her face. In an excess of rage he tried to seize her. She fought him bitterly. They careened around the huge living room of the suite, overturning furniture, their breath hissing, their fury mounting. Halsyon struck Judith Field with his big fist to end the struggle once and for all. She reeled back, clutched at a drape, smashed through a french window and fell fourteen floors to the street like a gyrating doll.