The _fixage_ pills caused a major
change in Marc's life--they not only made
him a babe in arms--but Toffee's to boot!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures February 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The strange valley, its glossy emerald carpet unruffled and unmarked,
its scattered groves of odd, feathery trees undisturbed by the blue
mists languishing at their feet, lay dozing in the diffused light of a
sunless sky. Then, at the crest of a distant knoll, the mists suddenly
stirred and gave way to a slender, gold-sandaled foot which was neatly
attached to a really top-notch leg.
The leg swung gracefully into view and was instantly joined by various
other notable appointments; another exquisite leg, for instance, a body
of disquieting shapeliness and a pert young face. As an almost needless
bonus there were also two vivid green eyes, a full red mouth and a
plethora of gleaming titian hair. Together, these dazzling bits of
merchandise added up to Toffee, blithe mistress of the valley of Marc
Pillsworth's subconscious mind.
_Certainly, Marc Pillsworth was not the first man to have a girl on his
mind but at least he could claim the distinction of being the first to
have one actually dwelling therein!_
The girl paused a moment, gazed at the glowing sky and frowned. Barely
discernible in the distance, a number of tiny storm clouds had bunched
themselves together and were rapidly being joined by more of their
kind. Thoughtfully Toffee started down the slope and across the
valley, her slender hips weaving an indolent rhythm beneath the green
transparency of her brief tunic.
She watched the gathering clouds with mixed emotions. They meant,
of course, that Marc was suffering some sort of mental annoyance,
some sort of anxiety ... and for that she was sorry. On the other
hand, however, they might also be an indication that she was soon to
be released into the world of actuality, a prospect that delighted
her beyond words. Compared to the well ordered tranquility of Marc
Pillsworth's subconscious, the outer world seemed to her a wonderful
region of boundless pleasures and delightful excitements. If there was
even a remote possibility that she was soon to be materialized in that
glittering world she wanted to know about it at the earliest possible
moment.
Crossing the valley, reaching the rising slopes at its outer
boundaries, she turned into a sharp ravine and stopped. Ahead lay the
region of Marc's conscious mind, and she could not enter there, she
could only watch from the distance and wait.
Marc's conscious mind ... at least the portion of it that was visible
to Toffee ... was like nothing so much as a great, dark cavern.
At one end, however, the darkness was relieved by a large circular
screen-like arrangement that reflected scenes and images with a
penetrating, third dimensional clarity. These reflections were, of
course, of the innumerable things upon which Marc gazed throughout
the day. Looking at the screen from within was like looking through a
great, round window.
As Toffee watched, the screen registered only a blank expanse of
ceiling. Then the scene shifted abruptly, and an oak panel slid into
view. A blur followed. Then a window. The window remained a moment,
then skidded nervously out of range to be replaced by an eager,
hawk-featured face.
Behind Toffee the storm clouds began to thicken and multiply more
swiftly.
The face on the screen was furiously animated, the mouth wagging away
at a terrific clip. Toffee couldn't hear the words that were the result
of this frantic facial activity, but she could watch closely and try to
read the lips.
* * * * *
In his private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc
Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will
him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for
half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc's
gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing
before him on the desk. He sighed.
"Just think of it!" the little man was saying. "All humanity will be
fairly trampling itself, trying to get _Fixage_. And you will be in on
the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!"
"I don't want to think of it," Marc muttered, then, realizing with
a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he
pressed his advantage. "As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me
to bring this ... uh ... this ..." he waggled a finger at the bottle on
the desk "... to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests
of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a
quarter owner of the invention." He fixed the little man with a severe
gaze. "In other words, you haven't been able to slither through a
single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask
me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too...."
The little man held up an arresting hand. "You misunderstand!" he
cried. "They don't make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic
as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their
main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words.... How
old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?"
"Thirty-two," Marc sighed. "But it seems more like fifty."
"Thirty-two! You're right at the peak!"
"If I were at the peak," Marc said, "I would jump off."
"Just think!" the man continued. "Just think what it would mean if you
could remain thirty-two for the rest of your life! Even if you live to
be a hundred and thirty-two! See what I mean? No loss of faculties. No
decrease in vigor. Thirty-two till the day you die! And look at the
commercial value of the thing. The women. My word, the women! There
isn't a woman alive who wouldn't pauperize her husband and family for a
thing like Fixage. They'd be young and beautiful forever!"
"Or young and ugly," Marc murmured. With an air of finality he gripped
the edge of his desk and boosted himself to his feet. "And besides,
Mr. Culpepper, this agency is not interested in ventures of this sort.
Frankly, I don't see why you came to me at all. When you've a proven
product, fully backed and on the market, I will be happy to do business
with you. But not until. It's my job to sell things to the public, not
the manufacturers."
Seemingly out of nowhere, the little man's finger darted toward
Marc's face. "Those wrinkles, Mr. Pillsworth!" the little man rasped.
He looked as though he'd just opened the door on a closet full of
vampires. "Those marks of worry and age around your eyes! They can be
stopped! Permanently!"
Marc backed away, affrighted. For a moment he was very close to hiding
his face in his hands. He recovered his poise just in time however.
"This is incredible," he said with hostile dignity. "My wrinkles were
come by honestly, Mr. Culpepper, and if you don't mind, I'd prefer
not to have them pointed at. Also, I'll thank you to stop talking in
headlines and get out of my life and my office. You've already talked
me out of my lunch hour and I've a great deal of work to do."
At last Mr. Culpepper seemed to get the idea. He shrugged and turned
partly away.
"Oh, well," he said. "I'm willing to wait until you've made up your
mind. In the meantime, I'll just leave that bottle with you, and you
can think it over. You could even try it yourself and see how it works.
You'll be surprised what it will do for you."
"You'll be surprised what I'll do for it," Marc said, "if you leave it
here." He picked the bottle up and started around the desk with it.
"Here, take it with you. I don't want you to have any excuse to come
creeping back in here. Do you have your hat?"
But now the little man was as anxious to leave as Marc was to have him
leave. He raced to the door and threw it open.
"Just keep it," he called back. "I'll drop back in a few days." And
just before closing the door, he added, "I don't wear a hat."
* * * * *
Marc returned to the desk and sank into his chair. He deposited the
bottle before him and regarded it thoughtfully. "Holy smoke," he
murmured, "where do they come from, these crackpot ideas?"
The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc's secretary, bounded into the
room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy
contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn't had a decent girdle
since the war.
"Hi, boss man," she said airily. "You look awful. What's the big beef?"
"I feel awful," Marc said. "Whatever possessed you to let that little
creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?"
"He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy," Memphis said, "I thought
he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front
of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort
of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?"