A NOVELET BY
KENDELL FOSTER CROSSEN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not consider
this the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to the
contrary were running through his head--on shoes of iron, it seemed.
Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancy
free, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.
It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily in
the newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons and
asylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everything
else, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors had
misunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and were
knee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed out
of another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lock
the door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that
"the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced to
apologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned bus
line.
But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walked
the streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. It
was now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Far
from objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero--even
a radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint department
and the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge for
himself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then,
complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.
It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out,
was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was more
alert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automatically
admitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning,
while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he went
into some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time he
realized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as an
unstable personality and was being ushered through the door reserved
for those who weren't wanted.
* * * * *
Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable
personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel
like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich
Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where
Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for
a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the
buildings: