Marc's troubles began the moment Hotshot
Harold planted the miracle elixir on him. Then
came a bevy of cops--Toffee--and X-ray eyes....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
To the casual observer that morning Marc Pillsworth presented only the
picture of a rather loose-jointed, yet constrained, businessman on his
way to another orderly day at the office. One would hardly have guessed
that he was striding forward into the first leg of a journey that was
destined to take him on a shrieking, streaking sleigh ride of madness,
frenzy and crime. Indeed, Marc himself would never have dreamed that
such a thing was even possible.
The trouble was, of course, that this was the first day of spring.
The world had finally shrugged itself free of winter and, with a toss
of its golden curls, was unmistakably casting about for some sort of
foolishness to get into. The sun was burgeoning bright in the sky,
green things were intruding their heads impertinently through the warm
soil along the sidewalks and the breezes, gentle and flirtatious,
were fingering the voluminous skirts of the passing shop girls. The
inhabitants of the city, to the man, were feeling pleasantly silly in
the head.
To the man, that is, except for Marc.
Marc, founder, president, guiding genius and devoted slave to the
Pillsworth Advertising Agency, felt merely dyspeptic. Making his way
past the shops with their blossoming window boxes, he loathed the
spring. At the moment, in fact, there was only one thing that Marc
loathed more than the spring and that was Mario Matalini, the eminent
Italian portrait artist.
Marc had never before experienced jealousy and it came to him now as a
singularly unpleasant sensation. For one thing, it gave him gas.
Though he had been married long enough to have achieved a certain
complacency about matrimony in general, every time he thought of
Julie and Mario alone at the country house, he automatically burped.
Italians, it was said, were notoriously affected by cold blonde beauty,
and Julie on occasion, resembled nothing so much as a tantalizing and
unattainable angel carved from ice. It was a combination that was not
reassuring.
The trip to the country, of course, had been Mario's idea. It had come
to him in a gaudy flash of inspiration the very evening Julie had
commissioned him to do her portrait.
"Ah, Madonna Mia!" the mustachioed artist had crooned revoltingly. "You
shall be my masterpiece! I can feel it now. There is the season of
spring in your lovely face--the enigma, the withholding, the promise!"
His dark eyes caressed her classic features, and he leaned forward
abruptly. "I know!" he breathed. "I shall paint you surrounded by
nature--on the very first day of spring! You will be like a goddess,
with the new grasses and the first green leaves everywhere around you!"
He sighed delicately. "I have never done a portrait in this manner,
but how can I confine such a subject to a dismal studio?" He smiled at
Julie as though Marc were not even in the room. "It is true, is it not,
that you own one of the handsomest country houses in the state?"
Marc had opened his mouth to protest, but Julie's eyes were aglow with
the vision of herself as a spring-time goddess. The damage had been
done and there was no patching it up.
The two of them had been at the country house for a week now, looking
for the perfect setting for the portrait, waiting for the perfect day
to begin it. With each passing day Marc had grown a bit uneasier. Of
course Mr. Busby, the caretaker, made a splendid chaperon, but there
was still something about Mario that just naturally put your teeth on
edge.
Business had prevented his joining the pilgrimage to the country;
the summer advertising campaigns, now in preparation, demanded the
last measure of his personal attention. As an active guardian of his
castle and his wife's virtue, he found himself seriously hampered. With
this dark thought looming in his mind, he burped anew and halted his
office-bound progress to enter a drug store. A man could hardly expect
to retain his clients' good will by belching in their faces.
* * * * *
Inside the store, he proceeded to the pharmacist's counter at the rear.
There, he found himself confronted by a balding, fastidious individual
in a white jacket whose gaze was fastened tenaciously on the remarkable
legs of the silken brunette who presided at the nearby cosmetics
counter. As Marc cleared his throat, the man looked up with eyes that
were gently bemused.
"Yes?" he inquired disinterestedly.
Marc leaned forward. "I need something for gas," he said.
The druggist smiled blandly, but his gaze drifted back to the
fascinating legs. "Grass?" he murmured dreamily. "Grass seed is at the
front of the store.
"Not grass," Marc said. "I don't want grass. 'Gas' is what I said."
"Gas?" the druggist sighed. "We don't carry gas. May I suggest a
filling station?"
"You don't understand," Marc said. "I don't _want_ gas, I want to get
rid of it."
The druggist regarded him uncertainly. "No sale, pal," he said. "I
don't need any."
"Don't need any what?" Marc asked. The conversation was beginning to
make him feel a bit dizzy.
"Gas," the druggist said. "Are you selling, door to door, or are you
giving it away in samples?"
"I'd certainly like to give it away," Marc said testily. "I know just
the person for it."
"No one will take it, eh?" the druggist said. "That's human nature
for you. It's like this fellow who tried to give away hundred dollar
bills...."
"I think we're at cross-purposes here," Marc broke in anxiously. "I
have this gas, you see, and I want to get rid of it. Can you help me or
can't you?"
"Well," the druggist said undecidedly, "I suppose I can ask around.
But tell me this, why do you want to get rid of this gas? Is there
something funny about it?"
"I'd hardly call it funny," Marc said stiffly. "It makes an awful
noise."
"Noise?" the druggist said. "Why should it make a noise?"
"It just does!" Marc said angrily. "I can't control it."
"Then no wonder no one will take it. There's your answer right there."
"I think you must be mad," Marc said shortly.
"I think one of us must be," the druggist agreed. He surveyed Marc's
lean frame wonderingly. "Why do you keep on with this gas of yours if
it makes these disgusting noises?"
"I don't want to keep on with it," Marc said desperately. "That's why I
came to you."
"And on such a beautiful day, too," the druggist murmured sadly. A new
thought struck him and he glanced up sharply. "Where do you keep this
awful gas of yours?"
"On my stomach, of course," Marc said hotly. "Where would I keep it?"
Slowly the light of realization dawned in the druggist's face. "Oh!
What you mean is you have gas on the stomach!"
"Yes," Marc said, drawing himself up. "But there's no need to shout it
out to the entire store, is there?"
"You'll have to excuse me," the druggist said apologetically. "I don't
know what's come over me today." His gaze reverted briefly to the legs
across the aisle. "I guess there's something in the air this morning."
"I guess so," Marc said shortly. "But do you have something for my
gas?"
"Why, surely," the druggist said grandly. He reached under the counter
and produced a small brown bottle filled with a syrupy liquid. "A
little mixture of my own. Just drink it down and your worries are over.
Just put it in your pocket. I couldn't charge you after all we've been
through together."
Marc slipped the bottle into his coat pocket. He started to murmur his
thanks, but the druggist's attention had returned permanently to harbor
at the cosmetics counter. Marc shrugged and walked out of the store.
There certainly was something in the air, Marc reflected as he strode
toward the corner, an almost tangible kind of madness. The coming of
spring had turned the world giddy. You could feel it everywhere. In the
country, where spring was so much more in evidence, the feeling was
probably just that much more intense.... But he tried not to dwell on
that.
* * * * *
At the corner the signal turned to red and as the traffic moved forward
in a rush, Marc stepped back to the curb to wait. Lost in his own
thought, he was not aware of the small hawk-beaked individual who
had stopped beside him until a pallid, nervous hand tugged lightly at
his sleeve. From his height of six feet two, he turned to look down
annoyedly at the crown of a drab bowler hat and the shoulders of a
shabby brown suit. Shiftily the little man glanced sideways, then
grinned up at him.
"Hey, man," he said furtively, "how about a look at some hot stuff
straight from Paris, France. It's the real thing."
"I beg your pardon?" Marc said stiffly.
"You know," the little man said with an odious wink, "dames with their
skin showin'--all the way down." With the quick movement of a conjurer
he turned his hand and produced for Marc's edification the photograph
of a dark-haired, not-so-young lady, peering back lasciviously over a
shoulder that was bare clear down to the soles of her feet. Flushing
with surprise and embarrassment, Marc looked away.
"That's one of the tame ones," the little hustler said. "Man, the
others will stone you! Dig?"
"I do not dig," Marc said tersely, "and I do not wish to be stoned.
Please go away."
"You mean you don't care about feminine pulchritude?" the little man
asked in a scandalized tone.
"I am not interested in dirty postcards," Marc said. "As a respectable
married man...."
The little man made a sharp sound of alarm. "You got trouble, man,"
he said. "Respectable and married too! I bet you're a big bomb around
the house. There's nothin' a woman hates worse than bein' married to a
respectable married man."
Mercifully, the light chose that moment to change, and Marc turned
away. The nervous hand, however, again caught at his sleeve.
"Hold up, man," the little man said urgently. He produced a small brown
bottle from the inner reaches of his disreputable suit. "I like to see
people happy, man, and if ever I saw a guy in a bind, it's you. So, in
your case, I'll make you an extra special exception. I'll give you a
crack at this single last remaining bottle of genuine French Elixir."
"Let go of my sleeve," Marc said evenly.
The hand, nevertheless, remained. "You see here, right in front of
your own eyes, one of the rare, unattainable hard-to-get exotic spring
tonics of the world. It lifts the spirit and opens the eyes. It ain't
harmful or habit-formin'."
Marc frowned severely. "I am not, nor do I care to become, a dope
addict."
"This ain't no dope, man," the little man insisted. "I told you! It
gives a guy a new perspective."
"From which he can more clearly look at the photographs of naked
ladies? If that's your idea of...."
Marc stopped, for his adversary, seemed suddenly to go mad. Blanching,
the little man hurled himself forward, apparently out of control.
Colliding with Marc, he grabbled wildly with him for a moment, then
abruptly shoved himself away. For a moment Marc was completely at a
loss to explain this startling performance; then he caught sight of the
policeman approaching from across the street.
"Sorry, man!" the purveyor of erotics said hastily and, with that, he
darted off down the street.
In almost the same instant, the policeman gained the curbing on the
run. He cast Marc a swift glance but kept on rapidly down the street.
Marc watched the chase bemusedly as it continued half way up the block,
then out of sight into the entrance of an alley. He hoped the little
peddler would be caught; a salesman of smutty pictures only added
to the loose atmosphere of the day. He turned away, heading for the
office. And then he stopped.
* * * * *
Actually it was the little man's remark about the wives of respectable
married men that halted Marc's step. Suddenly it struck him that
perhaps this message had been delivered to him, through Fate, as a
sort of warning. He pondered for a moment with furrowed brow, then,
resolutely, he turned again and started back the way he had come. He
had definitely made up his mind. Julie had taken the convertible, but
the coupe was still in the garage. If he started out now, he could be
at the country house well before noon, and Mario could be fired, packed
and sent on his way before sunset. Business, for this one day, would
have to wait.
His course of action set, Marc continued determinedly down the
street. His only fear, now, was that he might be too late. Julie,
quite extraordinarily, had taken her prized and priceless collection
of jewels to the country, a fact which was so highly significant and
disturbing. Julie was so inordinately proud of her jewels that she
never removed them from the vault except for the most special of
special occasions. Just what sort of special occasion she had been
contemplating this time, Marc dreaded to think. By the time he had
reached the alley, he had quite forgotten about the little man and
the pursuing policeman. He started violently, therefore, when the
policeman suddenly materialized from the mouth of the alley and grabbed
him roughly by the shoulder.
"Here you!" the policeman snarled. "Hold up there!"
"Who?" Marc said weakly. "Me?"
"Not your Aunt Fanny," the cop said sourly. His face was an angry
crimson from running. "I seen you back there with Hotstuff."
"Hotstuff?" Marc said. "Oh, you mean the pictures that...."
"Don't give me that, mac," the cop growled. "Don't tell me you are just
an innocent bystander. If you ain't that guy's confederate...."
"Confederate!" Marc wheezed. "Now, do I look like the sort of person
who...."
"Exactly, mac," the cop said. "I'm used to you smooth operators." He
reached in Marc's pocket and deftly removed a small packet of picture
postcards. "And these look exactly like the kind of pictures you'd be
sellin'."
Marc gazed down dumbly at the postcards. "Those aren't mine!" he
gasped. "He must have planted them on me."
"Yeah," the cop drawled, "I've heard that one before, too."
"Now, officer," Marc said reasonably, "can you honestly think for one
minute...."
"I honestly can, mac," the cop said heavily. "Now come along quietly."
He took Marc's arm in an iron grasp. "Be my guest."
* * * * *
Marc surveyed the cold grey boundaries of his cell and burped furiously.
"Tell it to the judge," the guard said and, extracting the key from the
lock, ambled off down the passage.
"I certainly shall!" Marc yelled after him. "This is the most flagrant
abuse of authority...." He gave it up and looked around at the
two-tiered bunk against the wall. He walked over to it and sat down
gingerly on the edge of the lower section and rested his chin in his
hand. Raking back an unruly shock of sandy hair he gazed down at the
floor with bewildered helplessness.
It was astonishing how swiftly life could become a rotten apple. Only a
few minutes ago he had been a free and respected citizen on his way to
a day of honest work; now he was a jail bird held on a charge of moral
wrong-doing. The results could be disastrous, both to his business and
his marriage. Julie would not regard the affair lightly; after all the
pictures _had_ been found on his person, no matter how they happened to
be there.
Now, his desire to get to the country was twofold. His mind filled with
gloom, his gaze wandered across the floor and to the opposite wall. It
lingered for a moment at the lower area of the wall, then leaped upward
to a drawing which evidently was the handiwork of a previous inmate.
Whoever the artist had been, his eye for the feminine form was both
exact and subtle. The girl of the drawing, though scantily clad, was,
unlike the nude photographs, in no way distasteful. She reclined in
space, one slender leg outstretched, a look of artful speculation in
her eyes. Her hand was at her hair, having caught its silken strands
between her tapering fingers.
Marc's gaze held to the drawing with unaccountable fascination. It
wasn't just the excellence of the sketch that held him, but something
more. Staring fixedly at the girl on the wall, it came to him that
perhaps she reminded him of someone he knew. Then suddenly it came to
him in a flash.
"Toffee!" he whispered.
He withdrew his gaze hastily from the drawing, trying to force his
thoughts into other, less dangerous channels. At the moment, Toffee was
the last thing he wanted on his mind.
The truth of the matter was that Toffee was a phenomenon to which Marc
would never completely adjust. The thought that, within the depths
of his own subconscious, there was a personality of such force and
completeness that she had assumed a will and strength all her own,
was simply too much for him. It would always upset Marc that his mere
awareness of Toffee was enough to project into reality a living,
breathing, hell-raising creature who was very much flesh and bone.
It was also alarming that Toffee was so completely untouched by worldly
inhibitions. Not of this earthly realm, and therefore unaware of its
mores and social dogmas, the girl had an absolute genius for saying and
doing, in any given situation, the very thing most likely to curdle the
blood and curl the hair. Worse still, though, was her curious sense of
economy which caused her to regard her own physical perfection--her
flaming red hair, her vivid green eyes and her scandalously voluptuous
figure--as mere commodities that could not possibly be permitted to
languish. To her way of thinking, that these remarkable gifts should be
left unobserved, unadmired and unused was purely and shockingly sinful.
Not by any stretch of the imagination was Toffee the proper subject
with which to concern one's thoughts in a jail cell. With a shudder,
Marc forced his attention to his immediate predicament and leaned back
in his bunk.
The shock of his incarceration was beginning to wear off a bit now, and
with its passing it suddenly occurred to him that, as yet, he hadn't
even been permitted to call his lawyer. Righteous indignation surging
through him, and unmindful of the steel support immediately above his
head, he jumped up.
The results were immediate and decisive. From Marc's point of view
there was merely a sudden surprising explosion of brilliant lights
inside his skull as his head struck the metal support, and the floor,
insanely, began to rise, embracingly, almost seductively, to meet him.
* * * * *
In the next moment he was enfolded into a world of dark beauty where
illusive glimmerings in the distance gave off a curious sound that was
the tinkling of very small bells. For a moment he floated langorously,
then, taking bearings on a shimmering blue star, he glided forward.
Just as he drew close to it, however, it shattered into a million
glittering fragments and vanished.
Then he fell.
He landed on his back in a sprawl and, as he did so, the scene, like
a motion picture hastily projected on a screen, leaped, all at once,
into being. He glanced around at the mossy, gently-sloping hillside,
the grove of finely plumed trees and the playful blue mists trailing
lightly down the rise.
Marc observed these surroundings without alarm. He knew at a glance
that he had retreated into the valley of his subconscious mind and, now
that he was there, he was just as glad. He ran his hand sensuously over
the soft greenness upon which he lay and turned his eyes heavenward to
the warmly glowing, yet sunless, sky. Then, folding his hands beneath
his head, he lay back and closed his eyes.
A moment passed, then there was a quick stirring at his side. Two
slender fingers closed viciously over his left ear and twisted.
"Stinker!" a voice hissed. "Redolent reptile!"
Marc sat up abruptly. "Hey!" he yelled. Toffee's pert face was almost
nose to nose with his own. "Let go!"
"If I do," Toffee threatened, "it will only be to grab something much
worse!"
"Don't be vulgar," Marc said uneasily.
She was kneeling beside him, her red hair cascading like inverted
flame on one beautifully-molded shoulder. Her green eyes were aglitter
with a lovely fury. As always, she was clothed only in the brief
emerald tunic which, because of its extreme transparency, did nothing
to hide her lithesome body, though it made up for this failure by
accentuating each softly-curved perfection to the utmost. On her feet
was a pair of gold sandals of some undetermined material.
"I should twist your faithless head off," she said. "In fact I've been
keeping some plasma on ice just in case I decide to murder you in cold
blood."
"This is hardly the greeting I expected," Marc said, nursing his ear.
"Of course not," Toffee said. "You expected me to fawn on you. You
wanted me to chuck you under the chin and stroke your brow. Well, if I
ever do, it will probably be with a ball bat."
"I'm darned if I see what you're so sore about," Marc said injuredly.
"You don't?" Toffee said. "I should be content, I suppose, just because
you're here! Well, I'm not. I saw what you were thinking about me a
while ago."
"What I was thinking?"
"Good old Toffee!" Toffee sighed. "Keep her repressed. Let her
languish. Let her rot. Who cares that this is the first day of spring
and everyone else is enjoying it?" She traced the curve of his jaw
fatefully with her finger. "I ought to bust you one."
"But I was having so much trouble...." Marc protested weakly.
"Trouble!" Toffee said. "You just _thought_ you had trouble."
Marc met her insinuating gaze with a sense of inner trembling. "What do
you mean by that?" he asked.
"Guess," Toffee said. "Just guess."
"You wouldn't materialize, would you? You wouldn't...."
"Give the man a cigar, a baby doll and a kick in the pants," Toffee
said lightly. "You got it right on the first try."