"Don't get huffy, chum," said Angel. "I been feedin' you and takin'
care of you and your pal for two weeks. And you don't know a thing
about it, huh?"
"I recall nothing. Except that there is danger."
"The railroad bulls who chased us," said one of the other men. "He
remembers them."
"Bulls? No, it is something more than that."
"What about it, Professor?" asked Angel. "Think he'll snap out of it so
he really remembers?"
"I certainly hope so," returned the little bald man. "When I first
found him, wandering around near the swamp, he seemed to be in a
complete coma. Then, after a few days of rest, he seemed to realize
dimly what was going on around him. But from day to day he remembered
nothing. Perhaps the events are not completely forgotten, perhaps they
reside in his subconscious, ready to be called to mind again upon
proper occasion. However, so far there is no evidence on this point."
"But he's gettin' better all the time," said Angel defensively.
"Yes, that is the thing that indicates there is hope. From now on I
think that he will consciously remember all that happens. And perhaps,
in time, he will recall who he really is. In the meantime, of course,
he is like a shipwrecked mariner discovering an entirely strange land.
That is why I have named him Crusoe." He smiled wistfully. "Perhaps he
is more fortunate than he seems. I would give much for his ability to
forget."
"Stop harpin' on it, Professor. It happened long ago."
"But I still remember it as keenly as if it had happened yesterday.
Strange, all the whiskey and gin I have drunk have not dulled my memory
in the least. I was very successful in my profession, gentlemen. I was
already an Associate Professor of English Literature, a recognized
authority on the novel. I had a great career ahead of me. And then, one
day, coming home from a Christmas party with my wife, my car skidded on
the ice--"
Angel's heavy hand fell across his shoulder. "It's okay, Professor,
don't talk about it no more. I know where I can pick up some rotgut
tomorrow night, and you'll celebrate and forget all about it."
Crusoe listened with interest. He had a vague memory of having heard
Professor's story about his wife's death before, as if the man had told
it to others before they had met Angel and the latter's friends. But it
was so vague that he could hardly be sure it was a memory at all. And
meanwhile the feeling of danger persisted. He had to do something, do
it rapidly. But what?
He felt the anger of frustration, an anger that made him tense and
irritable. He ate his stew in silence, aware of its strong and slightly
unpleasant taste. He had a feeling as if he were used to better
food--and yet he must have been eating the stew all along for the past
weeks.
The fire was dying down, and several of the other men talked in low
voices to each other. He heard Angel: "And so this cop says to me,
'Move on, ya funny-lookin' bum--'" And then, the rough voice rose in
amusement. "I give him a airplane whirl and toss him over the bridge.
And then he comes up, coughin' up water, and says, 'Now I remember when
I seen you before. You was the _Destroyin' Angel_. You used to wrestle
with _The Masked McGinty_!'"
Angel had been a wrestler, Professor a student of literature. If he
asked the other men what they had been, they would doubtless know.
What had he himself been?
Again his mind seemed blank. He sat there sullenly, staring at his
empty cup, and wondered if there were any torture greater than that of
not being able to remember something that insistently demanded to be
remembered.
Soon the conversations died down. The men settled themselves on the
dry grass, pulled their old worn apologies for blankets over them, and
began to snore. Around them, as the fire was reduced to embers, the
night closed in. Crusoe could hear the chirping of crickets and the
quiet flow of water under the bridge. A crackling shower of sparks
spurted unexpectedly from the still glowing coals.
He couldn't sleep. He had slept enough during the past weeks. Now he
had to awaken fully, to realize what he must do next. But first he must
recall what had happened. Where had the Professor met him? He had been
wandering around near a swamp. Now, what on earth had he been doing
near a swamp?
The night passed slowly as he tried to track down the thoughts which
kept eluding him. Even the chirping of the crickets died away, and at
last there was only the ripple of the water. Then, after a time, he
became aware of new sounds. The crunching of twigs under foot, the
creak of shoes on the ground. People were approaching.
He sat up suddenly, as if he had recognized that _this_ was the danger
he had feared. "Angel!" he called.
The ex-wrestler awoke, and the Professor with him. "Could be cops,"
whispered Angel hoarsely. "Some farmer loses a chicken, and they think
of us. We better get goin'."
He rose quietly and led the way in the direction opposite the
approaching sounds. Crusoe could hear the heavy breathing of the other
men, almost as if they were continuing to snore even though they were
now awake. They were on the alert, but not seriously alarmed. No, this
wasn't the danger he had to fear. This was a mere trifle. The real
danger was deep, hidden--
Some one stumbled loudly. A voice came out of the darkness. "Hey,
you--stop!"
"Better start runnin'," muttered Angel, and lumbered forward. He
tripped over something and cursed, but kept on going.
It was growing lighter now, and Crusoe found it easier to see. In front
of him the ground rose gently toward the top of a low hill. And halfway
up the slope stood two men, armed with rifles. They lifted the rifles
and one of them said harshly, "Hold it, you bums."
Their retreat was cut off. Angel came to a stop, the others near
him, the slower and slighter Professor bringing up the rear. Without
thinking, Crusoe raised his arm, and just as if his hand held a weapon,
he pointed at the two men with their rifles.
* * * * *
The rifles exploded. They flew apart into countless fragments, and as
if by magic, blood appeared on the faces of the two men. Angel grasped
the situation instantly. He said, "Come on, fellows," and rushed
forward again. But the two men collapsed before he reached them.
From behind them came angry yells as the first group realized that the
trap had failed. Angel chuckled. "They thought they had us," he said.
"When they see what happened to those two guys, they won't be in such a
hurry to get close to us again."
"What did happen?" asked one of the men. He gestured with reluctance at
Crusoe. "This guy just pointed his hand--"
Angel whirled around. "Him? I thought somebody in back of me threw a
grenade. I wasn't askin' who done it--"
"Nobody threw no grenade. He just pointed at them."
"Just with his finger? And them rifles exploded? It ain't possible!"
They surrounded Crusoe and stared at him with fear-filled eyes. "How
did you do it, pal?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. I just felt as if a weapon belonged
in my hand, as if all I had to do was point it. So I did. And the
rifles exploded."
"Point at a tree."
He pointed at a tree. Nothing happened.
Angel bounced his hand against his ear, as if trying to shake loose
some water that hampered his hearing. He looked uneasy and bewildered.
"Somethin's screwy, but we can't stop to figure it now. We gotta keep
goin'."
The pursuers were being more cautious now, and after a time Crusoe
realized that the acuteness of the danger had passed. They all stopped
to rest. The other two men, however, paused only briefly. One of them
said, "So long, chum. We better split up here. We're gonna catch a
freight goin' north."
They seemed anxious to part from Angel and his friends. Crusoe watched
them go without regret. They were odd-looking men, and he had not
enjoyed their company. Moreover, he had a feeling that they had nothing
to do with the danger the thought of which made him uneasy. Professor,
now--Professor had a little more to do with it.
Angel's ponderous mind had returned to the subject of their mysterious
escape. He said, "Look, Crusoe, how'd ya do it? You can come clean with
us. We won't spill it to nobody."
Crusoe said, "I haven't the slightest idea. As I told you, all I did
was point."
"Any more tricks you know how to pull?"
"How do I know? I didn't even suspect that I could perform this one."
"I suppose," said the Professor, "that the reflexes, which existed long
before there was a conscious mind, can continue to persist even after
the mind has been seriously injured. You must have been in the habit of
using some weapon--"
"A weapon? You mean that I was a soldier? Then what am I doing out of
uniform?"
"I hardly know," said the Professor slowly. "When I first met you, near
the swamp, you were wearing nothing. Your body was dirty and slightly
burnt, as if from some explosion. There was not a shred of clothes to
give a clue to what you had been. Those you are now wearing, including
your overalls, I ah--borrowed from a clothesline."
"But there may be traces of my own clothes back in that swamp."
"They will be hard to find. Swamps have a habit of swallowing what is
left in them."
"But there must be _something_ there. How did I get to the swamp in the
first place? And what sort of explosion tore my clothes from me?"
"A plane," said Angel suddenly. "Maybe you were in a crash. I remember
that a coupla months ago some farmers had a story about a plane
explodin' in the sky. Maybe that was the one."
"If I was in a plane, the wreckage must still be in the swamp." And
there too must be where the danger lay. "I'm going back there," he said
with sudden determination.
"I'll go with you, of course," said the Professor. "As the first
one to come across you in your helpless condition, I feel a certain
responsibility for you."
Angel grinned. "I feel the same way about you, Professor. I guess I
been feelin' like that ever since I found you gettin' pushed around
by Monk Cromo. Monk's about my size," he explained to Crusoe. "And he
useta be a fighter. He thought he had only Professor to handle. He
found he had _me_. And ya know, pal, that a good wrestler will take a
fighter any old time."
"How long ago was that?" asked Professor. "It seems like ages."
"Five, six years. But you know somethin', pal, you ain't as helpless as
you used to be. That's what comes of havin' a head on you. You learn
how to get along, no matter where you are."
"I regard that as a compliment, Angel," smiled the little man. "Now,
shall we start?"
* * * * *
Toward the danger that Crusoe felt awaited them in the swamp they could
travel but slowly. They had to go by foot, on dusty narrow roads. There
was no hope of getting a lift from passing cars. One look at the three
of them, and the average driver stepped on the gas and raced away.
Farmers set their dogs on them, and only the sight of Angel's grim face
and the strength of Angel's powerful muscles kept them from being torn
by the hounds and beaten by their masters.
Everything that happened now Crusoe remembered perfectly. His mind
could go back a day, two days, with no trouble at all. It was only when
it reached that moment when he had become aware of his surroundings at
the fire that his memory stopped short, with terrifying abruptness.
Beyond that it couldn't go. What had he done before then?
As they made their way toward the swamp, he became aware of something
else. The people here looked strange. Come to think of it, those two
tramps who had been with them earlier had looked strange in the same
way. And the farmers spoke in peculiar fashion, with an accent that
grated slightly on his ear. Queer, he thought, that people who had
lived here all their lives should seem so out of place and learn their
own language so improperly.
Once, when Angel was foraging for food, a big dangerous-looking dog
came barking at Crusoe and Professor. This was a barking dog that had
never heard that it was not supposed to bite. Crusoe liked neither the
vicious glint in its eyes nor the cruel look of its teeth. As the beast
made a sudden lunge at them, he snapped his fingers sharply and said,
"Scar!"
The animal came to a halt, as if puzzled. Professor laughed. "I don't
think that's its name," he said, and stooped to pick up a heavy rock
that might serve as a missile. The dog promptly scurried away as fast
as its legs would take it.
"'Scar' isn't a name," said Crusoe thoughtfully. "I have the feeling
that it's a command. When accompanied by a snap of the fingers, it
tells the animal to go back to its corner."
"That's interesting. So you're actually beginning to recall things."
"Not exactly. I'm still responding almost automatically, at little
beyond the reflex level. Before I snapped my fingers I didn't know that
I was going to snap them. Nor did I realize that I knew the word."
"But at least you've made a beginning," said Professor happily. "Soon
you'll be recalling the past with full consciousness."
When Angel rejoined them, he was in proud possession of a tough but
edible chicken. Crusoe and Professor congratulated him, and later they
cooked the chicken and devoured it. It struck Crusoe that the taste
of the chicken too was strange. Or was it rather that the chicken was
quite ordinary, and that his own sense of taste was what was unusual?
That must have been it, he thought. The feeling that food tasted good
or bad also depended upon a kind of reflex memory, a memory that was
making itself felt more and more.
The evening of that same day they camped in an open stubble-covered
field. As it grew dark, Angel began to talk of his past career, of his
triumphs as a wrestler, of his one great adventure in Hollywood to
make a picture. He had been the comic relief, a foil to the handsome
hero. Crusoe had no reason to doubt what he said, but all the same he
found Angel's adventures incredible. The life that the ex-wrestler
described was mad, completely absurd. He couldn't imagine himself
living it.
He stared up at the sky, and realized that this too didn't look
"normal." It wasn't, it couldn't be, the sky under which he had lived
for most of his life. And the idea of living under a different sky
didn't surprise him. It was an idea to which he must long have been
accustomed.
Two days later they reached the edge of the swamp. "I found you
near here," said the Professor. He waved his arm vaguely. "You were
wandering around, covered with mud."
It didn't look familiar. Nor did it look as dangerous as he had
expected it to look. He asked, "Why did we leave this neighborhood? Why
didn't we stay and look for the plane that had crashed?"
"For one reason," said the Professor gently. "Because at the time I
didn't realize that there had been a plane. For another, because we
were--shall I say, not popular?"
"Why? Why weren't we?"
A chuckle from Angel interrupted him. "People don't like to lose
chickens."
"I see."
"Nor clothes," added the Professor. "Remember that I supplied you with
garments that were hanging on a clothesline. Perhaps I should have
mentioned that the farmer's wife who discovered her loss tried to
extract payment from me by means of a shotgun."
Crusoe nodded slowly. "By now, you assume, the memory of the loss will
have grown faint?"
"I hope so. We shall, of course, do our best not to attract attention."
They moved into the swamp. It was gloomy, but not, thought Crusoe,
frightening. There must have been no more than light rains during the
past weeks, for at first they found it possible to walk along dry
paths, and here and there were pools of mud where ordinarily there must
have been water. But as they penetrated further in, the mud became more
liquid. The leaves of the trees overhead shut out most of the light,
and they walked over soft carpets of moss and decaying leaves. The odor
too became unpleasant, the odor of mud flats and stagnant water, of
small dead animals and impure, stinking marsh gas.
"Where are we headed for?" said Angel uneasily. "This is kind of dark--"
"Not too dark to see," said Crusoe. "But I perceive no signs of there
having been a crash."
"Nor do I," agreed the Professor. "However, the swamp covers an area
of roughly twenty square miles. It will take us a considerable time to
explore it all."
And in those twenty square miles was the danger which he had felt
hanging over him. He suddenly began to wonder what he would find. A
crashed plane? No, it would be more than that. A crashed plane wouldn't
explain why the people acted and talked so queerly, why the food didn't
taste right, nor the sky look right.
* * * * *
The following day Angel stumbled over a half-hidden log and almost
stepped into a trap. As the steel jaws snapped on the log instead of on
his foot, Crusoe thought of another trap, a trap not of steel, but more
relentless, one that gripped more firmly than this ever would. Had it
shut recently, or was it going to shut?
Angel's cursing distracted him from his thoughts. Professor said
mildly, "Don't use such language, Angel. After all, you _have_ escaped.
And here's another trap--with something in it."
Angel's eyes glittered. "It's a 'possum. They're good eatin'." He began
to laugh. "Say, won't this guy be sore when he finds two traps sprung,
and nothin' in them!"
But later that day, when they saw the trapper, it seemed less like
a laughing matter. The man carried a rifle, and as Angel made an
incautious noise, he swung around, rifle butt to his shoulder. Angel
dropped just as the bullet cut through the leaves near where his head
had been.
And then the trapper's rifle exploded, just as the other rifles had
done.
The trapper stared at what was left of his weapon in his hand and then
turned and ran. Angel said, "You pointed your finger again!"
"No," said Crusoe. "Not this time. I just _started_ to point."
"Maybe it's just the thinkin' about it that does it. Maybe you can do
things by thinkin'."
"That's absurd."
"I wonder," said the Professor. "The swamp ahead of us is particularly
nasty. We'll have to wade through water and mud at least to our waists.
And when I remember how muddy you were when I found you, I have a
feeling that you must have wandered through here. Now if we could only
dry up the swamp--"
"They tried to do it once," said Angel. "It can't be done."
"But suppose Crusoe were to point his finger at it and think: 'Swamp,
dry up.' I wonder what would happen."
They were both staring at Crusoe now, and he said, "Nothing would
happen."
"You can't tell," said Angel. "Maybe Professor's right. Maybe it
_would_ dry up. Try it and see."
"I refuse to make a fool of myself."
"The foolish thing," remarked the Professor, "is not to try."
"Yeah, that trapper will be comin' back after awhile, with his pals.
He'll keep us from goin' back the way we came. We'll have to go ahead.
And I hate to get all muddy. Come on, pal, just point your finger and
think the magic words."
* * * * *
He did feel like a fool, and if the other two had seemed at all
skeptical, he would never have dared do it. Nevertheless, there did
seem to be nothing to lose. He pointed his finger at the dark and muddy
water, at the tangle of fallen trees and rotting water lilies, and
concentrated.
"Think hard," urged the Professor.
He thought hard and forgot that they were there. Suddenly, a sheet
of blinding flame swept over the swamp. He heard Angel cry out, and
covered his own eyes. When the flame had passed, the water was gone,
and with it the tangle of fallen vegetation. Before them lay a bed of
hard dry clay.
"You did it," said Angel in awe.
"I didn't," he replied angrily. "You just can't do things like that by
thinking."
"I know _I_ can't," said Angel. "But you can. It's magic."
The Professor smiled. "Let's not worry what it is. The main thing is
that the swamp ahead of us is now dry, and we can go ahead."
They went ahead. And a quarter mile ahead of them they found the ship.
It had been easier to locate than he had thought it would be. And once
he saw the ship, a feeling of recognition swept over him.