Life was Marc's oyster, but: subversives
had shot him--a ghost was ready to haunt his
corpse--and Toffee was loving him to death!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_Just as he stepped to the microphone Marc caught sight of the swarthy
man. He saw the red scar across the left eyebrow, the dull flash of
metal in the large hairy hand. By then it was too late even to cry out.
In the next instant the glass panel in the control booth shattered._
_Marc felt an explosion of hot pain deep inside his chest. He was aware
of looking around dumbly at Dick Drewson and seeing Drewson's face
register shocked disbelief. Then the scene--the room, Drewson and the
others--disappeared, engulfed in a blinding sheet of flame--and Marc
knew he was falling...._
* * * * *
Somewhere, in a place where time and space didn't exist, grey mists
began to seeth and swirl, and withall there was an ominous rumbling.
The High Council was almost in session.
In a sense, the High Council was already in session, for the Heads of
the Council had developed their intellects to such an inconceivable
degree that when a meeting of the Council was imminent they could
send their thoughts on ahead of them and get the meeting under way
even before putting in an appearance. There was an exchange of views
and information long before the Heads accomplished the mundane and
troublesome business of materialization. Thus it was that the mists
of Limbo now rumbled with thought, counter thought and--on this
particular occasion--downright aggravation, even before the arrival
of the Supreme Head in the vapored chambers. There was an air of
foreboding.
Having declined all vanities in the pursuit of the Ultimate
Intelligence, the Heads had allowed themselves to evolve into literal
representations of their titles. Directing all their energy and
development to the brain and its encasement, their bodies had suffered
proportionately so that now they were little more than a group of
preposterously large craniums, shaggy with cerebration, bearing faces
weighted with the ponderous woe of Life, Death, Eternity and other
such mental ballast. Five in all, they made up a company to be avoided
whatever the cost.
* * * * *
The Supreme Head cleared his throat and Eternity rattled with phlegmy
discontent. Baleful glances were exchanged all around.
"Well," said the Supreme Head, after a pause for attention. "I suppose
you all know the reason for this meeting by now?"
The Second Head, a bald party with large ears, nodded sadly. "You say
this blighted Pillsworth has gone and got himself shot this time?"
"Precisely," the Supreme Head affirmed. "In a broadcasting studio, if
you please. There's simply no keeping that man out of trouble."
"But why should we want to keep him out of trouble?" the Third Head, an
elongated customer with eye pouches, wanted to know. "That's hardly our
responsibility."
"There's George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head said fatefully. "Surely
you haven't forgotten about George?"
A hush fell over the Council, a hush of horror.
"Not George again?" the Second Head shuddered. "We don't have to face
him again, do we?" He looked around beseechingly at the others. "After
all, Pillsworth's only injured, isn't he? He's not dying?"
The Supreme Head looked for a moment as though he wished he had
shoulders so he might shrug them hopelessly. "The vibrations are
confused again," he sighed. "I don't know what the interference is
around Pillsworth, but the call never comes through clearly. All we
know is that he's gotten himself into another mess of some sort and is
either dead or dying."
"It seems that the subversives are still strongly active in the
United States, and of course Pillsworth couldn't stay out of it like
a good citizen. He was approached by some men delegated by government
authority to take control of national advertising. The theory was that
American advertising could be used as a strong combative propaganda
weapon against the enemy propaganda already circulating through the
country. A committee was delegated to secure the cooperation of the
nation's leading advertising agencies. Naturally, since Pillsworth is
the nation's leading advertising executive, they contacted him first."
"Then Pillsworth is a subversive?" the First Head enquired. "That's how
he got into trouble?"
"Not at all," said the Supreme Head. "That's just it. Pillsworth wasn't
subversive, but the government committee was."
"Eh?"
"Exactly. It turned out that the program was one of the cleverest
propaganda schemes ever devised. Actually, their aim was to insert
alien ideals into the nation's advertising."
"But you said the plan had government approval."
"That's the really clever part of it. The method of presentation, while
seeming on the surface to denounce the foreign creed and uphold the
American one, actually was designed to win support for the enemy. The
sales psychology employed was of the negative."
"Negative?"
"That's correct. It's the old principle of telling people they don't
want a thing until they develop a feeling of defiance and decide they
are going to have it. It's an extremely subtle approach, but almost
infallible if properly developed. Knowing this, these men had a perfect
plan, so subtle that even the government didn't recognize it. Also,
they had help from within. A certain Congressman Entwerp pushed through
the legislation."
"But Pillsworth saw through it?"
* * * * *
"Instantly," the Supreme Head nodded. "It was a principle he had been
using assiduously for years, in fact the very one through which he
achieved his success. The whole plot was as clear as a May morn the
moment he heard it. That's when the trouble started. He contacted
Congressman Entwerp."
"Oh, dear!"
"Indeed. Entwerp responded by holding Pillsworth up to ridicule."
"But Pillsworth had logic on his side."
The Supreme Head smiled tolerantly. "That's the Earth for you every
time," he said. "Show a human a bit of logic and he gets truculent on
the spot. Pillsworth was denounced as a witch hunter and instructed
under penalty of law to cooperate to the fullest."
"Shocking," the Third Head said. "I begin to feel sorry for this
Pillsworth."
"Pillsworth was similarly shocked. But he didn't feel sorry for
himself. Despite his inclination for the quiet conservative life, he
fought back."
"Good," the Fourth Head put in. "I'm glad; it gives the story zip."
"My thought in telling you this," the Supreme Head said caustically,
"is merely to inform, not entertain."
"Sorry, sir."
The Head nodded acknowledgment. "But to get on, Pillsworth presented
his case to a news broadcaster and asked to be allowed to recite his
story to the nation in the interests of national security. He was shot.
By whom we do not know; the fellow got away. But the fact we must hold
in mind is that he definitely was shot."
"Then it really is serious," the Third Head said. "We may have to
interview this deadly George after all."
"It's unavoidable," the Supreme Head sighed. "There's no way around
it."
"But we're not positive Pillsworth is dead yet. Couldn't we wait and be
sure?"
"His vibrations have been broken," the Supreme Head said. "Actually we
have no cause to hesitate." He sighed. "I suppose we might as well get
it over with."
The others nodded in reluctant agreement. There was an oppressive
silence.
"But didn't we banish George?" the First Head said. "We must have after
his last excursion to Earth."
"That's right," the Second Head agreed. "I remember distinctly. He
attempted to fire poor Pillsworth off into outer space without a
pressure suit. We banished him to the Void to sing bass in the Moaning
Chorus."
"We certainly picked the right party for the job," the First Head
reflected. "There isn't a more base spirit in all Limbo. Has he been
summoned?"
* * * * *
The Supreme Head coughed regretfully. "I issued the call through
Message Center before I announced the council."
"Oh, dear," the First Head murmured, "then the stinker is practically
on the sloop at this very moment."
"The stinker is crossing the sloop even now," the Supreme Head amended,
his gaze fastened hauntedly on a disturbance in the outer mists. "Here
he comes."
"Secure your valuables," the Second Head said morosely. "And keep your
hands in your pockets."
Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George
materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth's
long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the
moiling vapors. It grew to full stature, rounded out at the shoulders,
extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant
pause, but nothing further developed.
"The rotter's ashamed to face us," the First Head observed sourly.
"Little wonder," the Third Head muttered. "After the way he's blotted
the haunting profession, he hasn't got a leg to stand on."
"George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head intoned with exasperation,
"spiritual projection of the mortal entity, Marc Pillsworth, approach
the Council. And put on your head, you fool."
George stirred, and his head, working from the chin upward,
materialized, revealing the face of Marc Pillsworth. All in all, as
faces go, Marc's--and consequently also George's--hit very close to
average. It was a nice face, a pleasant face, for all its lack of
distinction. On George, therefore, it was a misleading face. With its
lean plainness, its serious grey eyes and its shock of sandy hair,
it failed utterly to express even a whit of George's unprincipled
temperament.
"Is that better, sir?" George asked, edging warily forward.
"Hardly that," the Supreme Head groused. "The less of you the better.
However it helps us somewhat to get a clue to the inner festerings of
that depraved mind of yours." He gazed at George for a long, reflective
moment, then made a sad, clucking sound. "I simply cannot imagine
what Marcus Pillsworth must have thought when he discovered that his
spiritual entity was a tacky, ebony-hearted, feather-headed wretch like
you. Why aren't you more like your mortal source?"
George shrugged sheepishly. "I guess I'm just no damn good," he
murmured.
"You flatter yourself," the Supreme Head said. "You're much worse than
no damn good. You're simply awful. I wonder if Limbo will ever live you
down."
"I hope so, sir," George said contritely.
"Nevertheless," the Supreme Head went on, "much as I loathe it, I
suppose we must get on with it. I suppose you know why you've been
summoned?"
George nodded dimly. "They reported me for teaching the Moaning Chorus
to syncopate."
"What!" the Supreme Head gasped. "You did _what_?"
* * * * *
George looked up, afrighted; he'd given himself away again with no
need. "Yes, sir," he sighed resignedly, "I thought that if we got up
a good hot act we might be able to wangle a few guest shots with the
Celestial Choir. Actually, we've worked out a really sock arrangement
of the _Wham Bam Blues_. I'm sure that if you heard it...."
"No!" the Supreme Head roared. "You _couldn't_! Of all the
unmitigated...!" He stopped and waited for his spleen to subside.
"George Pillsworth," he said, "you are insufferable."
"I suppose so, sir," George said. "However my intentions...."
"Blast your intentions!"
"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry."
"Never mind. In that case it's probably just as well that things are as
they are. It'll be a great relief to be rid of you."
"Rid of me?" George said fearfully. "You aren't going to...?"
"Unfortunately, no," the Supreme Head sighed. "What I mean is that your
mortal part, Marc Pillsworth, has got himself shot."
George looked up sharply. His whole aspect changed; his eye brightened;
his entire being grew more alert. "I'm to be sent to Earth as a
permanent haunt? Oh, sir...!"
"Hold it!" the Supreme Head snapped. "Don't go into a spring dance.
There's a hitch."
"Oh," George said, but his eagerness was not noticeably dampened.
To George, the merest prospect of a visit to Earth was only to be
regarded with rapturous anticipation. To him that distant world of
mortals was a place of boundless and exquisite attraction. It was made
up in equal parts of liquor, women and larceny and anything else that
existed there was merely the result of these things brought together in
odd combination. For George, Earth was absolutely the last gasp.
Of course George had never achieved the ultimate accomplishment of
establishing permanent residence on Earth, for on all of his previous
visits he had arrived only to find that Marc was still alive and that
he could not legitimately remain. If on these occasions, George had
done his level best to rectify this error with whatever murderous means
at hand, it did not imply that the ghost held any personal animosity
for Marc. It was simply that George's was the sort of temperament which
boggled at almost nothing to achieve its end.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"Don't be flip," the Supreme Head admonished. "And stop syncopating."
"Syncopating?" George asked innocently. "I'm standing perfectly still."
"It's your mind," the Supreme Head said. "It's jogging about like a cat
on hot bricks. It shows all over you. This is an occasion of enormous
seriousness."
* * * * *
George did his best to assume an expression of profound sobriety.
"Yes, sir," he murmured.
"First of all," the Supreme Head continued, "as usual there is some
question as to Pillsworth's actual status. He has been shot, it's true,
and his vibrations are definitely broken. However, experience has
taught us to be wary in the case of Pillsworth. Often we have acted
on false alarms in the past and have been sorry." The Head paused
and beetled his brow. "Of course we need not have regretted those
errors had you behaved yourself at all in the manner of a decent,
self-respecting shade. Nevertheless, we don't dare take a chance
despite our reluctance in the matter. Pillsworth's wound falls into the
mortality class, so we have no alternative but to issue you your travel
orders and the usual allotment of ectoplasm." He fixed George with an
unhappy stare. "And get that look of evil delight off your face."
"Sorry, sir," George said.
"And make up your mind right now that this is a business trip. If
Pillsworth is not dead or definitely dying when you arrive you will
return instantly. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And if he isn't dead or dying you will do nothing to alter this state
of affairs. You will not undertake on your own initiative to shove him
off tall buildings, under moving trucks or into open manholes. You will
not threaten him with ropes, guns, explosives, rare poisons or knives,
or attempt to dispatch him to heaven by means of rocket. Have you got
all that straight?"
"Yes, sir," George said quietly. "Hands off. I understand."
"I hope you do," the Head said ominously, "for your own sake. Anyway,
I suppose you'd better go along now and start checking out through
Supply. All that's left here is for you to raise your right hand and
swear by memory to the Ten Commandments of the Hunter's code. However,
I suppose you've got them all cribbed on the sleeve of your robe."