"I seem to see a big cylinder rolling through space, sweeping the
stars out of its way...."
Four hours. Only three minutes left now, in the normal world. _I can't
wait to get any deeper_, Herman thought. _It's got to be now or
never._
"You must understand that these feelings of resentment and hatred are
normal," he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "but, at
the same time, you have outgrown them--you can rise above them now.
You are an individual in your own right, Primus. You have a job to do
that only you can fill, and it's an important job. That's what
matters, not all this infantile emotional clutter...."
He talked on, not daring to look at his watch.
Primus looked up, and a huge smile broke over his face. He began,
"Why, of--"
* * * * *
Herman found himself walking along Forty-second Street, heading toward
the Hudson. The pavement was solid under his feet; the canyon between
the buildings was filled with the soft violet-orange glow of a summer
evening in New York. In the eyes of the people he passed, he saw the
same incredulous relief he felt. It was over. He'd done it.
He'd broken all the rules, but, incredibly, he'd got results.
Then he looked up and a chill spread over him. No one who knew the
city would accept that ithyphallic parody as the Empire State
Building, or those huge fleshy curves, as wanton as the mountains in
which Mr. Maugham's "Sadie Thompson" had her lusty existence, as the
prosaic hills of New Jersey.
Psychoanalysis had certainly removed Mr. Primus's inhibitions. The
world was like a fence scrawled on by a naughty little boy. Mr. Primus
would outgrow it in time, but life until then might be somewhat
disconcerting.
Those two clouds, for instance....
--FRANKLIN ABEL
* * * * *