Memphis gazed unhappily out the window. "I'd rather not say," she
murmured. "You'd think I was lying. I would, too. There just isn't that
much money." Her gaze moved self-consciously from the window to the
carpet. "The bank wants to see you right away," she added. "They were
gentle but, oh, so firm."
Marc flinched. "I guess I'll have to see them," he said. "While I'm
gone be a good secretary and make me a reservation in the nearest bread
line."
"Don't give up the ship," Memphis said. "We can at least go down
fighting. Even if it's only the creditors. In the meantime, business
as usual. What do you want me to do about the Carmichael Aspirin
Account?"
"I don't know," Marc said wearily. "See if they give free samples."
Memphis crossed to the door. "Well," she said with forced jauntiness,
"I'll think of something. Maybe I'll just roll it up and fry it in deep
fat." She slapped her girdle. "And I'm just the kid that could do it."
When she had gone, Marc turned forlornly to the window. He wasn't
actually thinking of jumping, he was just wondering how long it would
be before he did start thinking of it. Then he started as invisible
hands began to pat industriously at the back of his coat.
"Stop that!" he yelled.
"I was only brushing you off," George's voice said, near at hand. "You
got a little messed up on the floor."
"I'll dust myself," Marc said. "Thank you, just the same."
"I sure wish I could think of a way to straighten things out for you."
"Just forget it," Marc said. "Don't trouble your invisible little head
about it."
"You need money," George mused. "That's the key to the whole problem as
I see it."
"Sometimes," Marc said sarcastically, "you show signs of true genius."
George made strange musing noises for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he
asked, "Where's Toffee?"
* * * * *
Marc started visibly. He hadn't thought of Toffee in a long time, and
he didn't particularly want to think of her now. One supernatural
creature at a time was more than enough. Especially at a time like this.
Also, Marc was shudderingly mindful of Toffee's intimate relationship
with pandemonium; the two of them romped about, hand in hand, like
a pair of grade-school sweethearts. The most remarkable thing about
Toffee, though, was that, in fact as well as fancy, she sprang from
the very depths of Marc's own subconscious mind. Marc had long ago
reconciled himself to the uneasy fact that his mind sheltered a
precocious spirit who might, at almost any moment, be released into the
world of actuality, and materialize right there before his astonished
eyes. Then, too, there was Toffee's penchant for snatching the affairs
of his life from his own grasp and instilling in them the breath of
sheer madness. It was a difficult pill to swallow, and one that was
rarely graced with a sugar coating. Even if she did manage to leave
his life in a fair state of repair, her methods always put him through
such a rigorous program of mental anguish that the end seemed hardly
to justify the means at all. Marc tried to turn his thoughts away from
her, for to think of her might easily start the chain of psychological
reaction that always provoked her reappearance. He wished that George
hadn't remembered the girl from his previous visit.
"I don't know where she is," he said. "Let's just try to forget her,
shall we? Things are confused enough already. In the meantime, I've got
to get down to the bank." He frowned thoughtfully. "But what am I going
to do with you?"
"Oh, I'll come along!" George said eagerly. "There's no telling where
I might stumble onto just the sort of thing I'm looking for. What's a
bank?"
"They keep money in a bank," Marc said absently. Finally he shrugged.
"I guess I'll just have to put you on your honor, though I've a feeling
it's rather like putting a man-eating tiger on a lettuce diet. You'll
have to promise to stay here and keep out of sight. I'll lock the
office door so no one will walk in and surprise you. Do you promise?"
A perfunctory "uh-huh" echoed from George's direction. Then there was a
brief scuffling sound and Marc's hat whirled crazily from the rack in
the corner, flashed across the room and settled in a raffish angle on
its owner's startled head. Invisible hands began to fuss at Marc's tie.
"Don't!" Marc cried. "How often do I have to tell you I don't want to
be helped? Why can't you be yourself? I think I liked you better when
you were trying to do me in."
"I want you to make a good impression," George explained.
Marc started toward the door. "That's very nice of you, I'm sure. But
all I ask is that you just remember to behave yourself while I'm away."
"Oh, I will!" George's voice proclaimed earnestly. "I will!"
If Marc's mind hadn't been so filled with dread of the impending
meeting at the bank he might have noticed that the voice was being just
a little too earnest.
* * * * *
Marc turned the grey business coupe into a side street and headed for
the parking lot behind the bank. He wasn't thinking too much, though,
about what he was doing. Instead, his mind was occupied with a sneaking
suspicion. There was something strange about the car, something odd
about the feel of it and the way it rode. The body seemed to lean to
the left a bit, almost as though someone were clinging to the side.
Also, there had been the incident at the intersection, when a truck had
broken through the light and headed directly toward the grey coupe. He
could have sworn someone yelled at him to look out, someone very close
to his left ear. It had given him a creepy feeling at the time. And
thinking back on it, he was no longer so certain about the gust of wind
that had brushed past him as he was closing the office door. It might
have been....
Reaching the parking lot, he swung the car quickly to the right, into
a drive, and pressed down on the gas as it turned onto a short, steep
incline. Then he went tense in his seat. The post and chain barrier
hadn't been visible from the street. Neither had the sign saying, "Use
Other Entrance." And now that they were visible, there wasn't time to
do anything about them. Sign, posts and chain were swarming over the
car in a rush.
There was a tearing, whacking sound and the coupe jerked wickedly to
the right. Suddenly, the steering wheel seemed to be leaving its post,
spiraling upward toward Marc's face. A split second later everything
went black to the raucous accompaniment of a blaring horn.
The horn continued to scream in the darkness, and, to Marc, its windy
blast seemed to be hurling him outward. He shot swiftly out and up
into lightless, unknown regions, his body curiously unhampered by the
faintest trace of atmospheric resistance. He sailed through space,
arms outspread, unrestrained, as though in a vacuum, and strangely, he
felt wonderfully free, almost exultant. As he moved further into the
distance the sound of the horn took on a thin, silvery tone that was
almost musical.
Then, slowly, like a projectile approaching the apex of its arc, his
body began to lose momentum. For a time there was the sensation of
treading air as a swimmer treads water. Gradually, he churned to a
complete, suspended stop. He felt himself hovering precariously in
mid-air, and then, all of a sudden, he plunged downward.
In his descent there was no sense of easy motion as there had been
before. Instead, he was falling rapidly, hurtling through the dark, a
tangled mass of helpless arms and legs. His efforts to fight the force
that was sucking him downward were useless. Then, sooner and more
easily than he had expected, he came to rest. All at once there was a
soft, cool surface beneath him that seemed to give with his weight,
then lift him gently.
But his relief was shattered by a sudden, terrifying blast from the
ghostly horn. Instantly, light began to show through the blackness
which was being ripped into fleeting whisps and fragments by a strong,
angry wind. Oddly, though, the wind didn't seem to affect Marc; it was
blowing all about him without stirring so much as a hair on his head.
He sat up and gazed at the scene before him as the last remnants of the
shredded blackness disappeared into the distance. At once, the wind
died and everything became quiet.
Marc was in the very center of a small grove of strange feathery trees
that seemed to have deliberately arranged themselves into a perfect
circle. A light blue mist lay motionless beneath the trees, blending
softly into the green mossy carpet upon which he was resting. There was
a cool restfulness about the place which he recognized at once. It was
the feeling that always came to him when he entered the valley of his
own mind.
He threw his hands out behind him on the grass and leaned back
luxuriously. He was just closing his eyes when a soft sound whispered
against the grass behind him. He started to swing about, but he was too
slow. Mid-way, two cool hands pressed down gently over his eyes and two
lips closed simultaneously over his mouth. The lips were not nearly so
cool or so gentle as the hands, and they went directly to the business
of kissing him with an air of abandon and authority. Marc struggled
away from them.
"Guess who, you old monster," a voice whispered gaily.
"Unhand me, you perfidious little heller," Marc grated.
"Beast!"
* * * * *
The hands snapped away from Marc's eyes, and he looked up to see Toffee
scowling down at him. Her green eyes were alive with annoyance, and
her red hair hung loosely about her shoulders like cascading flame.
Her transparent emerald-colored tunic was, as always, a completely
disinterested party when it came to the matter of concealing her comely
figure. One gold-sandaled foot was tapping a silent tattoo against the
grass.
"Sometimes," she said evenly, "you turn my stomach. The way you keep
shoving me away from you all the time, you'd think I wasn't gorgeous
or something. It's beginning to ruin my self-confidence. Just a little
peck or pat at the proper moment wouldn't hurt you any, you know."
"Do you have to be quite so effusive with your greetings?" Marc asked
timidly. "Couldn't we just shake hands?"
"Shake hands!" Toffee exploded. "If that doesn't take the brass-lined
girdle! I don't care what you shake. You can shimmy from one end of
this valley to the other, but you needn't expect me to be a party to
it. I wash my hands of you. And good riddance!"
And with that, she retreated to the far side of the grove and draped
herself angrily against a tree, arms folded. She regarded Marc icily
from the corner of her eye.
"Of all the thankless, gutless worms, I would have to wind up with
you," she muttered. "You'd look good with your ugly head bashed in."