Fredric Brown - The Fredric Brown Megapack

“But what good is it?”

He sighed again. “The real purpose of it is not to run errands for gin and mix drinks. That was just a demonstration. The real purpose—”

“Wait,” I said. “Speaking of drinks, wait. It’s a long time since I had one.”

I made the table, tacking only twice, and this time I didn’t bother with the soda. I put a little lemon and an ice cube in each glass of gin.

Charlie tasted his and made a wry face.

I tasted mine. “Sour,” I said. “I should have left out the lemon. And we better drink them quick before the ice cubes start to melt or they’ll be weak.”

“The real purpose,” said Charlie, “is—”

“Wait,” I said. “You could be wrong, you know. About the limitations. I’m going to put that headband on and tell Yehudi to bring us Lili and—”

“Don’t be a sap, Hank. I made the thing. I know how it works. You can’t get Lili St. Cyr or Esther Williams or Brooklyn Bridge.”

“You’re positive?”

“Of course.”

What a sap I was. I believed him. I mixed two more drinks, using gin and two glasses this time, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed, which was swaying gently from side to side.

“All right,” I said. “I can take it now. What is the real purpose of it?”

Charlie Swann blinked several times and seemed to be having trouble bringing his eyes into focus on me. He asked, “The real purpose of what?”

I enunciated slowly and carefully. “Of the automatonic autosuggestive subvibratory super-accelerator. Yehudi, to me.”

“Oh, that,” said Charlie.

“That,” I said. “What is its real purpose?”

“It’s like this. Suppose you got something to do that you’ve got to do in a hurry. Or something that you’ve got to do, and don’t want to do. You could—”

“Like writing a story?” I asked.

“Like writing a story,” he said, “or painting a house, or washing a mess of dishes, or shoveling the sidewalk, or…or doing anything else you’ve got to do but don’t want to do. Look, you put it on and tell yourself—”

“Yehudi,” I said.

“Tell Yehudi to do it, and it’s done. Sure, you do it, but you don’t know that you do, so it doesn’t hurt. And it gets done quicker.”

“You blur,” I said.

He held up his glass and looked through it at the electric light. It was empty. The glass, not the electric light. He said, “You blur.”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer. He seemed to be swinging, chair and all, in an arc about a yard long. It made me dizzy to look at him, so I closed my eyes, but that was worse so I opened them again.

I said, “A story?”

“Sure.”

“I got to write a story,” I said, “but why should I? I mean, why not let Yehudi do it?”

I went over and put on the headband. No extraneous remarks this time, I told myself. Stick to the point.

“Write a story,” I said.

I nodded. Nothing happened.

But then I remembered that, as far as I was supposed to know, nothing was supposed to happen. I walked over to the typewriter desk and looked.

There was a white sheet and a yellow sheet in the typewriter, with a carbon between them. The page was about half filled with typing and then down at the bottom were two words by themselves. I couldn’t read them. I took my glasses off and still I couldn’t, so I put them back on and put my face down within inches of the typewriter and concentrated. The words were “The End.”

I looked over alongside the typewriter and there was a neat, but small pile of typed sheets, alternate white and yellow.

It was wonderful. I’d written a story. If my subconscious mind had anything on the ball, it might be the best story I’d ever written.

Too bad I wasn’t quite in shape to read it. I’d have to see an optometrist about new glasses. Or something.

“Charlie,” I said, “I wrote a story.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I blurred,” I said. “But you weren’t looking.”

I was back sitting on the bed. I don’t remember getting there. “Charlie,” I said, “it’s wonderful.”

“What’s wonderful?”

“Everything. Life. Birdies in the trees. Pretzels. A story in less than a second! One second a week I have to work from now on. No more school, no more books, no more teacher’s sassy looks! Charlie, it’s wonderful!”

He seemed to wake up. He said, “Hank, you’re just beginning to see the possibilities. They’re almost endless, for any profession. Almost anything.”

“Except,” I said sadly, “Lili St. Cyr and Esther Williams.”

“You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“Two-track,” I said. “I’d settle for either. Charlie, are you positive—”

Wearily, “Yes.” Or that was what he meant to say; it came out “Mesh.”

“Charlie,” I said. “You’ve been drinking. Care if I try?”

“Shoot yourself.”

“Huh? Oh, you mean suit yourself. O.K., then I’ll—”

“Thass what I shaid,” Charlie said. “Suit yourshelf.”

“You did not.”

“What did I shay, then?”

I said, “You shaid—I mean said: ‘Shoot yourself.’”

Even Jove nods.

Only Jove doesn’t wear a headband like the one I still had on. Or maybe, come to think of it, he does. It would explain a lot of things.

I must have nodded, because there was the sound of a shot. I let out a yell and jumped up, and Charlie jumped up too. He looked sober.

He said, “Hank, you had that thing on. Are you—?”

I was looking down at myself and there wasn’t any blood on the front of my shirt. Nor any pain anywhere. Nor anything. I quit shaking. I looked at Charlie; he wasn’t shot either. I said, “But who—? What—?”

“Hank,” he said. “That shot wasn’t in this room at all. It was outside, in the hallway, or on the stair.”

“On the stair?” Something prickled at the back of my mind. What about a stair? I saw a man upon the stair, a little man who was not there. He was not there again today. Gee, I wish he’d go away. “Charlie,” I said. “ It was Yehudi! He shot himself because I said ‘shoot yourself’ and the pendulum swung. You were wrong about it being an—an automatonic autosuggestive whatzit. It was Yehudi doing it all the time. It was—”

“Shut up,” he said.

But he went over and opened the door and I followed him and we went out in the hallway.

There was a decided smell of burnt powder. It seemed to come from about halfway up the stairs because it got stronger as we neared that point.

“Nobody there,” Charlie said, shakily.

In an awed voice I said, “He was not there again today. Gee, I wish—”

“Shut up,” said Charlie sharply. We went back into my room.

“Sit down,” Charlie said. “We got to figure this out. You said, ‘Shoot yourself,’ and either nodded or swayed forward. But you didn’t shoot yourself. The shot came from—” He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Let’s have some coffee,” he suggested. “Some hot, black coffee. Have you got— Hey, you’re still wearing that headband. Get us some, but for Heaven’s sake be careful.”

I said, “Bring us two cups of hot black coffee.” And I nodded, but it didn’t work. Somehow I’d known it wouldn’t.

Charlie grabbed the band off my head. He put it on and tried it himself.

I said, “Yehudi’s dead. He shot himself. That thing’s no good anymore. So I’ll make the coffee.”

I put the kettle on the hot plate. “Charlie,” I said, “look, suppose it was Yehudi doing that stuff. Well, how do you know what his limitations were? Look, maybe he could have brought us Lili—”