Генри Каттнер - Volluswen

First published in Science Fiction Stories, April 1943.

THE jury was returning. Galt Cavendish, his jolting nerves held rigidly taut, could read nothing in the twelve faces. Acquittal was improbable. But conviction was equally so. Insanity, his lawyer had said, was the only possible out.

He had told his story, withholding nothing, from the first moment he had begun to suspect his brother. That had been a month ago. Before that, of course, Tim Cavendish had not existed....

“We, the jury–”

Galt Cavendish leaned forward.

GALT CAVENDISH leaned forward. His middle-aged, rather flabby face sagged disconsolately. Tim splashed soda in the glass and proffered it, a fat, harmless little man with untidy, mouse-colored hair. Seated there in the New York apartment, the brothers, looked like smalltown storekeepers, to whom weighing cheeses, fishing, and the weather were the facts of life.

“Here's luck,” Tim said. He winked. It was a sly, triumphant, sniggering sort of wink, absurd in a man of his age and position. Galt nodded and drank. He put down his glass and watched Tim.

When would it come?

It came almost immediately. Tim examined his plump hands and said; “How long has it been since you had a vacation?”

“About a year,” Galt grunted. “I don’t work so hard. Long as I get in my golf and go to the club, I figure I have enough relaxation. Why?”

“I dunno if it is enough. A man needs a change once in a while. Why don’t you run up to Maine and get in some hunting?”

Galt looked at his brother. “Why don’t you?”

“I feel fine.” Tim hesitated. “But maybe you’re right.”

“Want to go along?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well, if I do it–” Galt licked his lips. “You’ve always done everything I have, of course.”

Tim smiled deprecatingly. “Yeah. Always, since we were kids. Sort of a fetish, eh?”

“You do everyting I do, with just enough variation to make it a little different. You play golf at a different club. Your hours are different–I play mornings; you play afternoons. It’s the same all the way round. I’ve a feeling that if I died, you’d vanish.”

Tim laughed.

Galt took another drink. He was nerving himself for a direct accusation–which his brother, of course, would deny.

He examined Tim, finding nothing of especial interest. That in itself was intriguing. Sherlock Holmes was a good reference.

Holmes : “I refer you to the singular incident of the dog in the night-time.”

Watson : “The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

Holmes : “That was the singular incident.”

GALT couldn’t, naturally, come right out and ask Tim for the answer. Tim would have evaded, denied, and laughed. And winked, in that highly significant fashion of his.

“Well,” Galt said, after a while, “I’ll think it over. I can't get away for a week or so, anyway.”

“What’s up?”

“Detective work,” Galt said, watching closely. Tim didn’t blink. That was an error of judgment. He should have blinked.

Instead, Tim said merely, “Hope it comes out all right. I’m pretty busy myself just now.”

“I’ve been going to a psychologist,” Galt put in.

“Oh? Why?”

“Having trouble with my memory.”

“Forget things?”

“No,” Galt said, standing up. “I remember things. Well, I’ll push off. See you later.”

“Bye,” Tim nodded, without rising. “Take care of yourself.” And he winked.

Going down in the elevator, Galt Cavendish felt a little frightened. In this particular case, a wink wasn’t as good as a nod. He had an indefinable feeling that Tim knew. But never in the world would Tim reveal himself, unless–unless–

Unless he was trapped into doing so. And in that case the results might be incalculable. Galt rather hoped that he himself was slightly crazy. It would be far better than coming gradually to believe in the three-dimensional existence of a bona fide deus ex machina . The books on mnemonics hadn’t helped a great deal. Artificial memory was a fact, scientifically proved, but–Lord!

What was Tim Cavendish?

The hiatus in Galt’s mind had been the tip-off, after the accident. A concussion, the doctors had told him. Falling downstairs is arduous exercise for a man of fifty. But, luckily, the operation had been successful–

Too damned successful! For afterwards, though his memory was otherwise unimpaired, he could remember nothing at all about his brother Tim. Tim’s existence had been wiped out–eradicated–prior to a certain evening two years before, when the two brothers had dined with their sister, Mary Ellen, at Sardi’s. Since that August day Galt’s memory was complete and unexpurgated.

But before that dinner party, Galt had a monstrous feeling that Tim Cavendish hadn’t existed as Tim Cavendish. Ipso facto–

If Galt’s suspicions were correct, Tim couldn't suspect that the plan had miscarried. Or he would have taken steps.

GALT took a taxi to the office of Hillman Abernathy, the psychologist, psychiatrist, and representative of the great god compos mentis . Abernathy was a big, white- haired, sharp-eyed man with an unobtrusively soothing manner and an engaging air of frankness. He told Galt to sit down and grinned at him through the smoke of a panatela.

“Coming to the point immediately,” he said, “you’re not crazy, Galt. You may have an obsession. If so, it can be cured.”

“I thought so. When a patient has a fantastic theory, you instantly decide that the theory’s automatically false and the trouble’s got to be in the mind.”

Abernathy said, “You’re not quite right. But go on.”

Galt’s mouth twitched. “Well, some men can hear the squeaks bats make–usually too high-pitched to be audible. Does that meant the squeaks have to be subjective?”

“I’ve had patients who’ve been followed around by little red devils,” Abernathy remarked. “Well?”

“Ever tried to photograph the little red devils?”

“Yes,” the psychiatrist said surprisingly. “Even used infra-red and ultra-violet. Remember, Galt, I said you may have an obsession. On the other hand, you may be right.”

Galt sat back, staring. Presently he shrugged.

“That comes under the head of humoring the patient.”

Abernathy’s voice was earnest. “It does not. You’re convinced of a certain fantastic theory. If I arbitrarily said you were wrong, you’d not believe me–you might acquire a persecution complex. In this business I’ve learned to keep my personal opinions in a separate compartment. I never make a prognosis till I get all the facts I can.”

“Facts?” Galt’s voice held a half- sardonic inflection.

“Three-dimensional and otherwise. You’re determined that I won’t believe you. You came here with the beginnings of a God complex, coupled with subconscious martyrdom. You’ve discovered something vitally important to mankind, and you know mankind won't believe you. Eventually you’ll want to be crucified. Subconscious stuff, the worst kind.”

“Wait a minute,” Galt said. “I may be entirely wrong. I know it may all be subjective. Psychic trauma–isn't that the word?”

“A subconscious bloc,” Abernathy told him. “Your memory of your brother, up to two years ago, has been expunged. The question is–why?”

“There are only two answers. Either Tim was existing then, or he wasn’t.”