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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/26569-h.zip b/26569-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb6f4cb --- /dev/null +++ b/26569-h.zip diff --git a/26569-h/26569-h.htm b/26569-h/26569-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dda4202 --- /dev/null +++ b/26569-h/26569-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1638 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Monkey on his Back by Charles V. de Vet</title> +<style type="text/css"> + /* slight differences for print and screen */ + @media print { + p {text-indent: 1.5em; + margin-bottom: .1em; } + span.pgmark {border: 0 !important; + display: none; visibility: hidden; } + hr.pg, .nopr {display: none; visibility: hidden; } + } + + @media screen { + p {text-indent: 0; + margin-bottom: 0.75em; } + span.pgmark {border-top: thin solid silver; + border-bottom: thin solid silver; + display: inline; } + div.tp {padding-top: 2em; + padding-bottom: 4em; } + } + + body {margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: medium; + text-align: justify; } + + div.main {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + max-width: 30em; + page-break-after: always; } + + p {margin-top: 0; } + p.tb {margin-top: 2.25em; + text-indent: 0 ! important; } + p.tb:first-letter {font-size: 275%; + float: left; + line-height: 80%; + padding-right: 4px;} + p.tb + p {clear: left; } + p.tbq {margin-top: 2.25em; + text-indent: 0 ! important; } + p.tbq span.first {font-size: 275%; + float: left; + line-height: 80%; + padding-right: 4px;} + p.tbq + p {clear: left; } + + p.illus {text-indent: 0 ! important; + text-align: center; + margin: 3em -10% 3em -10%; } + p.right {text-indent: 0 ! important; + margin: 2.25em 0 4em auto; + text-align: right; } + p.blurb {margin: 1em auto; + max-width: 25em; + line-height: 2; + text-indent: 5em ! important; + text-align: left; } + .indent10 {padding-left: 10em; } + + div.tp {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + text-align: center; + font-family: sans-serif; + max-width: 30em; + min-height: 400px; + background-image: url("images/illus-135.png"); + background-position: center top; + background-repeat: no-repeat;} + div.tp h1 {letter-spacing: 0.15em; + font-size: 250%; + font-weight: 900; + padding-bottom: 1.5em;} + h1, h2, h3 {word-spacing: 0.2em; } + div.tp h2 {font-size: 110%; } + div.tp h3 {font-size: 100%; + padding-top: 2em; } + + /* for transcriber's note at the beginning */ + div.tnote {border: dashed 1px; + padding: .5em; + margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; } + div.tnote p {text-indent: 0; + margin-top: .5em; + font-size: 85%;} + div.tnote h3 {text-indent: 0; + text-align: left; + font-size: 110%; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: bold; + padding-top: 0; + letter-spacing: 0;} + /* for trivial notes */ + ins.TN {text-decoration: none; + border-bottom: 0;} + + hr {background-color: black; color: inherit; padding: 0;} + hr.pg {width: 100%; + height: 5px; + margin-top: 15px; + margin-bottom: 15px; } + + span.pgmark {font-size: x-small; + font-family: serif; + font-variant: normal; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + line-height: 1.2; + text-indent: 0; text-align: left; + margin: 0; padding: .05em 0.5em !important; + position: absolute; left: 1%; } + + .ns {display: none; visibility: hidden; } + + /* just in case */ + cite {font-style: italic;} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Monkey On His Back, by Charles V. De Vet + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Monkey On His Back + +Author: Charles V. De Vet + +Release Date: September 10, 2008 [EBook #26569] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONKEY ON HIS BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<hr class="pg" /> + +<div class="tnote"> +<h3>Transcriber’s note:</h3> + +<p>This story was published in <cite>Galaxy</cite> magazine, June 1960. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p> +</div> + +<div class="tp"> + +<h2><a name="png.001" id="png.001"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">135</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>By CHARLES V. DE VET</h2> + +<h1>monkey on his back</h1> + +<p class="blurb"><b><i>Under the cloud of cast-off identities<br + />lay the shape of another man—<br + /><span class="indent10">was it himself?</span></i></b></p> + +<h3>Illustrated by DILLON</h3> +</div> + +<div class="main"> +<p class="tb">HE was walking endlessly +down a long, glass-walled +corridor. Bright sunlight +slanted in through one wall, on the +blue knapsack across his shoulders. +Who he was, and what he was doing +here, was clouded. The truth lurked +in some corner of his consciousness, +but it was not reached by surface +awareness.</p> + +<p>The corridor opened at last into +a large high-domed room, much +like a railway station or an air terminal. +He walked straight ahead.</p> + +<p>At the sight of him a man leaning +negligently against a stone pillar, +to his right but within vision, +straightened and barked an order +to him, “Halt!” He lengthened his +stride but gave no other sign.</p> + +<p><a name="png.002" id="png.002"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">136</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Two men hurried through a +doorway of a small anteroom to his +left, calling to him. He turned away +and began to run.</p> + +<p>Shouts and the sound of charging +feet came from behind him. He +cut to the right, running toward the +escalator to the second floor. Another +pair of men were hurrying +down, two steps at a stride. With +no break in pace he veered into an +opening beside the escalator.</p> + +<p>At the first turn he saw that the +aisle merely circled the stairway, +coming out into the depot again on +the other side. It was a trap. He +glanced quickly around him.</p> + +<p>At the rear of the space was a +row of lockers for traveler use. He +slipped a coin into a pay slot, +opened the zipper on his bag and +pulled out a flat briefcase. It took +him only a few seconds to push the +case into the compartment, lock it +and slide the key along the floor +beneath the locker.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to do after +that—except wait.</p> + +<p>The men pursuing him came +hurtling around the turn in the +aisle. He kicked his knapsack to +one side, spreading his feet wide +with an instinctive motion.</p> + +<p>Until that instant he had intended +to fight. Now he swiftly +reassessed the odds. There were +five of them, he saw. He should be +able to incapacitate two or three +and break out. But the fact that +they had been expecting him meant +that others would very probably +be waiting outside. His best course +now was to sham ignorance. He +relaxed.</p> + +<p>He offered no resistance as they +reached him.</p> + +<p>They were not gentle men. A tall +ruffian, copper-brown face damp +with perspiration and body oil, +grabbed him by the jacket and +slammed him back against the +lockers. As he shifted his weight +to keep his footing someone drove +a fist into his face. He started to +raise his hands; and a hard flat +object crashed against the side of +his skull.</p> + +<p>The starch went out of his legs.</p> + + +<p class="tbq"><br class="ns" /><span class="first">“D</span>O you make anything out of +it?” the psychoanalyst Milton +Bergstrom, asked.</p> + +<p>John Zarwell shook his head. +“Did I talk while I was under?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. You were supposed to. +That way I follow pretty well what +you’re reenacting.”</p> + +<p>“How does it tie in with what I +told you before?”</p> + +<p>Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinned +face betrayed no emotion +other than an introspective stillness +of his normally alert gaze. “I see +no connection,” he decided, his +words once again precise and meticulous. +“We don’t have enough to +go on. Do you feel able to try another +comanalysis this afternoon +yet?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see why not.” Zarwell +<a name="png.003" id="png.003"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">137</span><span class="ns">] + </span>opened the collar of his shirt. The +day was hot, and the room had no +air conditioning, still a rare luxury +on St. Martin’s. The office window +was open, but it let in no freshness, +only the mildly rank odor that pervaded +all the planet’s habitable +area.</p> + +<p>“Good.” Bergstrom rose. “The +serum is quite harmless, John.” He +maintained a professional diversionary +chatter as he administered +the drug. “A scopolamine derivative +that’s been well tested.”</p> + +<p>The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet +assumed abruptly the near transfluent +consistency of a damp +sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave +and rolled gently toward the far +wall.</p> + +<p>Bergstrom continued talking, +with practiced urbanity. “When +psychiatry was a less exact science,” +his voice went on, seeming to come +from a great distance, “a doctor +had to spend weeks, sometimes +months or years interviewing a +patient. If he was skilled enough, +he could sort the relevancies from +the vast amount of chaff. We are +able now, with the help of the +serum, to confine our discourses to +matters cogent to the patient’s +trouble.”</p> + +<p>The floor continued its transmutation, +and Zarwell sank deep into +viscous depths. “Lie back and relax. +Don’t …”</p> + +<p>The words tumbled down from +above. They faded, were gone.</p> + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />ZARWELL found himself <!-- original does not use drop cap here, it just capitalises the first two words --> +standing on a vast plain. There was +no sky above, and no horizon in the +distance. He was in a place without +space or dimension. There was +nothing here except himself—and +the gun that he held in his hand.</p> + +<p>A weapon beautiful in its efficient +simplicity.</p> + +<p>He should know all about the +instrument, its purpose and workings, +but he could not bring his +thoughts into rational focus. His +forehead creased with his mental +effort.</p> + +<p>Abruptly the unreality about +him shifted perspective. He was +approaching—not walking, but +merely shortening the space between +them—the man who held +the gun. The man who was himself. +The other “himself” drifted +nearer also, as though drawn by a +mutual attraction.</p> + +<p>The man with the gun raised his +weapon and pressed the trigger.</p> + +<p>With the action the perspective +shifted again. He was watching the +face of the man he shot jerk and +twitch, expand and contract. The +face was unharmed, yet it was no +longer the same. No longer his own +features.</p> + +<p>The stranger face smiled approvingly +at him.</p> + + +<p class="tbq"><br class="ns" /><span class="first">“O</span>DD,” Bergstrom said. <!-- original does not use drop cap here, it just capitalises the first two words --> +He brought his hands up and joined +the tips of his fingers against his +chest. “But it’s another piece in the +<a name="png.004" id="png.004"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">138</span><span class="ns">] + </span>jig-saw. In time it will fit into +place.” He paused. “It means no +more to you than the first, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“No,” Zarwell answered.</p> + +<p>He was not a talking man, Bergstrom +reflected. It was more than +reticence, however. The man had +a hard granite core, only partially +concealed by his present perplexity. +He was a man who could handle +himself well in an emergency.</p> + +<p>Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing +his strayed thoughts. “I expected +as much. A quite normal first phase +of treatment.” He straightened a +paper on his desk. “I think that will +be enough for today. Twice in one +sitting is about all we ever try. +Otherwise some particular episode +might cause undue mental stress, +and set up a block.” He glanced +down at his appointment pad. “Tomorrow +at two, then?”</p> + +<p>Zarwell grunted acknowledgment +and pushed himself to his +feet, apparently unaware that his +shirt clung damply to his body.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />THE sun was still high when +Zarwell left the analyst’s office. +The white marble of the city’s +buildings shimmered in the afternoon +heat, squat and austere as +giant tree trunks, pock-marked and +gray-mottled with windows. Zarwell +was careful not to rest his hand +on the flesh searing surface of the +stone.</p> + +<p>The evening meal hour was approaching +when he reached the +Flats, on the way to his apartment. +The streets of the old section were +near-deserted. The only sounds he +heard as he passed were the occasional +cry of a baby, chronically +uncomfortable in the day’s heat, +and the lowing of imported cattle +waiting in a nearby shed to be +shipped to the country.</p> + +<p>All St. Martin’s has a distinctive +smell, as of an arid dried-out +swamp, with a faint taint of fish. +But in the Flats the odor changes. +Here is the smell of factories, warehouses, +and trading marts; the smell +of stale cooking drifting from the +homes of the laborers and lower +class techmen who live there.</p> + +<p>Zarwell passed a group of +smaller children playing a desultory +game of lic-lic for pieces of +candy and cigarettes. Slowly he +climbed the stairs of a stone flat. +He prepared a supper for himself +and ate it without either enjoyment +or distaste. He lay down, fully +clothed, on his bed. The visit to the +analyst had done nothing to dispel +his ennui.</p> + +<p class="illus"><a name="png.005" id="png.005"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">139</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><img src="images/illus-139.png" width="498" height="700" + alt="sketch of faces with clenched fists" title="" /></p> + +<p>The next morning when Zarwell +awoke he lay for a moment, unmoving. +The feeling was there +again, like a scene waiting only to +be gazed at directly to be perceived. +It was as though a great wisdom +lay at the edge of understanding. +If he rested quietly it would +all come to him. Yet always, when +his mind lost its sleep-induced +<a name="png.006" id="png.006"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">140</span><span class="ns">] + </span>lethargy, the moment of near understanding +slipped away.</p> + +<p>This morning, however, the sense +of disorientation did not pass with +full wakefulness. He achieved no +understanding, but the strangeness +did not leave as he sat up.</p> + +<p>He gazed about him. The room +did not seem to be his own. The +furnishings, and the clothing he observed +in a closet, might have belonged +to a stranger.</p> + +<p>He pulled himself from his blankets, +his body moving with mechanical +reaction. The slippers into +which he put his feet were larger +than he had expected them to be. +He walked about the small apartment. +The place was familiar, but +only as it would have been if he +had studied it from blueprints, not +as though he lived there.</p> + +<p>The feeling was still with him +when he returned to the psychoanalyst.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />THE scene this time was more +kaleidoscopic, less personal.</p> + +<p>A village was being ravaged. +Men struggled and died in the +streets. Zarwell moved among +them, seldom taking part in the +individual clashes, yet a moving +force in the <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'conflct'">conflict</ins>.</p> + +<p>The background changed. He +understood that he was on a different +world.</p> + +<p>Here a city burned. Its resistance +was nearing its end. Zarwell was +riding a shaggy pony outside a high +wall surrounding the stricken metropolis. +He moved in and joined a +party of short, bearded men, directing +them as they battered at the +wall with a huge log mounted on a +many-wheeled truck.</p> + +<p>The log broke a breach in the +concrete and the besiegers charged +through, carrying back the defenders +who sought vainly to plug the +gap. Soon there would be rioting +in the streets again, plundering and +killing.</p> + +<p>Zarwell was not the leader of the +invaders, only a lesser figure in the +rebellion. But he had played a leading +part in the planning of the +strategy that led to the city’s fall. +The job had been well done.</p> + +<p>Time passed, without visible +break in the panorama. Now Zarwell +was fleeing, pursued by the +same bearded men who had been +his comrades before. Still he moved +with the same firm purpose, vigilant, +resourceful, and well prepared +for the eventuality that had befallen. +He made his escape without +difficulty.</p> + +<p>He alighted from a space ship on +still another world—another shift +in time—and the atmosphere of +conflict engulfed him.</p> + +<p>Weary but resigned he accepted +it, and did what he had to do …</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />BERGSTROM was regarding <!-- original does not use drop cap here, it just capitalises the first two words --> +him with speculative scrutiny. +“You’ve had quite a past, apparently,” +he observed.</p> + +<p><a name="png.007" id="png.007"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">141</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment. +“At least in my dreams.”</p> + +<p>“Dreams?” Bergstrom’s eyes +widened in surprise. “Oh, I beg your +pardon. I must have forgotten to +explain. This work is so routine to +me that sometimes I forget it’s all +new to a patient. Actually what you +experienced under the drug were +not dreams. They were recollections +of real episodes from your +past.”</p> + +<p>Zarwell’s expression became +wary. He watched Bergstrom +closely. After a minute, however, +he seemed satisfied, and he let himself +settle back against the cushion +of his chair. “I remember nothing +of what I saw,” he observed.</p> + +<p>“That’s why you’re here, you +know,” Bergstrom answered. “To +help you remember.”</p> + +<p>“But everything under the drug +is so …”</p> + +<p>“Haphazard? That’s true. The +recall episodes are always purely +random, with no chronological sequence. +Our problem will be to reassemble +them in proper order +later. Or some particular scene may +trigger a complete memory return.</p> + +<p>“It is my considered opinion,” +Bergstrom went on, “that your lost +memory will turn out to be no ordinary +amnesia. I believe we will find +that your mind has been tampered +with.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing I’ve seen under the +drug fits into the past I do remember.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what makes me so certain,” +Bergstrom said confidently. +“You don’t remember what we +have shown to be true. Conversely +then, what you think you remember +must be false. It must have been +implanted there. But we can go +into that later. For today I think +we have done enough. This episode +was quite prolonged.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t have any time off again +until next week end,” Zarwell reminded +him.</p> + +<p>“That’s right.” Bergstrom +thought for a moment. “We +shouldn’t let this hang too long. +Could you come here after work +tomorrow?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I could.”</p> + +<p>“Fine,” Bergstrom said with satisfaction. +“I’ll admit I’m considerably +more than casually interested +in your case by this time.”</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />A WORK truck picked Zarwell +up the next morning and he +rode with a tech crew to the edge of +the reclam area. Beside the belt +bringing ocean muck from the converter +plant at the seashore his +bulldozer was waiting.</p> + +<p>He took his place behind the +drive wheel and began working dirt +down between windbreakers anchored +in the rock. Along a makeshift +road into the badlands trucks +brought crushed lime and phosphorus +to supplement the ocean +sediment. The progress of life from +the sea to the land was a mechanical +<a name="png.008" id="png.008"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">142</span><span class="ns">] + </span>process of this growing world.</p> + +<p>Nearly two hundred years ago, +when Earth established a colony on +St. Martin’s, the land surface of the +planet had been barren. Only its +seas thrived with animal and vegetable +life. The necessary machinery +and technicians had been supplied +by Earth, and the long struggle began +to fit the world for human +needs. When Zarwell arrived, six +months before, the vitalized area +already extended three hundred +miles along the coast, and sixty +miles inland. And every day the +progress continued. A large percentage +of the energy and resources +of the world were devoted to that +essential expansion.</p> + +<p>The reclam crews filled and +sodded the sterile rock, planted +binding grasses, grain and trees, and +diverted rivers to keep it fertile. +When there were no rivers to divert +they blasted out springs and lakes +in the foothills to make their own. +Biologists developed the necessary +germ and insect life from what they +found in the sea. Where that failed, +they imported microorganisms +from Earth.</p> + +<p>Three rubber-tracked crawlers +picked their way down from the +mountains until they joined the +road passing the belt. They were +loaded with ore that would be +smelted into metal for depleted +Earth, or for other colonies short +of minerals. It was St. Martin’s only +export thus far.</p> + +<p>Zarwell pulled his sun helmet +lower, to better guard his hot, dry +features. The wind blew continuously +on St. Martin’s, but it furnished +small relief from the heat. +After its three-thousand-mile journey +across scorched sterile rock, it +sucked the moisture from a man’s +body, bringing a membrane-shrinking +dryness to the nostrils as it was +breathed in. With it came also the +cloying taste of limestone in a +worker’s mouth.</p> + +<p>Zarwell gazed idly about at the +other laborers. Fully three-quarters +of them were beri-rabza ridden. A +cure for the skin fungus had not +yet been found; the men’s faces +and hands were scabbed and red. +The colony had grown to near self-sufficiency, +would soon have a moderate +prosperity, yet they still +lacked adequate medical and research +facilities.</p> + +<p>Not all the world’s citizens were +content.</p> + +<p>Bergstrom was waiting in his office +when Zarwell arrived that +evening.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />HE was lying motionless on a +hard cot, with his eyes closed, +yet with his every sense sharply +quickened. Tentatively he tightened +small muscles in his arms and +legs. Across his wrists and thighs +he felt straps binding him to the +cot.</p> + +<p>“So that’s our big, bad man,” a +coarse voice above him observed +<a name="png.009" id="png.009"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">143</span><span class="ns">] + </span>caustically. “He doesn’t look so +tough now, does he?”</p> + +<p>“It might have been better to +kill him right away,” a second, less +confident voice said. “It’s supposed +to be impossible to hold him.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be stupid. We just do +what we’re told. We’ll hold him.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think they’ll do +with him?”</p> + +<p>“Execute him, I suppose,” the +harsh voice said matter-of-factly. +“They’re probably just curious to +see what he looks like first. They’ll +be disappointed.”</p> + +<p>Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to +observe his surroundings.</p> + +<p>It was a mistake. “He’s out of +it,” the first speaker said, and Zarwell +allowed his eyes to open fully.</p> + +<p>The voice, he saw, belonged to +the big man who had bruised him +against the locker at the spaceport. +Irrelevantly he wondered how he +knew now that it had been a spaceport.</p> + +<p>His captor’s broad face jeered +down at Zarwell. “Have a good +sleep?” he asked with mock solicitude. +Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge +that he heard.</p> + +<p>The big man turned. “You can +tell the Chief he’s awake,” he said. +Zarwell followed his gaze to where +a younger man, with a blond lock of +hair on his forehead, stood behind +him. The youth nodded and went +out, while the other pulled a chair +up to the side of Zarwell’s cot.</p> + +<p>While their attention was away +from him Zarwell had unobtrusively +loosened his bonds as much as +possible with arm leverage. As the +big man drew his chair nearer, he +made the hand farthest from him +tight and compact and worked it +free of the leather loop. He waited.</p> + +<p>The big man belched. “You’re +supposed to be great stuff in a situation +like this,” he said, his smoke-tan +face splitting in a grin that revealed +large square teeth. “How +about giving me a sample?”</p> + +<p>“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,” +Zarwell told him.</p> + +<p>The grin faded from the oily face +as the man stood up. He leaned over +the cot—and Zarwell’s left hand +shot up and locked about his throat, +joined almost immediately by the +right.</p> + +<p>The man’s mouth opened and he +tried to yell as he threw himself +frantically backward. He clawed at +the hands about his neck. When +that failed to break the grip he suddenly +reversed his weight and +drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.</p> + +<p>Zarwell pulled the struggling +body down against his chest and +held it there until all agitated +movement ceased. He sat up then, +letting the body slide to the floor.</p> + +<p>The straps about his thighs came +loose with little effort.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />THE analyst dabbed at his upper +lip with a handkerchief. “The +episodes are beginning to tie together,” +he said, with an attempt at +<a name="png.010" id="png.010"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">144</span><span class="ns">] + </span>nonchalance. “The next couple +should do it.”</p> + +<p>Zarwell did not answer. His +memory seemed on the point of +complete return, and he sat quietly, +hopefully. However, nothing more +came and he returned his attention +to his more immediate problem.</p> + +<p>Opening a button on his shirt, he +pulled back a strip of plastic cloth +just below his rib cage and took +out a small flat pistol. He held it +in the palm of his hand. He knew +now why he always carried it.</p> + +<p>Bergstrom had his bad moment. +“You’re not going to …” he began +at the sight of the gun. He tried +again. “You must be joking.”</p> + +<p>“I have very little sense of humor,” +Zarwell corrected him.</p> + +<p>“You’d be foolish!”</p> + +<p>Bergstrom obviously realized +how close he was to death. Yet +surprisingly, after the first start, +he showed little fear. Zarwell had +thought the man a bit soft, too +adjusted to a life of ease and some +prestige to meet danger calmly. +Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.</p> + +<p>“Why would I be foolish?” he +asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable +confidence?”</p> + +<p>Bergstrom shook his head. “I +know it’s been broken before. But +you need me. You’re not through, +you know. If you killed me you’d +still have to trust some other +analyst.”</p> + +<p>“Is that the best you can do?”</p> + +<p>“No.” Bergstrom was angry now. +“But use that logical mind you’re +supposed to have! Scenes before +this have shown what kind of man +you are. Just because this last happened +here on St. Martin’s makes +little difference. If I was going to +turn you in to the police, I’d have +done it before this.”</p> + +<p>Zarwell debated with himself the +truth of what the other had said. +“Why didn’t you turn me in?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“Because you’re no mad-dog +killer!” Now that the crisis seemed +to be past, Bergstrom spoke more +calmly, even allowed himself to +relax. “You’re still pretty much in +the fog about yourself. I read more +in those comanalyses than you did. +I even know who you are!”</p> + +<p>Zarwell’s eyebrows raised.</p> + +<p>“Who am I?” he asked, very interested +now. Without attention he +put his pistol away in a trouser +pocket.</p> + +<p>Bergstrom brushed the question +aside with one hand. “Your name +makes little difference. You’ve used +many. But you are an idealist. Your +killings were necessary to bring +justice to the places you visited. By +now you’re almost a legend among +the human worlds. I’d like to talk +more with you on that later.”</p> + +<p>While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom +pressed his advantage. “One +more scene might do it,” he said. +“Should we try again—if you trust +me, that is?”</p> + +<p><a name="png.011" id="png.011"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">145</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Zarwell made his decision quickly. +“Go ahead,” he answered.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />ALL Zarwell’s attention seemed +on the cigar he lit as he rode +down the escalator, but he surveyed +the terminal carefully over the rim +of his hand. He spied no suspicious +loungers.</p> + +<p>Behind the escalator he groped +along the floor beneath the lockers +until he found his key. The briefcase +was under his arm a minute +later.</p> + +<p>In the basement lave he put a +coin in the pay slot of a private +compartment and went in.</p> + +<p>As he zipped open the briefcase +he surveyed his features in the mirror. +A small muscle at the corner of +one eye twitched spasmodically. +One cheek wore a frozen quarter +smile. Thirty-six hours under the +paralysis was longer than advisable. +The muscles should be rested at +least every twenty hours.</p> + +<p>Fortunately his natural features +would serve as an adequate disguise +now.</p> + +<p>He adjusted the ring setting on +the pistol-shaped instrument that +he took from his case, and carefully +rayed several small areas of +his face, loosening muscles that had +been tight too long. He sighed +gratefully when he finished, massaging +his cheeks and forehead with +considerable pleasure. Another +glance in the mirror satisfied him +with the changes that had been +made. He turned to his briefcase +again and exchanged the gun for +a small syringe, which he pushed +into a trouser pocket, and a single-edged +razor blade.</p> + +<p>Removing his fiber-cloth jacket +he slashed it into strips with the +razor blade and flushed it down the +disposal bowl. With the sleeves of +his blouse rolled up he had the +appearance of a typical workman +as he strolled from the compartment.</p> + +<p>Back at the locker he replaced +the briefcase and, with a wad of +gum, glued the key to the bottom +of the locker frame.</p> + +<p>One step more. Taking the syringe +from his pocket, he plunged +the needle into his forearm and +tossed the instrument down a +waste chute. He took three more +steps and paused uncertainly.</p> + +<p>When he looked about him it +was with the expression of a man +waking from a vivid dream.</p> + + +<p class="tbq"><br class="ns" /><span class="first">“Q</span>UITE ingenious,” Graves +murmured admiringly. “You +had your mind already preconditioned +for the shot. But why would +you deliberately give yourself amnesia?”</p> + +<p>“What better disguise than to +believe the part you’re playing?”</p> + +<p>“A good man must have done +that job on your mind,” Bergstrom +commented. “I’d have hesitated to +try it myself. It must have taken a +lot of trust on your part.”</p> + +<p><a name="png.012" id="png.012"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">146</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Trust and money,” Zarwell said +drily.</p> + +<p>“Your memory’s back then?”</p> + +<p>Zarwell nodded.</p> + +<p>“I’m glad to hear that,” Bergstrom +assured him. “Now that +you’re well again I’d like to introduce +you to a man named Vernon +Johnson. This world …”</p> + +<p>Zarwell stopped him with an upraised +hand. “Good God, man, can’t +you see the reason for all this? I’m +tired. I’m trying to quit.”</p> + +<p>“Quit?” Bergstrom did not quite +follow him.</p> + +<p>“It started on my home colony,” +Zarwell explained listlessly. “A +gang of hoods had taken over the +government. I helped organize a +movement to get them out. There +was some bloodshed, but it went +quite well. Several months later an +unofficial envoy from another +world asked several of us to give +them a hand on the same kind of +job. The political conditions there +were rotten. We went with him. +Again we were successful. It seems +I have a kind of genius for that +sort of thing.”</p> + +<p>He stretched out his legs and regarded +them thoughtfully. “I +learned then the truth of Russell’s +saying: ‘When the oppressed win +their freedom they are as oppressive +as their former masters.’ When +they went bad, I opposed them. +This time I failed. But I escaped +again. I have quite a talent for that +also.</p> + +<p>“I’m not a professional do-gooder.” +Zarwell’s tone appealed +to Bergstrom for understanding. “I +have only a normal man’s indignation +at injustice. And now I’ve done +my share. Yet, wherever I go, the +word eventually gets out, and I’m +right back in a fight again. It’s like +the proverbial monkey on my back. +I can’t get rid of it.”</p> + +<p>He rose. “That disguise and +memory planting were supposed to +get me out of it. I should have +known it wouldn’t work. But this +time I’m not going to be drawn +back in! You and your Vernon +Johnson can do your own revolting. +I’m through!”</p> + +<p>Bergstrom did not argue as he +left.</p> + + +<p class="tb"><br class="ns" />RESTLESSNESS drove Zarwell +from his flat the next day—a +legal holiday on St. Martin’s. At +a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered +in the shadow of an adjacent +building watching workmen drilling +an excavation for a new structure.</p> + +<p>When a man strolled to his side +and stood watching the workmen, +he was not surprised. He waited for +the other to speak.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to talk to you, if you +can spare a few minutes,” the +stranger said.</p> + +<p>Zarwell turned and studied the +man without answering. He was +medium tall, with the body of an +athlete, though perhaps ten years +<a name="png.013" id="png.013"></a><span class="ns">[p</span><span + class="pgmark">147</span><span class="ns">] + </span>beyond the age of sports. He had +a manner of contained energy. +“You’re Johnson?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The man nodded.</p> + +<p>Zarwell tried to feel the anger he +wanted to feel, but somehow it +would not come. “We have nothing +to talk about,” was the best he +could manage.</p> + +<p>“Then will you just listen? After, +I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”</p> + +<p>Against his will he found himself +liking the man, and wanting at least +to be courteous. He inclined his +head toward a curb wastebox with +a flat top. “Should we sit?”</p> + +<p>Johnson smiled agreeably and +they walked over to the box and +sat down.</p> + +<p>“When this colony was first +founded,” Johnson began without +preamble, “the administrative body +was a governor, and a council of +twelve. Their successors were to +be elected biennially. At first they +were. Then things changed. We +haven’t had an election now in the +last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s +is beginning to prosper. Yet +the only ones receiving the benefits +are the rulers. The citizens work +twelve hours a day. They are poorly +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'house'">housed</ins>, poorly fed, poorly clothed. +They …”</p> + +<p>Zarwell found himself not listening +as Johnson’s voice went on. The +story was always the same. But why +did they always try to drag him into +their troubles?</p> + +<p>Why hadn’t he chosen some +other world on which to hide?</p> + +<p>The last question prompted a +new thought. Just why had he +chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a +coincidence? Or had he, <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'subconciously'">subconsciously</ins> +at least, picked this particular +world? He had always +considered himself the unwilling +subject of glib persuaders … but +mightn’t some inner compulsion of +his own have put the monkey on his +back?</p> + +<p>“… and we need your help.” +Johnson had finished his speech.</p> + +<p>Zarwell gazed up at the bright +sky. He pulled in a long breath, +and let it out in a sigh.</p> + +<p>“What are your plans so far?” +he asked wearily.</p> + + +<p class="right">—<b>CHARLES V. DE VET</b></p> + +<p class="illus"><img src="images/illus-147.png" width="230" height="112" + alt="decorative alien" title="" /></p> + +</div> + + +<hr class="pg" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Monkey On His Back, by Charles V. 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De Vet + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Monkey On His Back + +Author: Charles V. De Vet + +Release Date: September 10, 2008 [EBook #26569] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONKEY ON HIS BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + | | + | Transcriber's note. | + | | + | This story was published in _Galaxy_ magazine, June 1960. | + | Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the | + | U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. | + | | + +--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + +[Illustration] + +By CHARLES V. DE VET + +monkey on his back + + + Under the cloud of cast-off identities + lay the shape of another man-- + was it himself? + +Illustrated by DILLON + + +He was walking endlessly down a long, glass-walled corridor. Bright +sunlight slanted in through one wall, on the blue knapsack across his +shoulders. Who he was, and what he was doing here, was clouded. The +truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but it was not reached +by surface awareness. + +The corridor opened at last into a large high-domed room, much like a +railway station or an air terminal. He walked straight ahead. + +At the sight of him a man leaning negligently against a stone pillar, to +his right but within vision, straightened and barked an order to him, +"Halt!" He lengthened his stride but gave no other sign. + +Two men hurried through a doorway of a small anteroom to his left, +calling to him. He turned away and began to run. + +Shouts and the sound of charging feet came from behind him. He cut to +the right, running toward the escalator to the second floor. Another +pair of men were hurrying down, two steps at a stride. With no break in +pace he veered into an opening beside the escalator. + +At the first turn he saw that the aisle merely circled the stairway, +coming out into the depot again on the other side. It was a trap. He +glanced quickly around him. + +At the rear of the space was a row of lockers for traveler use. He +slipped a coin into a pay slot, opened the zipper on his bag and pulled +out a flat briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to push the case +into the compartment, lock it and slide the key along the floor beneath +the locker. + +There was nothing to do after that--except wait. + +The men pursuing him came hurtling around the turn in the aisle. He +kicked his knapsack to one side, spreading his feet wide with an +instinctive motion. + +Until that instant he had intended to fight. Now he swiftly reassessed +the odds. There were five of them, he saw. He should be able to +incapacitate two or three and break out. But the fact that they had been +expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. +His best course now was to sham ignorance. He relaxed. + +He offered no resistance as they reached him. + +They were not gentle men. A tall ruffian, copper-brown face damp with +perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him +back against the lockers. As he shifted his weight to keep his footing +someone drove a fist into his face. He started to raise his hands; and a +hard flat object crashed against the side of his skull. + +The starch went out of his legs. + + +"Do you make anything out of it?" the psychoanalyst Milton Bergstrom, +asked. + +John Zarwell shook his head. "Did I talk while I was under?" + +"Oh, yes. You were supposed to. That way I follow pretty well what +you're reenacting." + +"How does it tie in with what I told you before?" + +Bergstrom's neat-boned, fair-skinned face betrayed no emotion other than +an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. "I see no +connection," he decided, his words once again precise and meticulous. +"We don't have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another +comanalysis this afternoon yet?" + +"I don't see why not." Zarwell opened the collar of his shirt. The day +was hot, and the room had no air conditioning, still a rare luxury on +St. Martin's. The office window was open, but it let in no freshness, +only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet's habitable area. + +"Good." Bergstrom rose. "The serum is quite harmless, John." He +maintained a professional diversionary chatter as he administered the +drug. "A scopolamine derivative that's been well tested." + +The floor beneath Zarwell's feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent +consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled +gently toward the far wall. + +Bergstrom continued talking, with practiced urbanity. "When psychiatry +was a less exact science," his voice went on, seeming to come from a +great distance, "a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years +interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the +relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able now, with the +help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the +patient's trouble." + +The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into +viscous depths. "Lie back and relax. Don't ..." + +The words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone. + + +Zarwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above, +and no horizon in the distance. He was in a place without space or +dimension. There was nothing here except himself--and the gun that he +held in his hand. + +A weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity. + +He should know all about the instrument, its purpose and workings, but +he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead +creased with his mental effort. + +Abruptly the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was +approaching--not walking, but merely shortening the space between +them--the man who held the gun. The man who was himself. The other +"himself" drifted nearer also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction. + +The man with the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger. + +With the action the perspective shifted again. He was watching the face +of the man he shot jerk and twitch, expand and contract. The face was +unharmed, yet it was no longer the same. No longer his own features. + +The stranger face smiled approvingly at him. + + +"Odd," Bergstrom said. He brought his hands up and joined the tips of +his fingers against his chest. "But it's another piece in the jig-saw. +In time it will fit into place." He paused. "It means no more to you +than the first, I suppose?" + +"No," Zarwell answered. + +He was not a talking man, Bergstrom reflected. It was more than +reticence, however. The man had a hard granite core, only partially +concealed by his present perplexity. He was a man who could handle +himself well in an emergency. + +Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing his strayed thoughts. "I expected as +much. A quite normal first phase of treatment." He straightened a paper +on his desk. "I think that will be enough for today. Twice in one +sitting is about all we ever try. Otherwise some particular episode +might cause undue mental stress, and set up a block." He glanced down at +his appointment pad. "Tomorrow at two, then?" + +Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, +apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body. + + +The sun was still high when Zarwell left the analyst's office. The white +marble of the city's buildings shimmered in the afternoon heat, squat +and austere as giant tree trunks, pock-marked and gray-mottled with +windows. Zarwell was careful not to rest his hand on the flesh searing +surface of the stone. + +The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the Flats, on the +way to his apartment. The streets of the old section were near-deserted. +The only sounds he heard as he passed were the occasional cry of a baby, +chronically uncomfortable in the day's heat, and the lowing of imported +cattle waiting in a nearby shed to be shipped to the country. + +All St. Martin's has a distinctive smell, as of an arid dried-out swamp, +with a faint taint of fish. But in the Flats the odor changes. Here is +the smell of factories, warehouses, and trading marts; the smell of +stale cooking drifting from the homes of the laborers and lower class +techmen who live there. + +Zarwell passed a group of smaller children playing a desultory game of +lic-lic for pieces of candy and cigarettes. Slowly he climbed the stairs +of a stone flat. He prepared a supper for himself and ate it without +either enjoyment or distaste. He lay down, fully clothed, on his bed. +The visit to the analyst had done nothing to dispel his ennui. + +[Illustration] + +The next morning when Zarwell awoke he lay for a moment, unmoving. The +feeling was there again, like a scene waiting only to be gazed at +directly to be perceived. It was as though a great wisdom lay at the +edge of understanding. If he rested quietly it would all come to him. +Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep-induced lethargy, the moment +of near understanding slipped away. + +This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did not pass with +full wakefulness. He achieved no understanding, but the strangeness did +not leave as he sat up. + +He gazed about him. The room did not seem to be his own. The +furnishings, and the clothing he observed in a closet, might have +belonged to a stranger. + +He pulled himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical +reaction. The slippers into which he put his feet were larger than he +had expected them to be. He walked about the small apartment. The place +was familiar, but only as it would have been if he had studied it from +blueprints, not as though he lived there. + +The feeling was still with him when he returned to the psychoanalyst. + + +The scene this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal. + +A village was being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets. +Zarwell moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes, +yet a moving force in the conflict. + +The background changed. He understood that he was on a different world. + +Here a city burned. Its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell was +riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding the stricken +metropolis. He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men, +directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a +many-wheeled truck. + +The log broke a breach in the concrete and the besiegers charged +through, carrying back the defenders who sought vainly to plug the gap. +Soon there would be rioting in the streets again, plundering and +killing. + +Zarwell was not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure in the +rebellion. But he had played a leading part in the planning of the +strategy that led to the city's fall. The job had been well done. + +Time passed, without visible break in the panorama. Now Zarwell was +fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been his comrades +before. Still he moved with the same firm purpose, vigilant, +resourceful, and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. He +made his escape without difficulty. + +He alighted from a space ship on still another world--another shift in +time--and the atmosphere of conflict engulfed him. + +Weary but resigned he accepted it, and did what he had to do ... + + +Bergstrom was regarding him with speculative scrutiny. "You've had quite +a past, apparently," he observed. + +Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment. "At least in my dreams." + +"Dreams?" Bergstrom's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, I beg your pardon. +I must have forgotten to explain. This work is so routine to me that +sometimes I forget it's all new to a patient. Actually what you +experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections of +real episodes from your past." + +Zarwell's expression became wary. He watched Bergstrom closely. After a +minute, however, he seemed satisfied, and he let himself settle back +against the cushion of his chair. "I remember nothing of what I saw," he +observed. + +"That's why you're here, you know," Bergstrom answered. "To help you +remember." + +"But everything under the drug is so ..." + +"Haphazard? That's true. The recall episodes are always purely random, +with no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them +in proper order later. Or some particular scene may trigger a complete +memory return. + +"It is my considered opinion," Bergstrom went on, "that your lost memory +will turn out to be no ordinary amnesia. I believe we will find that +your mind has been tampered with." + +"Nothing I've seen under the drug fits into the past I do remember." + +"That's what makes me so certain," Bergstrom said confidently. "You +don't remember what we have shown to be true. Conversely then, what you +think you remember must be false. It must have been implanted there. But +we can go into that later. For today I think we have done enough. This +episode was quite prolonged." + +"I won't have any time off again until next week end," Zarwell reminded +him. + +"That's right." Bergstrom thought for a moment. "We shouldn't let this +hang too long. Could you come here after work tomorrow?" + +"I suppose I could." + +"Fine," Bergstrom said with satisfaction. "I'll admit I'm considerably +more than casually interested in your case by this time." + + +A work truck picked Zarwell up the next morning and he rode with a tech +crew to the edge of the reclam area. Beside the belt bringing ocean muck +from the converter plant at the seashore his bulldozer was waiting. + +He took his place behind the drive wheel and began working dirt down +between windbreakers anchored in the rock. Along a makeshift road into +the badlands trucks brought crushed lime and phosphorus to supplement +the ocean sediment. The progress of life from the sea to the land was a +mechanical process of this growing world. + +Nearly two hundred years ago, when Earth established a colony on St. +Martin's, the land surface of the planet had been barren. Only its seas +thrived with animal and vegetable life. The necessary machinery and +technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle began to +fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell arrived, six months before, +the vitalized area already extended three hundred miles along the coast, +and sixty miles inland. And every day the progress continued. A large +percentage of the energy and resources of the world were devoted to that +essential expansion. + +The reclam crews filled and sodded the sterile rock, planted binding +grasses, grain and trees, and diverted rivers to keep it fertile. When +there were no rivers to divert they blasted out springs and lakes in the +foothills to make their own. Biologists developed the necessary germ and +insect life from what they found in the sea. Where that failed, they +imported microorganisms from Earth. + +Three rubber-tracked crawlers picked their way down from the mountains +until they joined the road passing the belt. They were loaded with ore +that would be smelted into metal for depleted Earth, or for other +colonies short of minerals. It was St. Martin's only export thus far. + +Zarwell pulled his sun helmet lower, to better guard his hot, dry +features. The wind blew continuously on St. Martin's, but it furnished +small relief from the heat. After its three-thousand-mile journey across +scorched sterile rock, it sucked the moisture from a man's body, +bringing a membrane-shrinking dryness to the nostrils as it was breathed +in. With it came also the cloying taste of limestone in a worker's +mouth. + +Zarwell gazed idly about at the other laborers. Fully three-quarters of +them were beri-rabza ridden. A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been +found; the men's faces and hands were scabbed and red. The colony had +grown to near self-sufficiency, would soon have a moderate prosperity, +yet they still lacked adequate medical and research facilities. + +Not all the world's citizens were content. + +Bergstrom was waiting in his office when Zarwell arrived that evening. + + +He was lying motionless on a hard cot, with his eyes closed, yet with +his every sense sharply quickened. Tentatively he tightened small +muscles in his arms and legs. Across his wrists and thighs he felt +straps binding him to the cot. + +"So that's our big, bad man," a coarse voice above him observed +caustically. "He doesn't look so tough now, does he?" + +"It might have been better to kill him right away," a second, less +confident voice said. "It's supposed to be impossible to hold him." + +"Don't be stupid. We just do what we're told. We'll hold him." + +"What do you think they'll do with him?" + +"Execute him, I suppose," the harsh voice said matter-of-factly. +"They're probably just curious to see what he looks like first. They'll +be disappointed." + +Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings. + +It was a mistake. "He's out of it," the first speaker said, and Zarwell +allowed his eyes to open fully. + +The voice, he saw, belonged to the big man who had bruised him against +the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly he wondered how he knew now +that it had been a spaceport. + +His captor's broad face jeered down at Zarwell. "Have a good sleep?" he +asked with mock solicitude. Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge that he +heard. + +The big man turned. "You can tell the Chief he's awake," he said. +Zarwell followed his gaze to where a younger man, with a blond lock of +hair on his forehead, stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out, +while the other pulled a chair up to the side of Zarwell's cot. + +While their attention was away from him Zarwell had unobtrusively +loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man +drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and +compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited. + +The big man belched. "You're supposed to be great stuff in a situation +like this," he said, his smoke-tan face splitting in a grin that +revealed large square teeth. "How about giving me a sample?" + +"You're a yellow-livered bastard," Zarwell told him. + +The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over +the cot--and Zarwell's left hand shot up and locked about his throat, +joined almost immediately by the right. + +The man's mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself +frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that +failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his +fist at Zarwell's head. + +Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it +there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the +body slide to the floor. + +The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort. + + +The analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. "The episodes +are beginning to tie together," he said, with an attempt at +nonchalance. "The next couple should do it." + +Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete +return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he +returned his attention to his more immediate problem. + +Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth +just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in +the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it. + +Bergstrom had his bad moment. "You're not going to ..." he began at the +sight of the gun. He tried again. "You must be joking." + +"I have very little sense of humor," Zarwell corrected him. + +"You'd be foolish!" + +Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet +surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had +thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some +prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger. + +"Why would I be foolish?" he asked. "Your Meninger oath of inviolable +confidence?" + +Bergstrom shook his head. "I know it's been broken before. But you need +me. You're not through, you know. If you killed me you'd still have to +trust some other analyst." + +"Is that the best you can do?" + +"No." Bergstrom was angry now. "But use that logical mind you're +supposed to have! Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you +are. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin's makes little +difference. If I was going to turn you in to the police, I'd have done +it before this." + +Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. "Why +didn't you turn me in?" he asked. + +"Because you're no mad-dog killer!" Now that the crisis seemed to be +past, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax. +"You're still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in +those comanalyses than you did. I even know who you are!" + +Zarwell's eyebrows raised. + +"Who am I?" he asked, very interested now. Without attention he put his +pistol away in a trouser pocket. + +Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. "Your name makes +little difference. You've used many. But you are an idealist. Your +killings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. By +now you're almost a legend among the human worlds. I'd like to talk more +with you on that later." + +While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. "One more +scene might do it," he said. "Should we try again--if you trust me, that +is?" + +Zarwell made his decision quickly. "Go ahead," he answered. + + +All Zarwell's attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down the +escalator, but he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his +hand. He spied no suspicious loungers. + +Behind the escalator he groped along the floor beneath the lockers until +he found his key. The briefcase was under his arm a minute later. + +In the basement lave he put a coin in the pay slot of a private +compartment and went in. + +As he zipped open the briefcase he surveyed his features in the mirror. +A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically. One +cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysis +was longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least every +twenty hours. + +Fortunately his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise +now. + +He adjusted the ring setting on the pistol-shaped instrument that he +took from his case, and carefully rayed several small areas of his face, +loosening muscles that had been tight too long. He sighed gratefully +when he finished, massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerable +pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changes +that had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged the +gun for a small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket, and a +single-edged razor blade. + +Removing his fiber-cloth jacket he slashed it into strips with the razor +blade and flushed it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his +blouse rolled up he had the appearance of a typical workman as he +strolled from the compartment. + +Back at the locker he replaced the briefcase and, with a wad of gum, +glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame. + +One step more. Taking the syringe from his pocket, he plunged the needle +into his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waste chute. He took +three more steps and paused uncertainly. + +When he looked about him it was with the expression of a man waking from +a vivid dream. + + +"Quite ingenious," Graves murmured admiringly. "You had your mind +already preconditioned for the shot. But why would you deliberately give +yourself amnesia?" + +"What better disguise than to believe the part you're playing?" + +"A good man must have done that job on your mind," Bergstrom commented. +"I'd have hesitated to try it myself. It must have taken a lot of trust +on your part." + +"Trust and money," Zarwell said drily. + +"Your memory's back then?" + +Zarwell nodded. + +"I'm glad to hear that," Bergstrom assured him. "Now that you're well +again I'd like to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson. This +world ..." + +Zarwell stopped him with an upraised hand. "Good God, man, can't you see +the reason for all this? I'm tired. I'm trying to quit." + +"Quit?" Bergstrom did not quite follow him. + +"It started on my home colony," Zarwell explained listlessly. "A gang of +hoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to get +them out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Several +months later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of us +to give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditions +there were rotten. We went with him. Again we were successful. It seems +I have a kind of genius for that sort of thing." + +He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. "I learned +then the truth of Russell's saying: 'When the oppressed win their +freedom they are as oppressive as their former masters.' When they went +bad, I opposed them. This time I failed. But I escaped again. I have +quite a talent for that also. + +"I'm not a professional do-gooder." Zarwell's tone appealed to Bergstrom +for understanding. "I have only a normal man's indignation at injustice. +And now I've done my share. Yet, wherever I go, the word eventually gets +out, and I'm right back in a fight again. It's like the proverbial +monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it." + +He rose. "That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me out +of it. I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time I'm not going +to be drawn back in! You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own +revolting. I'm through!" + +Bergstrom did not argue as he left. + + +Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day--a legal holiday +on St. Martin's. At a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered in the +shadow of an adjacent building watching workmen drilling an excavation +for a new structure. + +When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he was +not surprised. He waited for the other to speak. + +"I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes," the stranger +said. + +Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium +tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond the +age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. "You're Johnson?" he +asked. + +The man nodded. + +Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would +not come. "We have nothing to talk about," was the best he could manage. + +"Then will you just listen? After, I'll leave--if you tell me to." + +Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least +to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb wastebox with a flat +top. "Should we sit?" + +Johnson smiled agreeably and they walked over to the box and sat down. + +"When this colony was first founded," Johnson began without preamble, +"the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Their +successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then +things changed. We haven't had an election now in the last twenty-three +years. St. Martin's is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving +the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day. They +are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They ..." + +Zarwell found himself not listening as Johnson's voice went on. The +story was always the same. But why did they always try to drag him into +their troubles? + +Why hadn't he chosen some other world on which to hide? + +The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. +Martin's? Was it only a coincidence? Or had he, subconsciously at least, +picked this particular world? He had always considered himself the +unwilling subject of glib persuaders ... but mightn't some inner +compulsion of his own have put the monkey on his back? + +"... and we need your help." Johnson had finished his speech. + +Zarwell gazed up at the bright sky. He pulled in a long breath, and let +it out in a sigh. + +"What are your plans so far?" he asked wearily. + + + --CHARLES V. DE VET + + +[Illustration] + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Monkey On His Back, by Charles V. 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