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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: 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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