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diff --git a/26569.txt b/26569.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73a3c4d --- /dev/null +++ b/26569.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1045 @@ +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: 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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