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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8e129e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51688 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51688) diff --git a/old/51688-8.txt b/old/51688-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 74c605c..0000000 --- a/old/51688-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1247 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Air of Castor Oil, by Jim Harmon - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Air of Castor Oil - -Author: Jim Harmon - -Release Date: April 7, 2016 [EBook #51688] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL - - BY JIM HARMON - - Illustrated by WALKER - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Magazine August 1961. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - Let the dead past bury its dead? - Not while I am alive, it won't! - - -It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have -been more safe. In the window of the radio store a color television -set was enjoying a quiz by itself and creased in my pocket was the -newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the -blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed -hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own -time. Anybody could see I was safe, and I could risk doing what I ached -to do. - -I turned the corner. - -The breaks were against me from the start. It didn't come as any -surprise. I could never get away with it. I knew that all along. - -There was a Packard parked just beyond the fire plug. - -The metal and glass fronts of the buildings didn't show back here, only -seasoned brick glued with powdering chalk. The line of the block seemed -to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the -crumbling stone. - -A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, -carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. - -I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. - -My footsteps carried me on down the block. - -A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. -Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified -it. A Henry J. - -Still, I wasn't worried. It was actually too early in the day. It -wasn't as if it were evening or anything like that. - -The little store was right where I left it, rotting quietly to itself. -The Back Number Store, the faded circus poster proclaimed in red and -gold, or now, pink and lemon. In the window, in cellophane envelopes, -were the first issue of _Life_, a recent issue of _Modern Man_ with -a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of _Buck Rogers and the -Silver Cities of Venus_, and a brand-new, sun-bleached copy of _Doctor -Zhivago_. - -There was a little car at the curb. This time I recognized that it -wasn't an import, just a Crosley. - -I went in, the brass handle making me conscious of the sweat on my palm. - - * * * * * - -The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously -reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the -hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He -grinned, toothless. - -"Came back for more of the stuff, did you?" - -He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be -making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?) - -"Yes," I laughed, not very true. - -"I know what a craving can be. I shouldn't smoke, but I do. I've tried -to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long -ones, short ones, smoked ones, ones unlit. I feel like I could smoke -one in each hand. It like that with you?" - -"Not that bad. To me it's just--" - -"Don't tell me reading isn't a craving with some of you fellows. I've -seen guys come in here, hardly two threads stuck together on them, and -grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts -rolling off the end of their nose. I've hardly got the heart to throw -'em out." - -Horror magazines. Ones with lovely girls about to have their flesh -shredded by toothy vampires. Yes, they were a part of it. Not a big -part, but a part. - -"That's not what I want to see. I want--" - -The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." - -I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks -upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. - -"Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the -ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, -check 'em at the desk when you go." - -I ran my hand down a stack. _Wings_, _Daredevil Aces_, _G-8 and his -Battle Aces_, _The Lone Eagle_, all of them. - -The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and -snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of _Sky Fighters_ with a girl in -a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth. - -"This one, this one," he said. "This must be a good one. I bet she -gets shoved right into that propeller there. I bet she gets chopped to -pieces. Pieces." - -"I'll take it." - -Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me. - -I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow -run of the drop of sweat down my nose. - -My sickness was terrible. It is as bad to be nostalgic for things -you have never known as for an orphan who has never had a home to be -homesick. - - * * * * * - -Living in the past, that was always me. I never watched anything on TV -made later than 1935. I was in love with Garbo, Ginger Rogers, Dolores -del Rio. My favorite stars were Richard Dix, Chester Morris and Richard -Arlen. - -The music I listened to was Gershwin and Arlen and Chicago jazz. - -And my reading was the pulp literature harking back to the First World -War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. - -You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. -But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was -plainly ridiculous. - -I was there. - -I was in the saddle of the cockpit, feeling on my face the bite of the -slipstream--no, that was a later term--the prop-wash?--no, that was -still later--the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting -to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my -Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw -outfitted with iron edges to deflect bullets that did not pass to the -left and right. And back through the aerial maps in the cockpit pocket -at my knee. - -Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect -synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the -dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be -chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That -may be just what I do too if I don't watch it. - -You ain't any Boelcke, mister, but this is from the Fifth for Squadron -70. - -Missed! - -Hard on that rudder! God, look at the snake in that fabric. At least it -was a lie about them using incendiaries. - -One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your -tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? _Right here._ - -Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he -claims. - -So long. I'm waving, see. - -He's pulling her up. No tail and he's pulling her up. He's a good man. -Come on. A little more. A little more and you can deadstick her. Come -on, buddy. You're doing it. You're pulling her up-- - -But not enough. - -God, what a mess. - -I'm sick. - -That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until -oh-six-hundred.... - - * * * * * - -No, the air wasn't one of castor oil but the pleasant smell of aged -paper and printer's ink. - -I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting -different lately. It was becoming dangerous. - -I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. - -Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first -time. It was a beaded curtain of many different colors. Theda Bara -might have worn it for a skirt. Behind the curtain was a television -set. It was a comforting anti-anachronism here. - -The six- or eight-inch picture was on a very flat tube, a more -pronounced Predicta. The size and the flatness didn't seem to go -together. Then I saw that the top part of the set was a mirror -reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual -picture tube lay flat. - -There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney, -Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde -from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The -flickering action caught my unblinking eyes. - -Tom Santschi is sneaking across the top of the rocks, a knife in his -dirty half-breed hand. Raymond Hatton makes a try for his old boss, but -Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with -the posse. Tom makes a try with the knife, the girl screams, and Chaney -turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way -through. - -The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the -gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast--is -that the dawn of Bessie Love? Chaney stands up in the rocks. Farnum -aims his six-shooter. No, no, say the girl's lips. "No!" "No!" says -the subtitle. Farnum fires. Swimming in blood, Chaney smiles sadly and -falls. - -I had seen movies like that before. - -When I was a kid, I had seen _Flicker Flashbacks_ between chapters of -Flash Gordon and Johnny Mack Brown westerns. I looked at old movies and -heard the oily voice making fun of them. But hadn't I also seen these -pictures with the sound of piano playing and low conversation? - -I had seen these pictures before the war. - -The war had made a lot of difference in my life. - -Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and -prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so -high that people said Wilson should do something about it. - -Tom Mix had gone off the air and he and his Cowboy Commandos beat the -Japs in comic books. Only, hadn't he sold Liberty Bonds with Helen -Morgan? - -And at school I had bought -Defense--War--Savings--Security--Liberty--Freedom--I had bought stamps -at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had -taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get -enough coffee.... - -"Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it -out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A -good boy. His name's in the fishbowl." - -I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. -Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of _Doctor Zhivago_ had been -replaced by _Gone With the Wind_. - - * * * * * - -The street was full of wooden-paneled station wagons, blunt little -roadsters with canvas tops, swept-back, tailless sedans. Only one dark, -tailed, over-thyroided car moved through the traffic. It had a light on -the roof. - -I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric -postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air -battles checkering the street behind me. - -I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the -back seat. - -"Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind -it. - -Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed -me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" - -"This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly. - -"Park Police." - -I sat there while we drove on for a few minutes. - -"D. & D.," the second man said to the driver. - -"Right into our laps." - -The second officer leaned forward and clicked something. "I'll get the -City boys." - -"No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." - -Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?" - -I was beginning to attach myself to my surroundings. The street was -full of traffic. My kind of traffic. Cars that were too big or too -small. - -"Look, officers, I'm not drunk or disorderly. I thought this was a cab. -I just wanted to get away from back then--I mean back _there_." - -The two policemen exchanged glances. - -"What were you running from?" the driver asked. - -How could I tell him that? - -Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" - -"I didn't _do_ anything!" - -The car was turning, turning into shadows, stopping. We were in an -alley. Soggy newspapers, dead fish, prowling cats, a broken die, half -a dice, looking big in the frame of my thick, probably bullet-proof -window. - -The men opened their doors and then mine. - -"Out." - - * * * * * - -I climbed out and stood by the car, blinking. - -"You were causing some kind of trouble in that neighborhood back -there," the driver announced. - -"Really, officers--" - -"What's your name?" - -"Hilliard Turner. There--" - -"We don't want you going back there again, Turner, causing trouble. -Understand?" - -"Officer, I only bought some books--I mean magazines." - -"These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the -back seat. "Look here, Sarge. They look pretty dirty." - -Sarge took up the _Sky Fighters_ with the girl in the elastic flying -suit. "Filth," he said. - -"You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." - -"Those aren't pornography and they are my property!" - -I reached for them and Carl pulled them back, grinning. "You don't want -to read these. They aren't good for you. We're confiscating them." - -"Look here, I'm a citizen! You can't--" - -Carl shoved me back a little. "Can't we?" - -Sarge stepped in front of me, his face in deadly earnest. "How about -it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" - -He grabbed my wrist and started rolling up my sleeve to look for needle -marks. I twisted away from him. - -"Resisting an officer," Sarge said almost sadly. - -At that, Carl loped up beside him. - -The two of them started to beat me. - -They hit clean, in the belly and guts, but not in the groin. They gave -me clean white flashes of pain, instead of angry, red-streaked ones. -I didn't fight back, not against the two of them. I knew that much. I -didn't even try to block their blows. I stood with my arms at my sides, -leaning back against the car, and hearing myself grunt at each blow. - -They stood away from me and let me fold helplessly to the greasy brick. - -"Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's -voice said above me. - -I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across -a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards. - -"Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. - -I never heard the squad car drive away. - - * * * * * - -Home. I lighted the living room from the door, looked around for -intruders for the first time I could remember, and went inside. - -I threw myself on the couch and rubbed my stomach. I wasn't hurt badly. -My middle was going to be sorer in the morning than it was now. - -Lighting up a cigarette, I watched the shapes of smoke and tried to -think. - -I looked at it objectively, forward and back. - -The solution was obvious. - -First of all, I positively could _not_ have been an aviator in World -War One. I was in my mid-twenties; anybody could tell that by looking -at me. The time was the late 'Fifties; anybody could tell that from -the blank-faced Motorola in the corner, the new Edsels on the street. -Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old -magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of _Dawn Patrol_ on television -were mere hallucinations. - -Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, -hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying -$3.80 to get into the first run of _Gone with the Wind_. - -Only ... I probably had seen GWTW. Hadn't I gone with my mother to a -matinee? Didn't she pay 90¢ for me? So how could I remember taking a -girl, brunette, red sweater, Cathy, and paying $3.80 each? I couldn't. -Different runs. That was it. The thing had been around half a dozen -times. But would it have been $3.80 no more than ten years ago? - -I struck up a new cigarette. - -The thing I must remember, I told myself, was that my recollections -were false and unreliable. It would do me no good to keep following -these false memories in a closed curve. - -I touched my navel area and flinched. The beating, I was confident, had -been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been -true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. -They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, -punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present. - -Oh, God. - -I rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery. - -That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, -that was one thing. Believing that you are actively caught up in a -mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, -was something else. - -I needed help. - -Or if there was no help for me, it was my duty to have myself placed -where I couldn't harm other consumers. - -If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had -taught me, it was social responsibility. - -I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected -one at random, for no particular reason. - -Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. - -I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. - - * * * * * - -The doctor's office was as green as the inside of a mentholated -cigarette commercial. - -The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint -inside my mouth. - -After several long, peaceful minutes the inner door opened. - -"Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you -in Dr. Rickenbacker's files," the man said. - -I got to my feet. "Then I'll come back." - -He took my arm. "No, no, I can fit you in." - -"I didn't have an appointment. I just came." - -"I understand." - -"Maybe I had better go." - -"I won't hear of it." - -I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did -try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. - -I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently -familiar. - -"I'm Dr. Sergeant," he said. "I'm taking care of Dr. Rickenbacker's -practice for him while he is on vacation." - -I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my -illness. - -He led me inside and closed the door. - -The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go _snick-bonk_; it -made a noise like _click-clack-clunk_. - -"Now," he said, "would you like to lie down on the couch and tell -me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want -to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit -there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a -psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst." - -I took possession of the chair and Sergeant faced me across his desk. - -"I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." - -"I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" - -"Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, -Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." - -"You should _read_ them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. -Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend -the mysteries of Mickey Spillane." - -I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time -travel...." - -"Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" - -"No." - -"Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." - -"I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." - -"The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about -the past. Think of the future." - -"How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. - - * * * * * - -Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned -time travel...." - -"But not to the past or to the future," I said. - -"But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go -into the past by visiting a book store where they sold old magazines. -You told me how the intrusion of the past got worse with every visit." - -I blinked. "I did? I did?" - -"Of course." - -I stood up. "I did not!" - -"Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you -actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you -_will_ yourself to be calm...." - -"I _know_ I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm -starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You--you're trying to do -something to me. You're all in it together." - -Sergeant shook his head sadly. - -I realized how it all sounded. - -"Good--GOD!" I moaned. - -I put my hands to my face and I felt the vein over my left eye -swelling, pulsing. - -Through the bars of my fingers I saw Sergeant motion me down with one -eloquent hand. I took my hands away--I didn't like looking through -bars--and sat down. - -"Now," Sergeant said, steepling his fingers, "I know of a completely -nice place in the country. Of course, if you respond properly...." - -Those hands of his. - -There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the -hands of a corpse, or a doll.... - -I lurched across the desk and grabbed his wrist. - -"_Please_, Mr. Turner! violence will--" - -My fingers clawed at the backs of his hands and my nails dragged off -ugly strips of some theatrical stuff--collodion, I think--that had -covered the scrapes and bruises he had taken hammering away at me and -my belt buckle. - -Sergeant. - -Sarge. - -I let go of him and stood away. - -For the first time, Sergeant smiled. - -I backed to the door and turned the knob behind my back. It wouldn't -open. - -I turned around and rattled it, pulled on it, braced my foot against -the wall and tugged. - -"Locked," Sergeant supplied. - -He was coming toward me, I could tell. I wheeled and faced him. He had -a hypodermic needle. It was the smallest one I had ever seen and it had -an iridescence or luminosity about it, a gleaming silver dart. - -I closed with him. - - * * * * * - -By the way he moved, I knew he was used to physical combat, but you -can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been -younger. (Hadn't I?) - -I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on -me or drop it to have his hands free. I stiff-handed him in the solar -plexus and crossed my fist into the hollow of the apex arch of his -jawbone. He dropped. - -I gave him a kick at the base of his spine. He grunted and lay still. - -There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?" - -I searched through his pockets. He didn't have any keys. He didn't -have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a -ballpoint pen. - -The receptionist had moved away from the door and was talking to -somebody, in person or on the phone or intercom. - -There wasn't any back door. - -I went to the window. The city stretched out in an impressive panorama. -On the street below, traffic crawled. There was a ledge. Quite a wide, -old-fashioned ornamental ledge. - -The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The -fourteenth, I remembered. - -I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas -Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. -I had a good reason. - -I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze. - -The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted -me off the ledge, but the cornice was so wide I could keep out of the -wind if I kept myself flat against the side of the building. - -The next window was about twenty feet away. I had covered half that -distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, -indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window -where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a -let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here." - -I went the other way. - -The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny -silver needle in readiness. - -I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle -with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I -smiled at that idea. - -I slipped. - -I was falling down the fourteen stories without even a moment of -windmilling for balance. I was just gone. - -Lines were converging, and I was converging on the lines. - -You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. -Good-by, Turner. - -Death. - -A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. - -The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. - -I hit. - -My kneecap hurt like hell. I had scraped it badly. - -Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line -drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. - -Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant. - -I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window -from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or -less, but _Down_ was broken and splattered over me. - -I stood up, moving forward a step. - -It brought me halfway through the screen, halfway through the wall at -the base of the building. The other side of the screen. The solid side, -I found, stepping through, bracing a hand on the image. - -Looking up fourteen floors, I saw an unbroken line of peacefully closed -panes. - - * * * * * - -I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint -feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really -moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught -inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either -cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and -that would contribute a sensation of change, of movement. They had it -all worked out. - -My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get -some circulation in my brain. - -I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. - -I ran. - -Get help? - -Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his -way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, -ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not -a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus -stop. - -"I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." - -"Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" -he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself." - -"I'm not sure whether--" - -"This heat is murder, isn't it? Especially here in these concrete -canyons. Sometimes I wish I was back in Springfield. Cool, shaded -streets...." - -"Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to -drive me insane! Two men, a girl--" - -"For my money, Marilyn Monroe is _the_ doll of the world. I just don't -understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by -satirizing girls without any...." - -He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he -would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key -words I had used. - -I should have known better, but I wanted to touch him in some way, make -him know I was alive. I grabbed him and shook him by the shoulders, and -there was a whoosh and as I might have expected he collapsed like the -insubstantiality he was. - -There was a stick figure of a man left before me, an economical -skeleton supporting the shell of a human being and two-thirds of a -two-trouser suit. - -Hide. - -I went into the first shop I came to--Milady's Personals. - -Appropriately, it was a false front. - -A neutral-colored gray surface, too smooth for concrete, stretched away -into some shadows. The area was littered with trash. - -Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human -being--obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of -the things like the one I had deflated. - -And a moldering pile of letters and papers. - -Something caught my eye and I kicked through them. Yes, the letter I -had written to my brother in Sioux Falls, unopened. _And which he had -answered._ - -My work. - -The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There -was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the -parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the -American Tradition. - -All of it lying here to rot. - -Something made me look away from that terrible trash. - -Sergeant stood in the entrance of Milady's, something bright in his -hand. - -Something happened. - -I had been wrong. - -The shining instrument had not been a hypodermic needle. - - * * * * * - -"You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus. - -"You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. - -"Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing -we can never judge. I think you could have taken the shock right from -the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to -integrate properly." - -"Conditioning? Conditioning?" It came out of me, vortexing up, outside -of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" - -"We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said -reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. -Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't -stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same -damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper -conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new -memories. You remember only those things out of the past you _have_ to, -to retain your identity." - -"Identity," I repeated. "I have no identity. My identity is a dream. I -have two identities--one of them years beyond the other." - -Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the -face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The -Rejuvenation Service couldn't help it if you were too old for a _beta_. -You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used -the very oldest sets and mock-ups we had for _betas_, but you, you had -to keep wandering onto _alpha_ territory, while they were striking -sets, even. _Beta_ or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now." - -I heard the voice and I heard another voice, and it said "What could -you expect of a _beta_?" and they were only some of the voices I was -hearing, and I wondered what you could expect from a _beta_, and I -didn't know, or think that I would ever know. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Air of Castor Oil, by Jim Harmon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL *** - -***** This file should be named 51688-8.txt or 51688-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/8/51688/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Air of Castor Oil - -Author: Jim Harmon - -Release Date: April 7, 2016 [EBook #51688] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="401" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL</h1> - -<p>BY JIM HARMON</p> - -<p>Illustrated by WALKER</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Magazine August 1961.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3"><i>Let the dead past bury its dead?<br /> -Not while I am alive, it won't!</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have -been more safe. In the window of the radio store a color television -set was enjoying a quiz by itself and creased in my pocket was the -newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the -blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed -hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own -time. Anybody could see I was safe, and I could risk doing what I ached -to do.</p> - -<p>I turned the corner.</p> - -<p>The breaks were against me from the start. It didn't come as any -surprise. I could never get away with it. I knew that all along.</p> - -<p>There was a Packard parked just beyond the fire plug.</p> - -<p>The metal and glass fronts of the buildings didn't show back here, only -seasoned brick glued with powdering chalk. The line of the block seemed -to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the -crumbling stone.</p> - -<p>A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, -carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry.</p> - -<p>I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way.</p> - -<p>My footsteps carried me on down the block.</p> - -<p>A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. -Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified -it. A Henry J.</p> - -<p>Still, I wasn't worried. It was actually too early in the day. It -wasn't as if it were evening or anything like that.</p> - -<p>The little store was right where I left it, rotting quietly to itself. -The Back Number Store, the faded circus poster proclaimed in red and -gold, or now, pink and lemon. In the window, in cellophane envelopes, -were the first issue of <i>Life</i>, a recent issue of <i>Modern Man</i> with -a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of <i>Buck Rogers and the -Silver Cities of Venus</i>, and a brand-new, sun-bleached copy of <i>Doctor -Zhivago</i>.</p> - -<p>There was a little car at the curb. This time I recognized that it -wasn't an import, just a Crosley.</p> - -<p>I went in, the brass handle making me conscious of the sweat on my palm.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously -reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the -hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He -grinned, toothless.</p> - -<p>"Came back for more of the stuff, did you?"</p> - -<p>He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be -making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?)</p> - -<p>"Yes," I laughed, not very true.</p> - -<p>"I know what a craving can be. I shouldn't smoke, but I do. I've tried -to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long -ones, short ones, smoked ones, ones unlit. I feel like I could smoke -one in each hand. It like that with you?"</p> - -<p>"Not that bad. To me it's just—"</p> - -<p>"Don't tell me reading isn't a craving with some of you fellows. I've -seen guys come in here, hardly two threads stuck together on them, and -grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts -rolling off the end of their nose. I've hardly got the heart to throw -'em out."</p> - -<p>Horror magazines. Ones with lovely girls about to have their flesh -shredded by toothy vampires. Yes, they were a part of it. Not a big -part, but a part.</p> - -<p>"That's not what I want to see. I want—"</p> - -<p>The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way."</p> - -<p>I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks -upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines.</p> - -<p>"Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the -ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, -check 'em at the desk when you go."</p> - -<p>I ran my hand down a stack. <i>Wings</i>, <i>Daredevil Aces</i>, <i>G-8 and his -Battle Aces</i>, <i>The Lone Eagle</i>, all of them.</p> - -<p>The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and -snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of <i>Sky Fighters</i> with a girl in -a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth.</p> - -<p>"This one, this one," he said. "This must be a good one. I bet she -gets shoved right into that propeller there. I bet she gets chopped to -pieces. Pieces."</p> - -<p>"I'll take it."</p> - -<p>Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me.</p> - -<p>I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow -run of the drop of sweat down my nose.</p> - -<p>My sickness was terrible. It is as bad to be nostalgic for things -you have never known as for an orphan who has never had a home to be -homesick.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Living in the past, that was always me. I never watched anything on TV -made later than 1935. I was in love with Garbo, Ginger Rogers, Dolores -del Rio. My favorite stars were Richard Dix, Chester Morris and Richard -Arlen.</p> - -<p>The music I listened to was Gershwin and Arlen and Chicago jazz.</p> - -<p>And my reading was the pulp literature harking back to the First World -War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think.</p> - -<p>You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. -But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was -plainly ridiculous.</p> - -<p>I was there.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="600" height="236" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>I was in the saddle of the cockpit, feeling on my face the bite of the -slipstream—no, that was a later term—the prop-wash?—no, that was -still later—the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting -to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my -Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw -outfitted with iron edges to deflect bullets that did not pass to the -left and right. And back through the aerial maps in the cockpit pocket -at my knee.</p> - -<p>Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect -synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the -dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be -chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That -may be just what I do too if I don't watch it.</p> - -<p>You ain't any Boelcke, mister, but this is from the Fifth for Squadron -70.</p> - -<p>Missed!</p> - -<p>Hard on that rudder! God, look at the snake in that fabric. At least it -was a lie about them using incendiaries.</p> - -<p>One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your -tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? <i>Right here.</i></p> - -<p>Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he -claims.</p> - -<p>So long. I'm waving, see.</p> - -<p>He's pulling her up. No tail and he's pulling her up. He's a good man. -Come on. A little more. A little more and you can deadstick her. Come -on, buddy. You're doing it. You're pulling her up—</p> - -<p>But not enough.</p> - -<p>God, what a mess.</p> - -<p>I'm sick.</p> - -<p>That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until -oh-six-hundred....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>No, the air wasn't one of castor oil but the pleasant smell of aged -paper and printer's ink.</p> - -<p>I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting -different lately. It was becoming dangerous.</p> - -<p>I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random.</p> - -<p>Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first -time. It was a beaded curtain of many different colors. Theda Bara -might have worn it for a skirt. Behind the curtain was a television -set. It was a comforting anti-anachronism here.</p> - -<p>The six- or eight-inch picture was on a very flat tube, a more -pronounced Predicta. The size and the flatness didn't seem to go -together. Then I saw that the top part of the set was a mirror -reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual -picture tube lay flat.</p> - -<p>There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney, -Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde -from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The -flickering action caught my unblinking eyes.</p> - -<p>Tom Santschi is sneaking across the top of the rocks, a knife in his -dirty half-breed hand. Raymond Hatton makes a try for his old boss, but -Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with -the posse. Tom makes a try with the knife, the girl screams, and Chaney -turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way -through.</p> - -<p>The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the -gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is -that the dawn of Bessie Love? Chaney stands up in the rocks. Farnum -aims his six-shooter. No, no, say the girl's lips. "No!" "No!" says -the subtitle. Farnum fires. Swimming in blood, Chaney smiles sadly and -falls.</p> - -<p>I had seen movies like that before.</p> - -<p>When I was a kid, I had seen <i>Flicker Flashbacks</i> between chapters of -Flash Gordon and Johnny Mack Brown westerns. I looked at old movies and -heard the oily voice making fun of them. But hadn't I also seen these -pictures with the sound of piano playing and low conversation?</p> - -<p>I had seen these pictures before the war.</p> - -<p>The war had made a lot of difference in my life.</p> - -<p>Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and -prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so -high that people said Wilson should do something about it.</p> - -<p>Tom Mix had gone off the air and he and his Cowboy Commandos beat the -Japs in comic books. Only, hadn't he sold Liberty Bonds with Helen -Morgan?</p> - -<p>And at school I had bought -Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps -at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had -taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get -enough coffee....</p> - -<p>"Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it -out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A -good boy. His name's in the fishbowl."</p> - -<p>I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. -Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of <i>Doctor Zhivago</i> had been -replaced by <i>Gone With the Wind</i>.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The street was full of wooden-paneled station wagons, blunt little -roadsters with canvas tops, swept-back, tailless sedans. Only one dark, -tailed, over-thyroided car moved through the traffic. It had a light on -the roof.</p> - -<p>I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric -postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air -battles checkering the street behind me.</p> - -<p>I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the -back seat.</p> - -<p>"Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind -it.</p> - -<p>Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed -me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?"</p> - -<p>"This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly.</p> - -<p>"Park Police."</p> - -<p>I sat there while we drove on for a few minutes.</p> - -<p>"D. & D.," the second man said to the driver.</p> - -<p>"Right into our laps."</p> - -<p>The second officer leaned forward and clicked something. "I'll get the -City boys."</p> - -<p>"No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work."</p> - -<p>Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?"</p> - -<p>I was beginning to attach myself to my surroundings. The street was -full of traffic. My kind of traffic. Cars that were too big or too -small.</p> - -<p>"Look, officers, I'm not drunk or disorderly. I thought this was a cab. -I just wanted to get away from back then—I mean back <i>there</i>."</p> - -<p>The two policemen exchanged glances.</p> - -<p>"What were you running from?" the driver asked.</p> - -<p>How could I tell him that?</p> - -<p>Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't <i>do</i> anything!"</p> - -<p>The car was turning, turning into shadows, stopping. We were in an -alley. Soggy newspapers, dead fish, prowling cats, a broken die, half -a dice, looking big in the frame of my thick, probably bullet-proof -window.</p> - -<p>The men opened their doors and then mine.</p> - -<p>"Out."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I climbed out and stood by the car, blinking.</p> - -<p>"You were causing some kind of trouble in that neighborhood back -there," the driver announced.</p> - -<p>"Really, officers—"</p> - -<p>"What's your name?"</p> - -<p>"Hilliard Turner. There—"</p> - -<p>"We don't want you going back there again, Turner, causing trouble. -Understand?"</p> - -<p>"Officer, I only bought some books—I mean magazines."</p> - -<p>"These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the -back seat. "Look here, Sarge. They look pretty dirty."</p> - -<p>Sarge took up the <i>Sky Fighters</i> with the girl in the elastic flying -suit. "Filth," he said.</p> - -<p>"You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner."</p> - -<p>"Those aren't pornography and they are my property!"</p> - -<p>I reached for them and Carl pulled them back, grinning. "You don't want -to read these. They aren't good for you. We're confiscating them."</p> - -<p>"Look here, I'm a citizen! You can't—"</p> - -<p>Carl shoved me back a little. "Can't we?"</p> - -<p>Sarge stepped in front of me, his face in deadly earnest. "How about -it, Turner? You a narcotics user?"</p> - -<p>He grabbed my wrist and started rolling up my sleeve to look for needle -marks. I twisted away from him.</p> - -<p>"Resisting an officer," Sarge said almost sadly.</p> - -<p>At that, Carl loped up beside him.</p> - -<p>The two of them started to beat me.</p> - -<p>They hit clean, in the belly and guts, but not in the groin. They gave -me clean white flashes of pain, instead of angry, red-streaked ones. -I didn't fight back, not against the two of them. I knew that much. I -didn't even try to block their blows. I stood with my arms at my sides, -leaning back against the car, and hearing myself grunt at each blow.</p> - -<p>They stood away from me and let me fold helplessly to the greasy brick.</p> - -<p>"Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's -voice said above me.</p> - -<p>I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across -a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me.</p> - -<p>I never heard the squad car drive away.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Home. I lighted the living room from the door, looked around for -intruders for the first time I could remember, and went inside.</p> - -<p>I threw myself on the couch and rubbed my stomach. I wasn't hurt badly. -My middle was going to be sorer in the morning than it was now.</p> - -<p>Lighting up a cigarette, I watched the shapes of smoke and tried to -think.</p> - -<p>I looked at it objectively, forward and back.</p> - -<p>The solution was obvious.</p> - -<p>First of all, I positively could <i>not</i> have been an aviator in World -War One. I was in my mid-twenties; anybody could tell that by looking -at me. The time was the late 'Fifties; anybody could tell that from -the blank-faced Motorola in the corner, the new Edsels on the street. -Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old -magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of <i>Dawn Patrol</i> on television -were mere hallucinations.</p> - -<p>Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, -hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying -$3.80 to get into the first run of <i>Gone with the Wind</i>.</p> - -<p>Only ... I probably had seen GWTW. Hadn't I gone with my mother to a -matinee? Didn't she pay 90¢ for me? So how could I remember taking a -girl, brunette, red sweater, Cathy, and paying $3.80 each? I couldn't. -Different runs. That was it. The thing had been around half a dozen -times. But would it have been $3.80 no more than ten years ago?</p> - -<p>I struck up a new cigarette.</p> - -<p>The thing I must remember, I told myself, was that my recollections -were false and unreliable. It would do me no good to keep following -these false memories in a closed curve.</p> - -<p>I touched my navel area and flinched. The beating, I was confident, had -been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been -true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. -They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, -punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present.</p> - -<p>Oh, God.</p> - -<p>I rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery.</p> - -<p>That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, -that was one thing. Believing that you are actively caught up in a -mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, -was something else.</p> - -<p>I needed help.</p> - -<p>Or if there was no help for me, it was my duty to have myself placed -where I couldn't harm other consumers.</p> - -<p>If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had -taught me, it was social responsibility.</p> - -<p>I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected -one at random, for no particular reason.</p> - -<p>Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker.</p> - -<p>I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The doctor's office was as green as the inside of a mentholated -cigarette commercial.</p> - -<p>The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint -inside my mouth.</p> - -<p>After several long, peaceful minutes the inner door opened.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you -in Dr. Rickenbacker's files," the man said.</p> - -<p>I got to my feet. "Then I'll come back."</p> - -<p>He took my arm. "No, no, I can fit you in."</p> - -<p>"I didn't have an appointment. I just came."</p> - -<p>"I understand."</p> - -<p>"Maybe I had better go."</p> - -<p>"I won't hear of it."</p> - -<p>I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did -try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away.</p> - -<p>I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently -familiar.</p> - -<p>"I'm Dr. Sergeant," he said. "I'm taking care of Dr. Rickenbacker's -practice for him while he is on vacation."</p> - -<p>I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my -illness.</p> - -<p>He led me inside and closed the door.</p> - -<p>The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go <i>snick-bonk</i>; it -made a noise like <i>click-clack-clunk</i>.</p> - -<p>"Now," he said, "would you like to lie down on the couch and tell -me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want -to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit -there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a -psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst."</p> - -<p>I took possession of the chair and Sergeant faced me across his desk.</p> - -<p>"I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel."</p> - -<p>"I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?"</p> - -<p>"Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, -Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley."</p> - -<p>"You should <i>read</i> them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. -Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend -the mysteries of Mickey Spillane."</p> - -<p>I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time -travel...."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real."</p> - -<p>"I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it."</p> - -<p>"The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about -the past. Think of the future."</p> - -<p>"How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned -time travel...."</p> - -<p>"But not to the past or to the future," I said.</p> - -<p>"But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go -into the past by visiting a book store where they sold old magazines. -You told me how the intrusion of the past got worse with every visit."</p> - -<p>I blinked. "I did? I did?"</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>I stood up. "I did not!"</p> - -<p>"Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you -actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you -<i>will</i> yourself to be calm...."</p> - -<p>"I <i>know</i> I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm -starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You—you're trying to do -something to me. You're all in it together."</p> - -<p>Sergeant shook his head sadly.</p> - -<p>I realized how it all sounded.</p> - -<p>"Good—GOD!" I moaned.</p> - -<p>I put my hands to my face and I felt the vein over my left eye -swelling, pulsing.</p> - -<p>Through the bars of my fingers I saw Sergeant motion me down with one -eloquent hand. I took my hands away—I didn't like looking through -bars—and sat down.</p> - -<p>"Now," Sergeant said, steepling his fingers, "I know of a completely -nice place in the country. Of course, if you respond properly...."</p> - -<p>Those hands of his.</p> - -<p>There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the -hands of a corpse, or a doll....</p> - -<p>I lurched across the desk and grabbed his wrist.</p> - -<p>"<i>Please</i>, Mr. Turner! violence will—"</p> - -<p>My fingers clawed at the backs of his hands and my nails dragged off -ugly strips of some theatrical stuff—collodion, I think—that had -covered the scrapes and bruises he had taken hammering away at me and -my belt buckle.</p> - -<p>Sergeant.</p> - -<p>Sarge.</p> - -<p>I let go of him and stood away.</p> - -<p>For the first time, Sergeant smiled.</p> - -<p>I backed to the door and turned the knob behind my back. It wouldn't -open.</p> - -<p>I turned around and rattled it, pulled on it, braced my foot against -the wall and tugged.</p> - -<p>"Locked," Sergeant supplied.</p> - -<p>He was coming toward me, I could tell. I wheeled and faced him. He had -a hypodermic needle. It was the smallest one I had ever seen and it had -an iridescence or luminosity about it, a gleaming silver dart.</p> - -<p>I closed with him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>By the way he moved, I knew he was used to physical combat, but you -can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been -younger. (Hadn't I?)</p> - -<p>I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on -me or drop it to have his hands free. I stiff-handed him in the solar -plexus and crossed my fist into the hollow of the apex arch of his -jawbone. He dropped.</p> - -<p>I gave him a kick at the base of his spine. He grunted and lay still.</p> - -<p>There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?"</p> - -<p>I searched through his pockets. He didn't have any keys. He didn't -have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a -ballpoint pen.</p> - -<p>The receptionist had moved away from the door and was talking to -somebody, in person or on the phone or intercom.</p> - -<p>There wasn't any back door.</p> - -<p>I went to the window. The city stretched out in an impressive panorama. -On the street below, traffic crawled. There was a ledge. Quite a wide, -old-fashioned ornamental ledge.</p> - -<p>The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The -fourteenth, I remembered.</p> - -<p>I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas -Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. -I had a good reason.</p> - -<p>I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze.</p> - -<p>The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted -me off the ledge, but the cornice was so wide I could keep out of the -wind if I kept myself flat against the side of the building.</p> - -<p>The next window was about twenty feet away. I had covered half that -distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, -indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window -where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a -let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here."</p> - -<p>I went the other way.</p> - -<p>The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny -silver needle in readiness.</p> - -<p>I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle -with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I -smiled at that idea.</p> - -<p>I slipped.</p> - -<p>I was falling down the fourteen stories without even a moment of -windmilling for balance. I was just gone.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="352" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Lines were converging, and I was converging on the lines.</p> - -<p>You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. -Good-by, Turner.</p> - -<p>Death.</p> - -<p>A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing.</p> - -<p>The end of everything you ever were or ever could be.</p> - -<p>I hit.</p> - -<p>My kneecap hurt like hell. I had scraped it badly.</p> - -<p>Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line -drawing, crudely done, a cartoon.</p> - -<p>Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.</p> - -<p>I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window -from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or -less, but <i>Down</i> was broken and splattered over me.</p> - -<p>I stood up, moving forward a step.</p> - -<p>It brought me halfway through the screen, halfway through the wall at -the base of the building. The other side of the screen. The solid side, -I found, stepping through, bracing a hand on the image.</p> - -<p>Looking up fourteen floors, I saw an unbroken line of peacefully closed -panes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint -feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really -moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught -inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either -cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and -that would contribute a sensation of change, of movement. They had it -all worked out.</p> - -<p>My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get -some circulation in my brain.</p> - -<p>I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do.</p> - -<p>I ran.</p> - -<p>Get help?</p> - -<p>Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his -way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, -ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not -a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus -stop.</p> - -<p>"I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me."</p> - -<p>"Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" -he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself."</p> - -<p>"I'm not sure whether—"</p> - -<p>"This heat is murder, isn't it? Especially here in these concrete -canyons. Sometimes I wish I was back in Springfield. Cool, shaded -streets...."</p> - -<p>"Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to -drive me insane! Two men, a girl—"</p> - -<p>"For my money, Marilyn Monroe is <i>the</i> doll of the world. I just don't -understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by -satirizing girls without any...."</p> - -<p>He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he -would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key -words I had used.</p> - -<p>I should have known better, but I wanted to touch him in some way, make -him know I was alive. I grabbed him and shook him by the shoulders, and -there was a whoosh and as I might have expected he collapsed like the -insubstantiality he was.</p> - -<p>There was a stick figure of a man left before me, an economical -skeleton supporting the shell of a human being and two-thirds of a -two-trouser suit.</p> - -<p>Hide.</p> - -<p>I went into the first shop I came to—Milady's Personals.</p> - -<p>Appropriately, it was a false front.</p> - -<p>A neutral-colored gray surface, too smooth for concrete, stretched away -into some shadows. The area was littered with trash.</p> - -<p>Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human -being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of -the things like the one I had deflated.</p> - -<p>And a moldering pile of letters and papers.</p> - -<p>Something caught my eye and I kicked through them. Yes, the letter I -had written to my brother in Sioux Falls, unopened. <i>And which he had -answered.</i></p> - -<p>My work.</p> - -<p>The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There -was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the -parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the -American Tradition.</p> - -<p>All of it lying here to rot.</p> - -<p>Something made me look away from that terrible trash.</p> - -<p>Sergeant stood in the entrance of Milady's, something bright in his -hand.</p> - -<p>Something happened.</p> - -<p>I had been wrong.</p> - -<p>The shining instrument had not been a hypodermic needle.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus.</p> - -<p>"You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust.</p> - -<p>"Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing -we can never judge. I think you could have taken the shock right from -the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to -integrate properly."</p> - -<p>"Conditioning? Conditioning?" It came out of me, vortexing up, outside -of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?"</p> - -<p>"We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said -reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. -Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't -stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same -damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper -conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new -memories. You remember only those things out of the past you <i>have</i> to, -to retain your identity."</p> - -<p>"Identity," I repeated. "I have no identity. My identity is a dream. I -have two identities—one of them years beyond the other."</p> - -<p>Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the -face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The -Rejuvenation Service couldn't help it if you were too old for a <i>beta</i>. -You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used -the very oldest sets and mock-ups we had for <i>betas</i>, but you, you had -to keep wandering onto <i>alpha</i> territory, while they were striking -sets, even. <i>Beta</i> or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now."</p> - -<p>I heard the voice and I heard another voice, and it said "What could -you expect of a <i>beta</i>?" and they were only some of the voices I was -hearing, and I wondered what you could expect from a <i>beta</i>, and I -didn't know, or think that I would ever know.</p> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Air of Castor Oil, by Jim Harmon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL *** - -***** This file should be named 51688-h.htm or 51688-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/8/51688/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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