Part 3 (2/2)

”We're not immortal, you see. When our creators die their imaginations die with them. We too die. It follows. But for some time I've had an idea.”

”Out,” I said again. ”Get the h.e.l.l out of here!”

”You're going to die tomorrow, Mr. Anders, in that new flying saucer.

And I must die with you. Except that I've had this idea.”

There are times when you look yourself in the eye and don't like what you see. Or maybe what you see scares the living h.e.l.l out of you.

When those times come along some little something inside tells you you'd better watch out. Then the doubts creep in. After that the melancholy. And from that instant on you aren't very sane anymore.

”_Out!_” I yelled. ”Out, _out_, OUT! Get the h.e.l.l out!”

”One moment, Mr. Anders. Now as to this idea of mine. There's this woman--this Margie Hayman. This woman you call the Doll.”

That one jerked me around.

”Exactly. Now listen very carefully. You aren't entirely you anymore, Mr. Anders. I mean, you aren't the complete _whole_ individual you as you once were. You love this woman. Something inside you has gone out and is now a part of her.”

”Therefore, if you will just discard the thought of her sometime between now and when you take that s.h.i.+p up I can attach myself to her sentient being, don't you see, and thereby exist--at least partly--even though you yourself are dead.”

I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet. I stared at the entire black repulsive undulating ma.s.s before me. I took a step toward it.

”It isn't much to ask, Mr. Anders. You've quarrelled with her. You want no more of her. You've practically told her that. All I ask is that you finish the job--forget her. Discard her--throw her into the mental junk pile of Abandonment.”

I didn't take any more steps. Something inside me was screaming, was ripping at my guts, was roaring with all the cacaphony of all the giant discords of all eternity. Something inside my brain was sucking all my strength in one tremendous, surging power-dive of wish fulfillment. I was willing the black mucous ma.s.s of him out of my consciousness.

He was no longer there. The only thing to prove he'd ever been there at all was a very-old, very-rusty penknife over on the table in front of the davenport--the knife with my name carved on the bone handle.

After that I went unsteadily to the dresser in the living room. I got the Doll's picture down off the dresser. I undressed. I took the picture to bed with me. The lights burned in my bedroom the entire night.

Lieutenant Colonel Melrose looked weatherbeaten. His graying hair was pulled here and there like a rag mop that's dried dirty--stiff. He had a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. He grinned nervously when he saw me, b.u.t.ted the cigarette, said in a thin voice, ”This is it, Anders. s.h.i.+p goes up in twenty minutes.”

”I know,” I said.

He poked another cigarette at his lips. He said, ”What?” in a startled tone.

”Nothing,” I said. ”All right, I'll get ready.”

He lit the cigarette, took a puff that made the smoke do a frenetic dance around his nostrils. He jabbed it at an ashtray, bobbed his head in a convulsive movement, said, ”Righto!”

They strapped me in. Pop came to the open hatch. He stuck his head in, grinned, said, ”Hi, guy,” softly. There was something in his eyes.

The Doll had told him how I hate sour notes.

”How's the Doll, Pop?” I forced myself to say it.

”Swell, Ed. Just got a call from her. On her way out here to see you take off. Looks like she won't make it now though.”

I didn't say anything. His eyes went down to the wallet I had propped up on my knees. The wallet was open, celluloid window showing. Inside the window was the Doll's picture.

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