Collected short fiction, p.345
Collected Short Fiction, page 345
By the time William came swaggering back, lighting up his pipe, there was a neat little stack of miraculous money on the table. Mr. Peabody leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. That pulsing ache diminished again, and the roar of power receded.
“Here, William,” he said in a voice of weary triumph. “You said you needed two hundred to settle for your wreck.”
He counted off twenty of the bills, while William stared at him, mouth open and buck teeth gleaming.
“Whatsis, Gov?” he gasped. A note of alarm entered his voice. “Where you been tonight, Gov? Old Berg didn’t leave the safe open?”
“If you want the money, take it,” Mr. Peabody said sharply. “And watch your language, son.”
William picked up the bills. He stared at them incredulously for a moment, and then stuffed them into his pocket and ran out of the house.
His mind hazy with fatigue, Mr. Peabody relaxed in the big chair. A deep satisfaction filled him. This was one use of the gift which hadn’t gone wrong. There was enough of the miraculous money left so that he could give Ella the thirty dollars she wanted. And he could make more, without limit.
A fly came buzzing into the lamplight. Watching it settle upon a candy box on the table, and crawl across the picture of a cherry, Mr. Peabody was moved to another experiment. A mere instant of effort created another fly.
Only one thing was wrong with the miraculous insect. It looked, so far as he could see, exactly like the original. But, when he reached his hand toward it, it didn’t move. It wasn’t alive.
Why? Mr. Peabody was vaguely bewildered. Did he merely lack some special knack that was necessary for the creation of life? Or was that completely beyond his new power, mysteriously forbidden?
He applied himself to experiment. The problem was still unsolved, although the table was scattered with lifeless flies and the inert forms of a cockroach, a frog, and a sparrow, when he heard the front door.
Mrs. Peabody came in. She was wearing the new blue suit. The trim lines of it seemed to give a new youth to her ample figure, and Mr. Peabody thought that she looked almost beautiful.
SHE was still angry. She returned his greeting with a stiff little nod, and started regally past him toward the stair. Mr. Peabody followed her anxiously.
“That’s your new suit, Ella? You look very pretty in it.”
With a queen’s dignity, she turned. The lamplight shimmered on her blond indignant head.
“Thank you, Jason.” Her voice was cool. “I had no money to pay the boy. It was most embarrassing. He finally left it, when I promised to take the money to the store in the morning.”
Mr. Peabody counted off five of the miraculous bills.
“Here it is, dear,” he said. “And twenty more.”
Ella was staring, her jaw hanging.
Mr. Peabody smiled at her.
“From now on, dear,” he promised her, “things are going to be different. Now I’ll be able to give you everything that you’ve always deserved.”
Puzzled alarm tensed Ella Peabody’s face, and she came swiftly toward him.
“What’s this you say, Jason?”
She saw the lifeless flies that he had made, and then started back with a little muffled cry from the cockroach, the frog, and the sparrow.
“What are these things?” Her voice was shrill. “What are you up to?”
A pang of fear struck into Mr. Peabody’s heart. He perceived that it was going to be difficult for other people to understand his gift. The best plan was probably a candid demonstration of it.
“Watch, Ella. I’ll show you.”
He shuffled through the magazines on the end of the table. He had learned that it was difficult to materialize anything accurately from memory alone. He needed a model.
“Here.” He had found an advertisement that showed a platinum bracelet set with diamonds. “Would you like this, my dear?”
Mrs. Peabody retreated from him, growing pale.
“Jason, are you mazy?” Her voice was quick and apprehensive. “You know you can’t pay for the few things I simply must have. Now—this money—diamonds—I don’t understand you!”
Mr. Peabody dropped the magazine on his knees. Trying to close his ears to Ella’s penetrating voice, he began to concentrate on the jewel. This was more difficult than the paper money had been. His head rang with that throbbing pain. But he completed that peculiar final effort, and the thing was done.
“Well—do you like it, my dear?”
He held it toward her. The gleaming white platinum had a satisfying weight. The diamonds glittered with a genuine fire. But she made no move to take it.
Her bewildered face went paler. A hard accusing stare came into her eyes. Suddenly she advanced upon him, demanding: “Jason, where did you get that bracelet?”
“I—I made it.” His voice was thin and husky. “It’s—miraculous.”
Her determined expression made that statement sound very thin, even to Mr. Peabody.
“Miraculous lie!” She sniffed the air. “Jason, I believe you are drunk!” She advanced on him again. “Now I want to know the truth. What have you done? Have you been—stealing?”
She snatched the bracelet from his fingers, shook it threateningly in front of him.
“Now where did you get it?”
Looking uneasily about, Mr. Peabody saw the kitchen door opening slowly. William peered cautiously through. He was pale, and his trembling hand clutched a long bread knife.
“Mom!” His whisper was hoarse. “Mom, you had better watch out! The Gov is acting plenty weird. He was trying to pull some crummy magic stunts. And then he save me a couple of centuries of queer.” His slightly bulging eyes caught the glitter of the dangling bracelet, and he started.
“Hot ice, huh?” His voice grew hard with an incredible moral indignation. “Gov, cantcher remember you got a decent respectable family? Hot jools, and pushing the queer! Gov, how could you?”
“Queer?” The word croaked faintly from Mr. Peabody’s dry throat. “What do you mean—queer?”
“The innocence gag, huh?” William sniffed. “Well, let me tell you, Gov. Queer is counterfeit. I thought that dough looked funny. So I took it down to a guy at the pool hall that used to shove it. A mess, he says. A blind man cot Id spot it. It ain’t worth a nickel on the dollar. It’s a sure ticket, he says, for fifteen years!”
IV
THIS was a turn of affairs for which Mr. Peabody had not prepared himself. An instant’s reflection told him that, failing in his confusion to distinguish the token of value from the value itself, he had indeed been guilty.
“Counterfeit—”
He stared dazedly at the tense suspicious faces of his wife and son. A chill of ultimate frustration was creeping into him. He collected himself to fight it.
“I didn’t—didn’t think,” he stammered. “We’ll have to burn the money that I gave you, too, Ella.”
He mopped at his wet forehead, and caught his breath.
“But look.” His voice was louder. “I’ve still got the gift. I can make anything I want—out of nothing at all. I’ll show you. I’ll make—I’ll make you a brick of gold.”
His wife retreated, her face white and stiff with dread. William made an ominous flourish with the bread knife, and peered watchfully.
“All right, Gov. Strut your stuff.”
There couldn’t be any crime about making real gold. But the project proved more difficult than Mr. Peabody had expected. The first dim outlines of the brick began to waver, and he felt sick and dizzy.
That steady beat of pain filled all his head, stronger than it had ever been. The rush of unseen power became a mighty hurricane, blowing away his consciousness. Desperately, he clutched at the back of a chair.
The massive yellow ingot at last shimmered real, under the lamp. Mopping weakly at the sweat on his face, Mr. Peabody made a gesture of weary triumph and sat down.
“What’s the matter, darling?” his wife said anxiously. “You look so tired and white. Are you ill?”
William’s hands were already clutching at the yellow block. He lifted one end of it, with an effort, and let it fall. It made a dull solid thud.
“Gosh, Gov!” William whispered. “It is gold!” His eyes popped again, and narrowed grimly. “Better quit trying to string us. Gov. You cracked a safe tonight.”
“But I made it.” Mr. Peabody rose in anxious protest. “You saw me.”
Ella caught his arm, steadied him.
“We know, Jason,” she said soothingly. “But now you look so tired. You had better come up to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Digging into the gold brick with his pocket knife, William cried out excitedly: “Hey, Mom! Lookit—”
With a finger on her lips and a significant nod, Mrs. Peabody silenced her son. She helped Mr. Peabody up the stairs, to the door of their bedroom, and then hurried back to William.
Mr. Peabody undressed wearily and put on his pajamas. With a tired little sigh, he snuggled down under the sheets and closed his eyes.
Naturally he had made little mistakes at first, but now everything was sure to be all right. With just a little more practice, he would be able to give his wife and children all the good things they deserved. “Daddy?”
MR. PEABODY opened his eyes, and saw Beth standing beside the bed. Her brown eyes looked wide and strange, and her voice was anxious.
“Daddy, what dreadful thing has happened to you?”
Mr. Peabody reached from beneath the sheet, and took her hand. It felt tense and cold.
“A very wonderful thing, Bee, dear,” he said. “Not dreadful at all. I simply have a miraculous gift. I can create things. I want to make something for you. What would you like, Bee? A pearl necklace, maybe?”
“Dad—darling!”
Her voice was choked with concern. She sat down on the side of the bed, and looked anxiously into his face. Her cold hand quivered in his.
“Dad, you aren’t—insane?”
Mr. Peabody felt a tremor of ungovernable apprehension.
“Of course not, daughter. Why?”
“Mother and Bill have been telling me the most horrid things,” she whispered, staring at him. “They said you were playing with dead flies and a cockroach, and saying you could work miracles, and giving them counterfeit money and stolen jewelry and a fake gold brick—”
“Fake?” He gulped. “No; it was real gold.”
Beth shook her troubled head.
“Bill showed me,” she whispered. “It looks like gold on the outside. But, when you scratch it, it’s only lead.”
Mr. Peabody felt sick. He couldn’t keep tears of frustration from welling into his eyes.
“I tried,” he sobbed. “I don’t know why everything goes wrong.” He caught a determined breath, and sat up in bed. “But I can make gold—real gold. I’ll show you.”
“Dad!” Her voice was low and dry and breathless. “Dad, you are going insane.” Quivering hands covered her face. “Mother and Bill were right,” she sobbed faintly. “But the police—oh, I can’t stand it!”
“Police?” Mr. Peabody leaped out of bed. “What about the police?”
The girl moved slowly back, watching him with dark, frightened eyes.
“Mother and Bill phoned them, before I came in. They think you’re insane, and mixed up in some horrid crime besides. They’re afraid of you.”
Twisting his bands together, Mr. Peabody padded fearfully to the window. He had an instinctive dread of the law-, and his wide reading of detective stories had given him a horror of the third degree.
“They mustn’t catch me!” he whispered hoarsely. “They wouldn’t believe, about my gift. Nobody does. They’d grill me about the counterfeit and the gold brick and the bracelet. Grill me!” He shuddered convulsively. “Bee, I’ve got to get away.”
“Dad, you mustn’t.” She caught his arm, protestingly. “They’ll catch you, in the end. Running away will only make you seem guilty.”
He pushed away her hand.
“I’ve got to get away, I tell you. I don’t know where. If there were only someone who would understand—”
“DAD, listen!” Beth dapped her hands together, making a sound from which he started violently. “You must go to Rex. He can help you. Will you, Dad?” After a moment, Mr. Peabody nodded. “He’s a doctor. He might understand.”
“I’ll phone him to expect you. And you get dressed.”
He was tying his shoes, when she ran back into the room. “Two policemen, downstairs,” she whispered. “Rex said he, would wait up for you. But now you can’t get out—”
Her voice dropped with amazement, as a coil of rope appeared magically upon the carpet. Mr. Peabody hastily knotted one end of it to the bedstead, and tossed the other out the window.
“Goodby, Bee,” he gasped. “Dr. Rex will let you know.”
She hastily thumb bolted the door, as an authoritative hammering began on the other side. Mrs. Peabody’s remarkable voice came unimpeded through the panels: “Jason! Open the door, this instant. Ja-a-a-a-son!”
Mr. Peabody was still several feet from the ground when the miraculous rope parted unexpectedly. He pulled himself out of a shattered trellis, glimpsed the black police sedan parked in front of the house, and started down the alley.
Trembling from the peril and exertion of his flight across the town, he found the door of Dr. Brant’s modest two-room apartment unlocked. He let himself in quietly. The young doctor laid aside a book and stood up, smiling, to greet him.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Peabody. Won’t you sit down and tell me about yourself?”
Breathless, Mr. Peabody leaned against the closed door. He thought that Brant was at once too warm and too watchful. It came to him that he must yet step very cautiously, to keep out of a worse predicament than he had just escaped.
“Beth probably phoned you to expect a lunatic,” he began. “But I’m not insane, doctor. Not yet. I have simply happened to acquire a unique gift. People won’t believe that it exists. They misunderstand me, suspect me.”
Despite his effort for a calm, convincing restraint, his voice shook with bitterness.
“Now my own family has set the police on me!”
“Yes, Mr. Peabody.” Dr. Brant’s voice was very soothing. “Now just sit down. Make yourself comfortable. And tell me all about it.”
After snapping the latch on the door, Mr. Peabody permitted himself to sink wearily into Brant’s easy chair. He met the probing gray eyes of the doctor.
“I didn’t mean to do wrong.” His voice was still protesting, ragged. “I’m not guilty of any deliberate crime. I was only trying to help the ones I loved.”
“I know,” the doctor soothed him.
A sharp alarm stiffened Mr. Peabody. He realized that Brant’s soothing professional manner was intended to calm a dangerous madman. Words would avail him nothing.
“Beth must have told you what they think,” he said desperately. “They won’t believe it, but I can create. Let me show you.”
Brant smiled at him, gently and without visible skepticism.
“Very well. Go on.”
“I shall make you a goldfish bowl.”
He looked at a little stand, that was cluttered with the doctor’s pipes and medical journals, and concentrated upon that peculiar, painful effort. The pain and the rushing passed, and the bowl was real. He looked inquiringly at Brant’s suave face.
“Very good, Mr. Peabody.” The doctor’s voice sounded hushed and slow. “Now can you put the fish in it?”
“No.” Mr. Peabody pressed his hands against his dully aching head. “It seems that I can’t make anything alive. That is one of the limitations that I have discovered.”
“Eh?”
BRANT’S eyes widened a little. He walked slowly to the small glass bowl, touched it gingerly, and put a testing finger into the water it contained. His jaw slackened.
“Well.” He repeated the word, with increasing emphasis. “Well, well, well!”
His staring gray eyes came back to Mr. Peabody. “You are being honest with me? You’ll give your word there’s no trickery? You materialized this object by mental effort alone?”
Mr. Peabody nodded.
It was Brant’s turn to be excited. While Mr. Peabody sat quietly recovering his breath, the lean young doctor paced up and down the room. He lit his pipe and let it go out, and asked a barrage of tensevoiced questions.
Wearily, Mr. Peabody tried to answer the questions. He made new demonstrations of his gift, materializing a nail, a match, a cube of sugar, and a cuff link that was meant to be silver. Commenting upon the leaden color of the latter, he recalled his misadventures with the gold brick.
“A minor difficulty, I should think—always assuming that this is a fact.” Brant took off his rimless glasses, and polished them nervously. “Possibly due merely to a lack of familiarity with atomic structure. . . . But—my word!”
He began walking the floor again.
All but dead with fatigue, Mr. Peabody was mutely grateful at last to be permitted to crawl into the doctor’s bed. Despite that small dull throbbing in his brain, he slept soundly.
And up in the heavens a bright star winked, greenly.
Brant, if he slept at all, did so in the chair. The next morning, wrinkled, hollow-eyed, dark-chinned, he woke Mr. Peabody; refreshed his bewildered memory with a glimpse of a nail, a match, a cube of sugar, and a lead cuff link; and inquired frantically whether he still possessed the gift.
Mr. Peabody felt dull and heavy. The ache at the back of his head was worse, and he felt reluctant to attempt any miracles. He remained able, however, to provide himself with a cup of inexplicable coffee.
“Well!” exclaimed Brant. “Well, well, well! All through the night I kept doubting even my own senses. My word—it’s incredible. But. what an opportunity for medical science!”
“Eh?” Mr. Peabody started apprehensively. “What do you mean?”
