The Puppet Masters (25 page)

The mix-up about the time of day jerked me back to reality. “Mary, how long have we been up here? What’s the date?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re dam right it matters. It’s been more than a week. I’m sure. One of these days our phones will start screaming and then it’s back to the treadmill.”

“In the meantime what difference does it make?”

She was right but I still wanted to know what day it was. I could have found out by switching on a stereo screen, but I would probably have bumped into a newscast—and I did not want that; I was still pretending that Mary and I were away in a different world, a
safe
world, where titans did not exist. “Mary,” I said fretfully, “how many tempus pills have you?”

“None.”

“Well—I’ve got enough for both of us. Let’s stretch it out, make it last a long time. Suppose we have just twenty-four more hours; we could fine it down into a month, subjective time.”

“No.”

“Why not? Let’s
carpe
that old
diem
before it gets away from us.”

She put a hand on my arm and looked up into my eyes. “No, darling, it’s not for me. I must live each moment as it comes and not let it be spoiled by worrying about the moment ahead.” I suppose I looked stubborn for she went on, “If you want to take them, I won’t mind, but please don’t ask me to.”

“Confound it. I’m not going on a joy ride alone.” She did not answer, which is the damnedest way of winning an argument I know of.

Not that we argued. If I tried to start one—which I did, more than once—Mary would give in and somehow it would work out that I was mistaken. I did try several times to find out more about her; it seemed to me that I ought to know something about the woman I was married to. To one question she looked thoughtful and answered presently, “I sometimes wonder whether I ever did have a childhood—or was it something I dreamed last night?”

I asked her point blank what her name was. “Mary,” she said tranquilly.

“Mary really is your name, then?” I had long since told her my right name, but we had agreed to go on using “Sam”.

“Certainly it’s my name, dear. I’ve been ‘Mary’ since you first called me that.”

“Oh. All right, your name is Mary. You are my beloved Mary. But what was your name before?”

Her eyes held an odd, hurt look, but she answered steadily, “I was once known as ‘Allucquere’.”

“‘Allucquere’,” I repeated, savoring it. “Allucquere. What a strange and beautiful name. Allucquere. It has a rolling majesty about it. My darling Allucquere.”

“My name is Mary, now.” And that was that. Somewhere, somewhen, I was becoming convinced, Mary had been hurt, badly hurt. But it seemed unlikely that I was ever going to know about it. She had been married before, I was fairly certain; perhaps that was it.

Presently I ceased to worry about it. She was what she was, now and forever, and I was content to bask in the warm light of her presence. “Age cannot wither her nor custom stale her infinite variety.”

I went on calling her “Mary” since she obviously preferred it and that was how I thought of her anyhow, but the name that she had once had kept running through my mind. Allucquere… Allucquere… I rolled it around my tongue and wondered how it was spelled.

Then suddenly I knew how it was spelled. My pesky packrat memory had turned up the right tab and now was pawing away at the shelves in the back of my mind where I keep the useless junk that I don’t think about for years on end and am helpless to get rid of. There had been a community, a colony that used an artificial language, even to given names—

The Whitmanites, that was it—the anarchist-pacifist cult that got kicked out of Canada, then failed to make a go of it in Little America. There was a book, written by their prophet.
The Entropy of Joy
—I had not read it but I had skimmed it once; it was full of pseudomathematical formulas for achieving happiness.

Everybody is for “happiness”, just as they are against “sin”, but the cult’s practices kept getting them in hot water. They had a curious and yet very ancient solution to their sexual problems, a solution which appeared to suit them but which produced explosive results when the Whitmanite culture touched any other pattern of behavior. Even Little America had not been far enough away for them; I had heard somewhere that the remnants had emigrated to Venus—in which case they must all be dead by now.

I put it out of my mind. If Mary were a Whitmanite, or had been reared that way, that was her business. I certainly was not going to let the cult’s philosophy cause us a crisis now or ever; marriage is not ownership and wives are not property.

If that were all there was to what Mary did not want me to know about her, then I simply would not know it. I had not been looking for virginity wrapped in a sealed package; I had been looking for
Mary
.

T
he
next time I mentioned tempos pills, she did not argue but suggested that we hold it down to a minimum dose. It was a fair compromise—and we could always take more.

I prepared it as injections so that it would take hold faster. Ordinarily I watch a clock after I’ve taken tempus; when the second hand stops I know that I’m loaded. But my shack has no clocks and neither of us was wearing ringwatches. It was just sunrise and we had been awake all night, cuddled upon a big low half-moon couch in front of the fireplace.

We continued to lie there for a long time, feeling good and dreamy, and I was half considering the idea that the drug had not worked. Then I realized that the sun had stopped rising. I watched a bird fluttering past the view window. If I stared at him long enough, I could see his wings move.

I looked back from it to my wife, admired the long sweep of her limbs and the sudden, rising curves. The Pirate was curled up on her stomach, a cubical cat, with his paws tucked in as a muff. Both of them seemed asleep. “How about some breakfast?” I said, “I’m starved.”

“You fix it,” she answered. “If I move, I’ll disturb Pirate.”

“You promised to love, honor, and fix me breakfast,” I replied and tickled the soles of her feet. She gasped and drew up her legs; the cat squawked and landed on the floor.

“Oh dear!” she said, sitting up. “You made me move too fast and now I’ve offended him.”

“Never mind the cat, woman; you’re married to me.” But I knew that I had made a mistake. In the presence of others, people not under the drug, one should move with great care. I simply hadn’t thought about the cat; no doubt he thought we were behaving like drunken jumping jacks. I intentionally slowed down and tried to woo him.

No use—he was streaking toward his door. I could have stopped him, for to me his movement was a molasses crawl, but had I done so I would simply have frightened him more. I let him go and went to the kitchen.

Do you know, Mary was right; tempus fugit drug is no good for honeymoons. The ecstatic happiness that I had felt before was masked by the euphoria of the drug, though I did not feel the loss at the time because the drug’s euphoria is compelling. But the loss was real; I had substituted for the true magic a chemical fake.

And there are some precious things which cannot or should not be hurried. Mary was right, as usual. Nevertheless it was a good day—or month, however you care to look at it. But I wished that I had stuck to the real thing.

Late that evening we came out of it. I felt the slight irritability which marks the loosening hold of the drug, found my ringwatch and timed my reflexes. When they were back to normal I timed Mary’s, whereupon she informed me that she had been out of it for twenty minutes or so—pretty accurate matching of dosage to have been based on body weights alone.

“Do you want to go under again?” she asked me.

I pulled her to me and kissed her. “No; frankly, I’m glad to be back.”

“I’m so glad.”

I had the usual ravenous appetite that one has afterward no matter how many times one eats while under; I mentioned it. “In a minute,” she said. “I want to call Pirate. He has not been in all day.”

I had not missed him during the day—or “month”—just past; the euphoria is like that. “Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “He often stays out all day.”

“He has not before.”

“He has with me,” I answered.

“I think I offended him—I know I did.”

“Then he is probably down at Old John’s. That is his usual way of punishing me when he does not like the service. He’ll be all right.”

“But it’s late at night—I’m afraid a coyote might get him.”

“Don’t be silly; there are no coyotes this far east.”

“A fox, then—or something. Do you mind, darling? I’ll just step out and call him.” She headed for the door.

“Put on something, then,” I ordered. “It will be nippy out there.”

She hesitated, then went back to the bedroom and got a negligee I had bought for her the day we had gone down to the village. She went out; I put more wood on the fire and went into the kitchen.

She must have left the door dilated for, while I was trying to make up my mind between convenience of a “Soup-to-Nuts” and the pleasure of planning a meal from separate units, I heard her saying, “Bad, bad cat! You worried mama,” in that cooing voice suitable for babies and felines.

I called out, “Fetch him in and close the door—and mind the penguins!” She did not answer and I did not hear the door relax, so I went back into the living room.

She was just coming in and did not have the cat with her. I started to speak and then caught sight of her eyes. They were staring, filled with unspeakable horror. I said, “Mary!” and started toward her.

She seemed to see me and turned back toward the door; her movements were jerky, spasmodic. As she turned I saw her shoulders.

Under the negligee was a hump.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Probably a split second but it is burned into me as endless. I jumped toward her and grabbed her by the arms. She looked at me and her eyes were no longer wells of horror but merely dead.

She gave me the knee.

I squeezed and managed to avoid the worst of it. Look—I know you don’t tackle a dangerous opponent by grabbing his upper arms, but this was my
wife
. I couldn’t come at Mary with a feint-shift-and-kill.

But the slug had no compunctions about me. Mary—or
it
—was giving me everything she had and I had all I could do to keep from killing her. I had to keep her from killing me—and I had to kill the slug—and I had to keep the slug from getting at me or I would not be able to save her.

I let go with one hand and jabbed at her chin. The blow should have knocked her out but it did not even slow her down. I grabbed again, with both arms and legs, trying to encase her in a bear hug to immobilize her without injuring her. We went down together, Mary on top. I shoved the top of my head into her face to stop her biting me.

I held her so, curbing her strong body by sheer bulk of muscle. Then I tried to paralyze her with nerve pressure, but she knew what I was up to, knew the key spots as well as I did—and I was lucky that I was not myself paralyzed.

There was one thing left that I could do: clutch the slug itself—but I knew the shattering effect that had on the host. It might not kill her; again it might. It was sure to hurt her horribly. I wanted to make her unconscious, then remove the slug gently before I killed it…drive it off with heat or force it to turn loose with mild shocks.

Drive it off with heat—

But I was given no time to develop the idea; she got her teeth in my ear. I shifted my right arm and grabbed at the slug. Nothing happened. Instead of sinking my fingers into a slimy mess I found that this slug had a horny, leathery covering; it was as if I had clutched a football. Mary jerked when I touched it and took away part of my ear, but there was no bone-crushing spasm; the slug was still alive and in control of her.

I tried to get my fingers under it, to pry it loose; it clung like a suction cup. My fingers would not go under.

In the meantime I was suffering damages in other places. I rolled over and got to my knees, still hugging her. I had to let her legs free and that was bad, but I bent her across a knee and then struggled to my feet. I dragged and carried her to the fireplace.

She knew what I was doing and almost got away from me; it was like trying to wrestle a mountain lion. But I got her there, grabbed her by her mop of hair and slowly forced her shoulders over the fire.

I meant—I swear that I meant only to singe it, force it to drop off to escape that heat. But she struggled so hard that I slipped, banging my own head against the arch of the opening and dropping her shoulders against the coals.

She screamed and bounded out of the fire, carrying me with her. I struggled to my feet, still dazed by the wallop I had taken in the head, and saw her collapsed on the floor. Her hair, her beautiful hair, was burning.

So was her negligee. I slapped at them both with my hands. The slug was no longer on her. Still crushing the flames with my hands I glanced around and saw it lying on the floor in front of the fireplace—and the Pirate was sniffing at it.

“Get away from there!” I yelled. “Pirate! Stop that!” The cat looked up inquiringly, as if this were some new and interesting game. I went on doing what I had to do, making absolutely certain that the fire was out, both hair and clothing. When I was sure, I left her; there was not even time to make certain that she was still alive. There was something more urgent to do.

What I wanted was the fireplace shovel; I did not dare risk touching the thing with my hands. I turned to get the shovel.

But the slug was no longer on the floor; it had gotten Pirate. The cat was standing rigid, feet wide apart, and the slug was settling into place.

Perhaps it would have been better had I been a few seconds later; perhaps the slug, mounted on the cat, would have escaped outdoors. I would not have pursued it into the dark. I don’t think I would have. But I dived at Pirate and got him by his hind legs just as he made his first controlled movement.

Handling a frenzied, full-grown cat with bare hands is reckless at best; controlling one which is already controlled by a titan is impossible. Hands and arms being slashed by claws and teeth at every step, I hurried again to the fireplace.