Каттнер Генри

Volluswen

Volluswen, by Henry Kuttner

First published in Science Fiction Stories, April 1943.

THE jury was returning. Galt Cavendish, his jolting nerves held rigidly taut, could read nothing in the twelve faces. Acquittal was improbable. But conviction was equally so. Insanity, his lawyer had said, was the only possible out.

He had told his story, withholding nothing, from the first moment he had begun to suspect his brother. That had been a month ago. Before that, of course, Tim Cavendish had not existed....

“We, the jury–”

Galt Cavendish leaned forward.

GALT CAVENDISH leaned forward. His middle-aged, rather flabby face sagged disconsolately. Tim splashed soda in the glass and proffered it, a fat, harmless little man with untidy, mouse-colored hair. Seated there in the New York apartment, the brothers, looked like smalltown storekeepers, to whom weighing cheeses, fishing, and the weather were the facts of life.

“Here's luck,” Tim said. He winked. It was a sly, triumphant, sniggering sort of wink, absurd in a man of his age and position. Galt nodded and drank. He put down his glass and watched Tim.

When would it come?

It came almost immediately. Tim examined his plump hands and said; “How long has it been since you had a vacation?”

“About a year,” Galt grunted. “I don’t work so hard. Long as I get in my golf and go to the club, I figure I have enough relaxation. Why?”

“I dunno if it is enough. A man needs a change once in a while. Why don’t you run up to Maine and get in some hunting?”

Galt looked at his brother. “Why don’t you?”

“I feel fine.” Tim hesitated. “But maybe you’re right.”

“Want to go along?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well, if I do it–” Galt licked his lips. “You’ve always done everything I have, of course.”

Tim smiled deprecatingly. “Yeah. Always, since we were kids. Sort of a fetish, eh?”

“You do everyting I do, with just enough variation to make it a little different. You play golf at a different club. Your hours are different–I play mornings; you play afternoons. It’s the same all the way round. I’ve a feeling that if I died, you’d vanish.”

Tim laughed.

Galt took another drink. He was nerving himself for a direct accusation–which his brother, of course, would deny.

He examined Tim, finding nothing of especial interest. That in itself was intriguing. Sherlock Holmes was a good reference.

Holmes: “I refer you to the singular incident of the dog in the night-time.”

Watson: “The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

Holmes: “That was the singular incident.”

GALT couldn’t, naturally, come right out and ask Tim for the answer. Tim would have evaded, denied, and laughed. And winked, in that highly significant fashion of his.

“Well,” Galt said, after a while, “I’ll think it over. I can't get away for a week or so, anyway.”

“What’s up?”

“Detective work,” Galt said, watching closely. Tim didn’t blink. That was an error of judgment. He should have blinked.

Instead, Tim said merely, “Hope it comes out all right. I’m pretty busy myself just now.”

“I’ve been going to a psychologist,” Galt put in.

“Oh? Why?”

“Having trouble with my memory.”

“Forget things?”

“No,” Galt said, standing up. “I remember things. Well, I’ll push off. See you later.”

“Bye,” Tim nodded, without rising. “Take care of yourself.” And he winked.

Going down in the elevator, Galt Cavendish felt a little frightened. In this particular case, a wink wasn’t as good as a nod. He had an indefinable feeling that Tim knew. But never in the world would Tim reveal himself, unless–unless–

Unless he was trapped into doing so. And in that case the results might be incalculable. Galt rather hoped that he himself was slightly crazy. It would be far better than coming gradually to believe in the three-dimensional existence of a bona fide deus ex machina. The books on mnemonics hadn’t helped a great deal. Artificial memory was a fact, scientifically proved, but–Lord!

What was Tim Cavendish?

The hiatus in Galt’s mind had been the tip-off, after the accident. A concussion, the doctors had told him. Falling downstairs is arduous exercise for a man of fifty. But, luckily, the operation had been successful–

Too damned successful! For afterwards, though his memory was otherwise unimpaired, he could remember nothing at all about his brother Tim. Tim’s existence had been wiped out–eradicated–prior to a certain evening two years before, when the two brothers had dined with their sister, Mary Ellen, at Sardi’s. Since that August day Galt’s memory was complete and unexpurgated.

But before that dinner party, Galt had a monstrous feeling that Tim Cavendish hadn’t existed as Tim Cavendish. Ipso facto–

If Galt’s suspicions were correct, Tim couldn't suspect that the plan had miscarried. Or he would have taken steps.

GALT took a taxi to the office of Hillman Abernathy, the psychologist, psychiatrist, and representative of the great god compos mentis. Abernathy was a big, white- haired, sharp-eyed man with an unobtrusively soothing manner and an engaging air of frankness. He told Galt to sit down and grinned at him through the smoke of a panatela.

“Coming to the point immediately,” he said, “you’re not crazy, Galt. You may have an obsession. If so, it can be cured.”

“I thought so. When a patient has a fantastic theory, you instantly decide that the theory’s automatically false and the trouble’s got to be in the mind.”

Abernathy said, “You’re not quite right. But go on.”

Galt’s mouth twitched. “Well, some men can hear the squeaks bats make–usually too high-pitched to be audible. Does that meant the squeaks have to be subjective?”

“I’ve had patients who’ve been followed around by little red devils,” Abernathy remarked. “Well?”

“Ever tried to photograph the little red devils?”

“Yes,” the psychiatrist said surprisingly. “Even used infra-red and ultra-violet. Remember, Galt, I said you may have an obsession. On the other hand, you may be right.”

Galt sat back, staring. Presently he shrugged.

“That comes under the head of humoring the patient.”

Abernathy’s voice was earnest. “It does not. You’re convinced of a certain fantastic theory. If I arbitrarily said you were wrong, you’d not believe me–you might acquire a persecution complex. In this business I’ve learned to keep my personal opinions in a separate compartment. I never make a prognosis till I get all the facts I can.”

“Facts?” Galt’s voice held a half- sardonic inflection.

“Three-dimensional and otherwise. You’re determined that I won’t believe you. You came here with the beginnings of a God complex, coupled with subconscious martyrdom. You’ve discovered something vitally important to mankind, and you know mankind won't believe you. Eventually you’ll want to be crucified. Subconscious stuff, the worst kind.”

“Wait a minute,” Galt said. “I may be entirely wrong. I know it may all be subjective. Psychic trauma–isn't that the word?”

“A subconscious bloc,” Abernathy told him. “Your memory of your brother, up to two years ago, has been expunged. The question is–why?”

“There are only two answers. Either Tim was existing then, or he wasn’t.”

“Right. Let’s suppose he was, first. The answer then is that for some good reason you don’t want to remember anything about him.”

“What sort of reason?”

“Probably one that’s played hell with your ego. If we could locate it, your memory would very likely return. Did you ever try to harm your brother?”

“Not since he began to exist here.” Galt said gently.

“Uh-huh.” Abernathy drummed on the desk. “The indirect approach is necessary. Since you can’t remember anything about your brother, the information’s got to come from other sources.”

“I’VE been collecting it. I’ve written back home to all our friends and relatives, and I put a detective agency on Tim’s trail. And I’m pumping my sister.” Galt chewed on his lip. “What about the direct approach?”

“We’ve tried that. The bloc’s too strong. Word associations tell nothing. I–”

“Nothing? Wait a minute. What’s the implication?”

“That your brother didn’t exist up to two years ago,” Abernathy admitted readily. “Which is no real evidence at ali. Except insofar as it proves you refuse to admit his early existence. The hypnosis experiments failed, too. Your subconscious has a gag in its mouth.”

“Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

“It is. One answer is you might once have tried to kill your brother.”

“Ha,” Galt said. “A clue at last.”

“Hell with you,” Abernathy countered amiably. “I’m not a detective. I’ve known both you and Tim for years, and I find it hard to believe he’s the sort of being you imagine. What is he, a superman?”

“Not necessarily. That’s anthropomorphic thinking. Man always deifies himself. Yahveh, Odin, Zeus– they’re all supermen. A projection of ego, if you’ll let me talk like you for a bit. Why limit it to human laws?”

“A superman wouldn't be so limited.”

“I’m thinking of extensions,” Galt said. “Imagine a place where our dimensions and rules don’t exist. A place not according to Hoyle. A creature living there wouldn’t necessarily be a super-dooper, but he would be fitted to his environment. Right?”

“So far,” Abernathy admitted.

“Uh-huh. Such a being, in this world, might reach out farther than we do.”

“I don’t get it,” the other said, after a pause.

“Extensions. Some protozoa can send out pseudopods, others can’t. Call those pseudopods talents, abilities, senses–anything. My, uh, brother isn't human. I’m not contending he’s a superman. I say he’s not a fourteen-karat human being.”

“Could we–see–such a creature? Wouldn’t he be so entirely different that we’d suspect something haywire about him?”

“I do,” Galt said flatly. He went on: “Hunters used to dress themselves in bison skins so they could mingle with a herd. Humans are cleverer than bison. My brother has certain talents we don’t know anything about. He’s masquerading.”

“Why?”

“Ask the bison. No, I don’t mean hunting–-though if it was that, it’d be a different sort of hunting from what we can conceive. It needn’t involve killing. And there are other motives. Unfortunately all the ones I can think of are basically human. So they don’t apply.”

“That’s theory, not evidence.”

GALT took out a thick envelope and unfolded papers. “Look at this stuff. It’s unfinished, but it’ll give you an idea.”

Abernathy glanced over charts, graphs, and a double-columned biography. Galt said, “I’ve been comparing my life with my brother’s. There’s an odd similarity. It’s not a complete file yet, but–”

“You realize that this sort of thing–” Abernathy tapped the documents. “It’s what I usually see. Patients muster all possible proof for their theories or delusions.”

“I know. That’s what handicaps me. I’m forced into the exact position of a–mental case.”

The psychiatrist tossed the papers back across his desk. “All right. Keep investigating. If you can convince yourself that you’re wrong about this business, fine.”

Galt returned the evidence to its envelope. “I’m getting a dossier from the detective people today. Meantime–I haven’t convinced you, eh?”

Abernathy shook his head silently. Galt grinned, shrugged, and went away. He made his way to the nearest bar and gulped a stiff four fingers of rye. It didn’t help a great deal. After a while he taxied to the apartment of his sister.

As he walked toward the steps, a flower-pot shattered on the pavement just behind him. When Galt looked up, he saw Tim’s head sticking out of a window three stories above him.

“Look out!” Tim called, and then– “Oh, Galt! That was a close one.”

Galt didn’t answer. He stood with his head tilted back, licking his lips and watching his brother’s plump, anxious face.

As Tim drew back out of sight, he winked. There was no doubt about it. That sly, triumphant, absurd wink–ugh! Galt felt cold. Tim suspected, and–and this was the logical next step.

MARY ELLEN was throwing a cocktail party. She was a brittle, blond divorcee of indeterminate years, who hated liquor but drank because everyone else did. The apartment was filled with guests; Galt knew few of them. He kissed Mary Ellen casually and asked for Tim.

“You must have just missed him. He went out a minute ago.”

Galt accepted a drink, which didn't taste very good. “What’d he want?” “Liquor, I suppose. I’d asked him over. I asked you, too–remember?” “Um-m.” Galt was wondering just how much of a limitation human guise gave to Tim. A supernormal being, one felt, should be able to kill by pure force of mind, or at least a bolt of personally manufactured lightning. But that, again, was muddy thinking, badly anthropomorphic. So?

“Look,” Galt said, remembering something. “Do you still have those old pictures?”

“Pictures?” Mary Ellen blinked. “Which ones?”

“Photographs. Of us as kids. Especially Tim.”

“Well–somewhere. Sure. I’ll dig 'em up for you when I get time.”

“Make it now,” Galt said. “Please. I need them.”

Mary Ellen seemed slightly displeased, but amenable to suggestion. She took Galt into the bedroom and fumbled through a bureau drawer. Presently she unearthed an album.

“Lend it to me,” Galt suggested. “You'll want to get back to your guests.”

“Okay.” She went out, to return with a fresh drink which Galt accepted gratefully. Seated on the bed, he thumbed through the album.

Family photographs – the usual things. At the seashore, in parks, on lawns, on porches; posed professional shots–what he had expected. All bore notations in white ink, written carefully under each picture. The handwriting was that of Mrs. Cavendish, Galt’s mother, eight years dead.

There were pictures of Tim as a baby, as a boy, as a youth, and as a man. These Galt examined closely. If they were forgeries, they were expertly made.

Tim and Galt had resembled each other closely. They still did. One picture, quite old, showed a baby reclining in a basket of roses. Under it was the legend, “Baby Tim–two months.”

Galt thumbed the pages, and finally found what he sought. It was quite similar, except that the infant’s face was altered a little, and the basket was shaped differently and held crysanthemums. A careful retouching job might have accounted for that.

The other pictures of Tim also had one common denominator. Neither pose nor background was entirely original. They were, if not lifted bodily, at least inspired by the other snaps in the album.

Galt tucked the book under his arm and went out, nodding to Mary Ellen. His watch told him it was nearly time for his appointment with the detective he’d hired. But a surprise awaited him at his apartment.

TIM was there, amateurishly picking out a popular song on the piano. He beamed at Galt.

“Hi.”

“How’d you get in?” Galt asked, putting the album on a bookshelf.

“The manager. He knows me, doesn’t he? I can’t stay. Got an appointment at the club. But I thought you might want this.” Tim tossed a wallet to Galt. “Found it by the door after you left my place. Those theater tickets were sticking out, so I figured you’d need ’em tonight. Finally, how about coming with me now for a round of golf?”

Galt put the wallet carefully in his pocket, “I–must have dropped it,” he said inanely.

Tim’s eyes widened. “What a brain. It took me an hour to figure that out... well, how about it?”

“What?”

Tim swung an imaginary niblick. “Eh?”

Before Galt could answer, the door buzzer rang. The man who entered had a tight, jittery sort of face and carried a brief case. He looked around, saw Tim, and said, “Guess you’re busy, Mr. Cavendish. I’ll come back later.”

“I was just leaving.” Tim got up. “Let me know how the show is, Galt. ’Bye.” He went out.

The detective said, “Your brother, eh?”

Galt took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, sit down, Harbin. What have you got?”

“About everything. And nothing.

I hate to work in the dark.”

“I’m in the dark myself. Let’s see your stuff.”

Harbin opened the briefcase and spread out the contents on a big table. “You think somebody’s masquerading as your brother? If so, that somebody hasn’t got a record that I can find out. His prints aren’t on file. There’s no trace of plastic surgery.”

“There wouldn’t be.” Galt said.

“Okay. Well, here it is.”

“Wait a minute. I want you to look at this. D’you know anything about faked photographs?”

“Yeah. Quite a lot. Let’s see it.”

Galt found the album and pointed out the pictures he suspected. Harbin pored over them. From the briefcase he took a magnifying glass and studied the snaps through the lens.

“They don’t look like fakes to me. Mind if I mess one up a bit?”

“Go ahead.”

Harbin took a few bottles out of the briefcase and made a swab out of cotton and a match. The results were strictly negative. At last he shook his head.

“Some fakes are so clever it’s impossible to detect anything wrong. These seem to be on the up-and-up.”

“What about the writing?”

That, too, failed to prove anything. Galt grimaced. No doubt Tim had made the album, and transferred into it the original pictures and writing, adding the proofs of his own former existence. If Tim could create a human body, he would have no great difficulty in such forgeries. Maybe he’d done that before assuming human semblance, when his powers weren’t limited. If they were limited now–

GALT got rid of Harbin by writing a check, and settled down to examining the evidence the detective had brought. Some mail was in the slot, and he opened the envelopes hastily. Most were from old friends and relatives to whom he had written about Tim. He had been careful to say nothing of his suspicions, and he had taken pains to give sound reasons for the questions he’d asked. So the letters gave additional information, which he collated by means of a typewriter and a card-file.

Harbin’s report, too, was helpful. It probed back into the past, covering Tim’s life from birth onward. The result was much too perfect to be true.

There was nothing at all suspicious –which was significant.

Galt arranged the cards chronologically. It was a long, arduous job, and he did not expect to finish it that day. But, at least, he could make a beginning.

Tim’s life paralleled his own. But it was never identical. When Galt as a child skipped 3-B. Tim skipped 4-A. When Galt flunked plane geometry, Tim flunked first algebra. When Galt became engaged, so did Tim–at a different time. When the engagement was broken–

Ergo, Tim had been using Galt as a model. A model for his existence, a design for living.

Galt went to work on his graph. The starting point, for both himself and Tim, was birth. He charted his own life-line, chronologically adding the necessary factors. He used, as far as possible, all the information he had secured, from minor illnesses to vacation trips. Then he threw out everything that could be accounted for logically. A seaside summer–it was no coincidence that both he and Tim had profited by that. But when Tim managed to break his arm, Galt, a week later, sprained his ankle; both boys were taken home.

It was significant that Tim sometimes got in his licks ahead of Galt. Prescience was scarcely involved. Rather, it was a matter of mnemonics. Tim’s life, prior to two years before, was a matter of record only. A record of photographs, birth certificate (Galt had checked that), and memory. Artificial memory, implanted in the minds of those who might have known Tim in the past.

Twenty-five years of the chart were finished. Galt turned to another graph and worked out Tim’s life-line, this time on semi-transparent paper. When he was through, he superimposed the two charts. The life-lines checked exactly, at least there was very little variation.

Galt licked his lips, which were dry. He stared at the evidence for a while, and then went after a drink. The highball he mixed was unusually stiff.

It was poisoned, too.

Galt realized that just in time. He phoned for help and reeled into the bathroom, where he drank quantities of soapy water. The poison did not remain in his stomach.

Later, sick and weak, he lay halt- dressed on his bed and considered. He could guess what Abernathy might say. Men have poisoned themselves to carry out their delusions of persecution...

Tim suspected.

TIM had power to implant artificial memories in human minds. One particular memory-chain had been expurgated from Galt’s brain by the concussion he had suffered. Why, then, didn’t Tim repeat the operation and draw Galt’s fangs? Why was he, instead, trying to commit murder?

Galt remembered something Abernathy had said. Anything the brain has learned it will retain. No matter how deeply it may be hidden in the subconscious, it can be drawn out by hypnosis or by other methods.

Uh-huh. The evidence in Galt’s brain was dynamite to Tim. Perhaps it could be suppressed by hypnotic suggestion. But it would remain nevertheless, ready to burst free– sometime, somehow. Tim could not be sure of making Galt forget permanently. The moving finger had written, and, though the book might be closed, the words remained, permanent, ineradicable, and somehow dangerous to Tim.

But why was Galt’s knowledge dangerous? No one would believe–

Not now. Perhaps later. After Galt had had time to gather overwhelming evidence, perhaps to find clues that could not be refuted. Thor had once masqueraded as a woman. If the Giants had known there was a beard under the veil, Thor could not have maintained the deception.

Find, then, the unearthly, inhuman equivalent of a beard–

There must be something about Tim that would unequivocably prove that he was a masquerader. Some stigmata? But possibly it could not be recognized by humans.

No, that was wrong. Tim was trying to kill Galt. Galt either knew something, or might later learn something, dangerous to Tim’s deception.

What was Tim? What did he want?

Could a human brain comprehend the motives of an inhuman one?

Galt felt very cold. He was glad when the doctor returned with a sleeping potion.

AFTER that Galt went in fear of sudden death. The poisoning was not serious, but it left him shaken and easily upset. Worst of all, perhaps, was the realization that Abernathy might be right–that Tim might be a bona fide brother. But that idea faded as accidents kept happening.

A push from behind in a subway crowd–a loose carpet that nearly sent Galt hurtling downstairs–another flower-pot–a loosened steering-column in his car–these were the component parts of the whole. They scared hell out of Galt. And he could do nothing to protect himself, except increase his already keen watchfulness.

Abernathy was not helpful. Galt no longer found it easy to maintain his equilibrium when he talked with the psychiatrist. Fear was too strong on him.

And whenever he saw Tim, Tim winked.

One day, desperately hoping for a reprieve, Galt burned all the evidence he had gathered. It cost him a good deal to do that, but he was still shaky and upset after a bad spill in the Park. His heel should not have ripped off the shoe that way–not unless it had been loosened already.

So he burned the evidence, and took pains to see Tim the next day and mention the matter. Tim stared.

“What evidence?”

“The parallel in our lives. Coincidence, of course. Why should I waste time on that sort of thing?”

“Well, if it interests you–everybody needs a hobby. Lots of people play around with genealogy.”

“Not me. I've been getting absentminded. Almost fell in the lake yesterday. I figure if I forget this stuff I’ve been playing around with, it’ll tone up my mind. I don’t want to fall down a man-hole because my thoughts are somewhere else.”

Tim lit a cigarette.

After a minute Galt spoke again, a note of almost abject pleading in his voice. “Do you think I’m right?”

“Oh, probably. Probably. I’ve got to beat it. See you later.”

As Tim let himself out of the apartment he took occasion to wink. Galt repressed a shriek with violent effort.

He was far, far too nervous. There was, after all, no real reason for his terror. So he argued. His mind swung like a pendulum back and forth between extremes. One day he was convinced of one thing. The next day–

Thus it went, and the near-accidents continued. Until finally Galt did fall through the ice into the lake, and came down with pneumonia. In his delirium he remarked that he walked every day along that secluded park by-path, and that somebody had undermined the bank there, and there had been a slick coating of ice where no ice should have been, and he didn’t really believe Tim was a devil....

HE awoke one evening to hear voices from the adjoining room. There was the sound of a door’s closing. Galt managed to get out of bed and secure his automatic from the bureau drawer. Then he returned to the warmth of the blankets and hid the gun beneath them.

Tim came in.

“Hi,” he said. “What’s the idea swimming in ice-water at your age?”

Galt didn’t say anything. Tim sat down and lit a cigarette.

“Want one? No? Okay, what’s on your mind?”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“How should I know?”

“Who was that you were talking to?”

“That was your nurse,” Tim explained. “I said I’d stay with you while she went out for dinner. Her relief hadn’t come. Now what’d you like? Want me to read to you?”

With a violent effort, Galt said, “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t–”

“Mm-m,” Tim put in. “Maybe I'd better take your temperature. Secrets, is it? Relax, sonny.”

“I mean it. You’re human. You’re my brother. I know that. I never thought anything else. I–I–”

“Well, thanks. I’m glad you don’t think I’m a volluswen.” Tim stopped very suddenly.

Galt said, through a dry throat, “I didn’t hear you. I didn’t hear that.”

From the Park the faint sounds of traffic came up in the gathering twilight. The room had grown darker moment by moment. A brief, horrible panic struck through Galt, and he switched on the bedside lamp. In the yellow glow Tim’s shadowy figure resolved itself into familiarity that was not comforting.

After a while Tim shrugged and glanced at his wrist-watch. “Time for your jalop,” he said. “For my money, you need it. Your nerves must be shot.”

Galt watched as his brother measured out a dose of brown fluid from the bottle on the bureau. Tim went into the bathroom and ran water. When he returned, the glass was nearly full of amber fluid.

“I won’t take it,” Galt said. “Of course I won’t take it. I’m not a complete fool.”

“Oh, Lord,” Tim groaned. “The nurse said you had to have a dose of this every hour without fail. Haven’t you been doing that for days?”

“Not that. That isn’t medicine. It’s poison.”

“I’m fed up with that sort of talk,” Tim said, scowling. “What the hell do you think I am?”

“A volluswen,” Galt said.

Tim approached with the medicine. His intention was obvious.

Galt took the automatic from under the blankets and leveled it. Even then, he might not have fired. But Tim winked. It was a sly, triumphant, sniggering sort of wink–

“Volluswen!” Galt screamed, quite insanely, and squeezed the trigger again and again. The glass shattered, brown fluid spattering everywhere. Tim was driven back by the impact of bullets. Bone, heart and brain were riven. The life in Tim Cavendish took its departure.

After that it was a matter of routine.

GALT CAVENDISH leaned forward, waiting for the verdict. The courtroom was quite silent. It had been proved that Tim was no murderer, that he had not attempted to kill his brother. The spilled liquid on the bedroom carpet proved nothing. It was the prescribed drug, with nothing added. Of course, an overdose would have meant the patient’s death, but a quantitative analysis was impossible, under the circumstances.

Acquittal was out of the question, but so was conviction. Galt didn’t want to die. In a sanatorium, he would have time to collect further data, and, some day, prove that Tim Cavendish had never been entirely human. It might take a long time. That didn't matter–

The foreman of the jury, a gaunt, tired-looking man in baggy tweeds, was reading the verdict.

“–find the defendant guilty as charged for murder in the first degree, and we further recommend that no leniency be shown.”

Galt couldn’t believe it. He looked at the foreman and the foreman looked back at him.

And winked.

THE END

Content

Каттнер Генри Volluswen

Volluswen, by Henry Kuttner