I sailed right on, not giving him a chance to slide in one word. "Why, there must be ten thousand men and maybe some women right upstairs, and who knows how many within a few miles from here, and do I get to even pass the time of day with any of them? Do I? You bet your sweet life I don't!"
"There aren't any women within miles of here, except nurses, and maybe a reporter, and I'm not sure about that."
"Nurses and reporters are human, aren't they?"
Had he found a chink in the armor? He frowned. "Is it women you want?"
"Sure, I want women!" I flared at him. "I want a million of them! I want Esther Williams and Minnie Mouse and anyone else that looks good to me. But I don't want them on a silver platter with a gilt chain. I want them when I want them-my wife and the waitress at Art's, and the beer I used to drink would taste a lot better than the beer you said I'd get and never seen!"
The Smith stood up and I sat down. "Women and beer. Anything else?"
"Sure," I snapped at him. "Women and beer and traffic piled up on Gratiot and the same double feature at all the movies in town-" I got a look at him. I felt silly. "All right, take out the needle. You win."
He was a gentleman. He didn't laugh. "Win? Yes, I suppose I win." Before I could think of anything else to say, he was gone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PART II
Smith knocked early the next morning when Stein was still clearing the breakfast coffee. For that time of day he was disgustingly happy.
"The customary greeting, I believe, is good morning, is it not?"
I gulped the rest of my cup. "Yeah. What's on your mind?"
He sat down and waved away Stein's wordless offer of a cup. "How would we like to take a little trip?"
We. The editorial we. "Why not?"
"This little trip-how would you like to go back home for awhile?"
"Home?" I couldn't believe my ears, and I stared at him.
He'd made a slip, and he was sorry. "I meant, back Stateside."
I slumped back in my chair. "Then you heard me the first time. What's the difference?"
"Quite a bit of difference. No, Stein, you stay here. We're all in this together."
"Sure," I said. "Stick around. I'm the last one to find out what's going on around here."
He didn't appreciate my sarcasm. "I wouldn't say that, Peter."
"Forget it. What's the story?"
"We want you to go back where we can run some tests, this time as comprehensive as we can arrange."
I couldn't see why what we'd done wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell me you have more than the Bomb up your sleeve."
No, it wasn't like that. "There aren't more than four or six that know anything but that the Bomb was set off prematurely because of motor failure on the drone. The general knowledge is that it was just another test in routine fashion. But, as I said, there are a few that know the truth. They think it desirable that you be examined scientifically, and completely."
"Why?" I felt ornery.
He knew it, and showed a little impatience. "Use your head, Peter. You know better than that. We know you're unique. We want to know why, and perhaps how, perhaps, your ability can be duplicated."
That appealed to me. "And if you can find out what makes me tick I can go back to living like myself again?" I took his silence for assent. I had to. "Good. What do I do, and when?"
He shrugged. "Nothing, yet. You'll go to … well, let's call it college. It shouldn't take too long. A week, maybe, maybe two, or four, at the most."
"Then what?"
He didn't know. We'd talk about that later. Okay with me. If a doctor could find out how I was whistling chords, all well and good. If not-could I be any worse off?
"Then it's settled. We'll leave today, if it can be arranged, and I feel sure it can. Robert-" to Stein-"if you'll come with me we'll try to make the necessary arrangements." Stein left, and Smith left, and I got up and looked into the mirror. I needed a shave again.
My college didn't have a laboratory worth counting when I went to school. We'd had a stadium, and a losing football team instead. Now the balding, bearded physicists sat in the front row when the appropriations were spooned out. I suppose that's all for the better. I really wouldn't know. The old fellow that met us at the front door looked like an airedale, and like an airedale he sniffed all around me before getting into combat range.
"So you're Peter Miller!"
"That's my name," I admitted. I wondered what all the dials and the gadgets were for. It looked to me like the front end of one of these computers I used to see in the magazines.
"I'm Kellner. You must be Stein, right? Never mind your coats. Just follow me," and off he trotted, and we trailed him into a bare office with what looked like the equipment of a spendthrift dentist.
"You sit here," and he waved at a straightbacked chair. I sat down, Stein shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and in a moment Kellner came back with a dozen others. He didn't bother to introduce any of them. They all stood off and gaped at who'd killed Cock Robin.
Kellner broke the silence. "Physical first?" There was a general nod. "Physical, psychological, then-we'll come to that later." To Stein: "Want to come along? Rather wait here? This is going to take some time, you know."
Stein knew that. He also wanted to come along. Those were his orders.
I felt self-conscious taking off my clothes in front of that ghoulish crew. The sheet they left me kept off no drafts, and I felt like a corpse ready for the embalmer, and likely appeared one. Stethoscope, a scale for my weight, a tape for my arm and the blood pressure, lights that blinked in my eyes and bells that rang in my ear … when they were finished with me I felt like a used Tinker-Toy.
"Do I pass? Will I live?"
Kellner didn't like juvenile humor. He turned me over to another group who, so help me, brought out a box of children's blocks to put together, timing me with a stopwatch. They used the same stopwatch to time how long it took me to come up with answers to some of the silliest questions I ever heard outside of a nursery. Now I know why they label well the patients in an insane asylum. The man with the watch galloped off and came back with Kellner and they all stood around muttering. The sheet and I were sticking to the chair.
"Kellner. Doctor Kellner!" They didn't like me to break up the kaffeeklatch. "Can I go now? Are you all through?"
"All through?" The airedale changed to a cackling Rhode Island Red. "Joseph, you are just beginning."
"My name isn't Joseph, Dr. Kellner. It's Miller. Peter Ambrose Miller."
"Excuse me, Peter," and he cackled again. "Nevertheless, you're going to be here quite awhile."
Peter, hey? No more, Mr. Miller. Pete to my wife, Peter to my mother, and Peter to every school teacher I ever had.
They conferred awhile longer and the party broke up. Kellner and a gawkish Great Dane led me sheet and all to what I thought would be the operating room. It looked like one. I found a chair all by myself this time, and watched them hook up an electric fan. They were hipped on fans, I thought.
Kellner trotted over. "Stop that fan." Not, please stop that fan. Just, stop that fan.
I shivered ostentatiously. "I'm cold."
Kellner was annoyed. "Perfectly comfortable in here." Sure, you old goat, you got your pants on. "Come, let's not delay. Stop the fan."
I told him I was still cold, and I looked at the fan. It threw sparks, and the long cord smoked. I was going to fix those boys.