The Blunderer
L. Sprague de Camp
MARIUS Baum looked at himself in the mirror with distaste. He often disliked himself—and never more than when he tried to "loosen up" or "be human" as his well-wishers were always urging he do.
The sight in the mirror would have repelled an even less self-critical man than Marius Baum. For his stocky form was encased in an emerald silk ballet-suit that had once clothed a dancer who portrayed Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake.
From the waist dangled a "ray-gun"—actually a child's toy, a flashlight in the form of a pistol. A scarlet cape topped off the outfit. Out of this gaudery rose the head of Marius Baum—an owlish-looking head with a swarthy skin, a bush of tightly-curled black hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Marius winced.
Baum was dressed as the "man of the future" because Violet Rogers had told him she would go with him to the Hallowe'en party given by the engineers of the Laboratories only if he would go in costume. Much as he hated the idea of dressing up he had given in when confronted with this bald choice—no costume, no Violet.
His lip curled as he looked at the reflection. You cold fish, he thought. You stuffed shirt. You human slide-rule. You gargoyle.
However, since to stand sneering at one's own image is at best a tedious and unprofitable occupation Baum took off the fantastic cape, rolled it up, donned his overcoat and went out. On the front step of the house where he roomed he took a quick look up and down the street, then scuttled across the sidewalk and fairly leaped into his car.
A light drizzle was just trailing off into a mist. The slick black asphalt cast back colored reflections of the stoplights. Baum drove slowly through the early October dusk, wishing he had worn only a slicker over his costume. The combination of ballet-suit and overcoat was uncomfortably warm but he did not have the brass to discard the latter.
A NORMALLY careful driver, he drove more meticulously than ever. If he incurred the least mishap it would be horribly embarrassing to have to explain to some stupid sparrow-cop why he was driving around the city in a suit of long green underwear.
He took a good look in the rear-view mirrors from time to time to see if by any chance he were being followed. Not that anybody had ever actually followed him as far as he knew—but he suspected that if They ever wanted to find out what the Laboratories were up to They might well start working on the Classified Projects editor. He had not shared this speculation with anybody else, partly from natural taciturnity and partly from fear of ridicule.
One trouble with him, he continued, morosely introspective, was that he saw other people's faults too clearly for them to like him, saw his own too clearly even to like himself. Like that man in Gilbert and Sullivan—
"A charitable action I can skillfully dissect;
And interested motives I'm delighted to detect;
To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two;
I can tell a woman's age in half a minute—and I do. But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet everybody says I am a disagreeable man!
And I can't think why!"
"Vi!" he called.
"Coming." And there she was, looking enchanting in her concept of the "woman of the future." Her costume consisted mainly of those French sun-suits that covered only the few ultimate square inches and, on top of that, an old velvet opera-cloak with an ermine collar, such as were the height of swank in the early years of the century. In fact Violet's finding of this garment in a trunk in her attic had given her this loathsome idea in the first place.
"How cold is it?" she asked.
"Warm. Around sixty."
"Then this will be enough," she said, enfolding herself in the opera-cape.
Baum ignored a taunt from Violet's younger brother about "Superman" and hurried the girl out into his automobile.
"How are you?" he asked gravely as they got under way.
"Fine. Where did you say this was being held?"
"At the Bradford." Then he relapsed into silence. While he was never a loquacious man the presence of Violet Rogers seemed to tie his tongue completely.
Maybe he ought to take up drinking. Alcohol was said to loosen up inhibited types like him. But not yet—not while he had the editorship. That was too responsible and confidential a job for him to let his tongue be loosened on any pretext.
Bump!
The car ahead of Baum had begun to make a left turn just as another car coming in the other direction, having slowed down as if to yield the right-of-way, started up again and sped across the intersection. The car ahead jammed on its brakes. So did Marius Baum—but not quite soon enough.
Now he was in for it. And if his garb would arouse comment when exposed to the shameful light of publicity, what about the almost non-existent one in which Violet was clad? He began to get out, feeling in his overcoat pocket for the wallet that held his driver's license—for the ballet-suit had no pockets. A man was getting out of the other car too.
"Pull over to the curb, you guys!" said the harsh voice of authority as a cop materialized out of the darkness and began unsnarling the traffic that had piled up around the two stalled automobiles.
BAUM got back into his car. So did the other driver and they moved their vehicles over to the nearest curb and got out again. Baum, looking at the front end of his machine, could see no damage except a small mark on the paint of his left front fender. Not even a dent.
The other driver was meanwhile examining the rear of his car. Presently he took a few steps towards Baum, saying, "No damage here."
"None here either," said Baum. "But just in case ..." And he extended his wallet with the license showing through one of the little plastic compartments.
The other driver got out a small pad and pencil and copied down the data given therein. Then he tendered his license in turn for Baum to copy.
"What you got on, mister?" said the cop, who had been inspecting the cars himself.
Baum realized that he had left his overcoat unbuttoned because of the temperature and that his man-of-the-future costume was fully visible.
"I'm on my way to a costume party," he said weakly.
"Hm," said the cop. "These cars don't seem damaged none, do they?" And he moved away to direct the still-fouled traffic at the intersection.
As Baum looked up from copying the other driver's license be became aware that the other occupants of the strange automobile had also got out and were standing around him. He could see by the street-light overhead that they were all dressed exactly alike—very plainly, in dark double-breasted suits, white shirts and dark neckties.
Ominously silent, they moved in on him from all sides. The thought struck Baum that they might be a gang of criminals or spies. Would they dare molest him with a policeman directing traffic a few yards away? One good yell
Even as he filled his lungs a bright light flashed in his eyes. His breath went out with a whoosh. In that fraction of a second all the starch had somehow gone out of him. He felt as weak as water, not physical weakness but a feebleness of will or spirit that left him limply receptive to any command or suggestion.
It was not long in coming. "Get in," said one of the men.
Like a man in a dream Marius Baum climbed into the strange car, which started up and whizzed away into the darkness. As they zipped around the next corner, Baum heard, faintly, the sound of a police-whistle. Dimly he apprehended that Violet, when she saw him get into the other automobile, must have climbed out of the one she was sitting in and accosted the policeman.
No further sounds followed them as they careened around other corners until Baum utterly lost track of where he was. Not that in his present state he much cared. He observed all these events with the sluggish detachment of a man sitting through a movie that bores him.