Well, did he?
“Look,” he said, “what exactly’s wrong with me? I mean-“
“You’ve suffered a severe shock. But you’ve slept quietly for the last twelve hours. Physically, you are quite all right. Even able to get up, if you feel you want to. But, of course, you mustn’t leave.”
Of course he mustn’t leave. They had him down as a candidate for the booby hatch. An excellent candidate. Young man most likely to succeed.
Wednesday. Wedding day.
Jane.
He couldn’t bear to see—
“Listen,” he said, “will you send in Mr. Pemberton, alone? I’d rather-“
“Certainly. Anything else I can do for you?”
Charlie shook his head sadly. He was feeling most horribly sorry for himself. Was there anything anybody could do for him?
Mr. Pemberton held out his hand quietly. “Charles, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am-“
Charlie nodded. “Thanks. I…I guess you understand why I don’t want to see Jane. I realize that… that of course we can’t-“
Mr. Pemberton nodded. “Jane…uh…understands, Charles. She wants to see you, but realizes that it might make both of you feel worse, at least right now. And Charles, if there’s anything any of us can do-“
What was there anybody could do?
Pull the wings off an angleworm?
Take a duck out of a showcase?
Find a missing golf hall?
Pete came in after the Pembertons had gone away. A quieter and more subdued Pete than Charlie had ever seen.
He said, “Charlie, do you feel up to talking this over?” Charlie sighed. “if it’d do any good, yes. I feel all right physically. But-“
“Listen, you’ve got to keep your chin up. There’s an answer somewhere. Listen, I was wrong. There is a connection, a tie-up between these screwy things that happened to you. There’s got to be.”
“Sure,” said Charlie, wearily. “What?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. First place, we’ll have to outsmart the psychiatrists they’ll sick on you. As soon as they think you’re well enough to stand it. Now, let’s look at it from their point of view so we’ll know what to tell ‘em. First-“
“How much do they know?”
“Well, you raved while you were unconscious, about the worm business and about a duck and a golf ball, but you can pass that off as ordinary raving. Talking in your sleep. Dreaming. Just deny knowing anything about them, or anything connected with any of them. Sure, the duck business was in the newspapers, but it wasn’t a big story and your name wasn’t in it. So they’ll never tie that up. If they do, deny it. Now that leaves the two times you keeled over and were brought here unconscious.”
Charlie nodded. “And what do they make of them?”
“They’re puzzled. The first one they can’t make anything much of. They’re inclined to leave it lay. The second one—Well, they insist that you must, somehow, have given yourself that ether.”
“But why? Why would anybody give himself ether?”
“No sane man would. That’s just it; they doubt your sanity because they think you did. If you can convince then you’re sane, then, look, you got to buck up. They are classifying your attitude as acute melancholia, and that sort of borders on maniac depressive. See? You got to act cheerful.”
“Cheerful? When I was to be married at two o’clock today? By the way, what time is it now?”
Pete glanced at his wrist watch and said, “Uh… never mind that. Sure, if they ask why you feel lousy mentally, tell them-“
“Dammit, Peter, I wish I was crazy. At least, being crazy makes sense. And if this stuff keeps up, I will go—
“Don’t talk like that. You got to fight.”
“Yeah,” said Charlie, listlessly. “Fight what?”
There was a low rap on the door and the nurse looked into the room. “Your time is up, Mr. Johnson. You’ll have to leave.”
INACTION, and the futility of circling thought-patterns that get nowhere. Finally, he had to do something or go mad.
Get dressed? He called for his clothes and got them, except that he was given slippers instead of his shoes. Anyway, getting dressed took time.
And sitting in a chair was a change from lying in bed. And then walking up and down was a change from sitting in a chair.
“What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock, Mr. Wills.”
Seven o’clock; he should have been married five hours by now.
Married to Jane; beautiful, gorgeous, sweet, loving, understanding, kissable, soft, lovable Jane Pemberton. Five hours ago this moment she should have become Jane Wills.
Nevermore.
Unless—
The problem.
Solve it.
Or go mad.
Why would a worm wear a halo?
“Dr. Palmer is here to see you, Mr. Wills. Shall I—”
“Hello, Charles. Came as soon as I could after I learned you were out of your…uh…coma. Had an o. b. case that kept me. How do you feel?”
He felt terrible.
Ready to scream and tear the paper off the wall only the wall was painted white and didn’t have any paper. And scream, scream—
“I feel swell, doc,” said Charlie.
“Anything…uh…strange happen to you since you’ve been here?”
“Not a thing. But, doc, how would you explain-“
Doc Palmer explained. Doctors always explain. The air crackled with words like psychoneurotic and autohypnosis and traumata.
Finally, Charlie was alone again. He’d managed to say good-by to Doc Palmer, too, without yelling and tearing him to bits.
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Six hours married.
Why is a duck?
Solve it.
Or go mad.
What would happen next? “Surely this thing shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the bughouse forever.”
Eight o’clock.
Six hours married.
Why a lei? Ether? Heat?
What have they in common? And why is a duck?
And what would it be next time? When would next time he? Well, maybe he could guess that. How many things had happened to him thus far? Five-if the missing golf ball counted. How far apart? Let’s see-the angle-worm was Sunday morning when he went fishing; the heat prostration was Tuesday; the duck in the museum was Thursday noon, the second-last day he worked; the golf game and the lei was Saturday; the ether Monday
Two days apart.
Periodicity?
He’d been pacing up and down the room, now suddenly he felt in his pocket and found pencil and a notebook, and sat down in the chair.
Could it be-exact periodicity?
He wrote down “Angleworm” and stopped to think. Pete was to call for him to go fishing at five-fifteen and he’d gone downstairs at just that time, and right to the flower bed to dig. Yes, five-fifteen A.M. He wrote it down.
“Heat.” Mm-m-m, he’d been a block from work and was due there at eight-thirty, and when he’d passed the corner clock he’d looked and seen that he had five minutes to get there, and then had seen the teamster and-He wrote it down. “Eight twenty-five.” And calculated.
Two days, three hours, ten minutes.
Let’s see, which was next? The duck in the museum. He could time that fairly well, too. Old Man Hapworth had told him to go to lunch early, and he’d left at… uh…eleven twenty-five and if it took him, say, ten minutes to walk the block to the museum and down the main corridor and into the numismatics room-Say, eleven thirty-five.
He subtracted that from the previous one.
And whistled.