The sight of her petrified Tosher for a minute.
“I thought you were a ghost!” he said hoarsely.
The woman brushed a hand over her forehead.
“Why aren’t you in the bath yet, Mickie?” she asked in a puzzled fashion.
“It’s all right now, you’re safe now,” he said, recovering from his first fright. “We’ll soon have you out of here.”
Her gaze went right through him.
“The bath water’s getting cold while you just stand there,” she said.
“You’re a bit dazed, my dear,” said Tosher, in a gentle voice. “Here, look, let me—”
“I asked you to get undressed, didn’t I?” she said. She sounded rational enough, but her eyes—they were as black as prunes and stared unseeingly through Tosher. “Hurry up and get your clothes off, Mickie, or the water will be stone cold.”
“I’m not your little boy,” Tosher said. “Something— something’s happened. Try and understand. Let me take care of you.”
“Don’t argue, Mickie,” she said sharply. “Get undressed quickly. It’s nearly time for Daddy to come home.”
“Mickie isn’t here!” Tosher explained desperately. “I’ve come to get you out of this, old pet.”
“You must have your bath first,” she shouted. There was a bruise on her temple like mud under the skin where she had clouted herself against the airing-cupboard door. “It’s getting late,” she said.
“Can’t you see—” Tosher began, gesturing to the little yacht lying on its side in the bath. But he knew she could not understand; the poor creature was not rational.
If he could get her upstairs, the helicart would take her to hospital for treatment. Advancing he laid a hand on the woman’s wrist. With unexpected force, she flung herself onto him. She pounced like a wild cat and began to rip the clothes off his back.
“Get undressed! Get undressed!” she yelled. “You must have your bath, you dirty little scamp!”
Tosher staggered back, putting his hand up to her throat to push her off him. With a quick movement, she bit his fingers till the blood came.
“Into the bath!” she screamed. “Quick! Quickly! Your ducks and boats are waiting for you!”
Under the prod of pain, Tosher acted instinctively. He chopped her under the nose with the edge of his palm and then, when her head was still jerked backward, pushed hard against her chest. She came away from him.
“Your bath . . .” she began surprisedly.
Just for a moment she was balanced on the brink of the drop. Tosher stepped forward to grab her. Their fingers touched. Then she was falling backward, outward, her mouth fixed in an astonished, silent, “Oh!”
Helplessly, Tosher just stood there and watched her fall. Her round mouth and her puzzled expression—as if this were some problem she could solve, given another five minutes—were vividly clear to him. And in that instant he recognized her.
“Judy!” he called. Just that one call.
And the round mouth of her, fixed, dwindling in the center of his vision, changed suddenly into an expanding hole, growing rounder, bigger, bigger yet. It was swallowing, vaporizing away the barrier that stood between Tosher and his past. The sight of Judy had finally vanquished his nine-year amnesia.
Standing there on the edge of nothing, Tosher could at last see back into his lost life. A figure was standing there. It was Norton Sykes, The Man Who Started It All, the man who had vanished when the first load of enemy suitcases fell on his hideout. Tosher recognized Norton’s figure: it was himself.
“Me . . . Norton . . .” he muttered and then, aloud in an oddly conversational tone, “but I don’t want to be Norton.”
And he took a pace forward into thin air.
Most of this I saw with my own two eyes. Directly I heard Tosher breaking the mirror, I guessed something was wrong. In rocky jigsaws, we scrap chaps are always as silent as mice.
All I had to do was drop the helicart down one story and angle it round one corner. I did it in a hurry, and the pulley system snagged me. In my haste, I had forgotten it still connected me with the attic.
Rather than flip the crate up again to disconnect, I snatched up my welder and jumped back onto the platform to burn the steel pulley cable through and thus release the helicart. It took a hell of a time. The welder wouldn’t function properly and my hands were shaking as if I had palsy.
I was stuck half round the corner, helpless. I could see Tosher and the woman from where I was, but couldn’t get to them. I shouted, but they didn’t look. When the cable finally gave, I was just too late to catch Tosher as he fell.
The terrible thing was, that woman wasn’t Judy any more than I am. I checked afterward. It was just a delusion of poor old Tosher’s. But of course he was—or had been— Norton Sykes. I’d found that out years ago. All the boys in the yard knew, but they never let on. Nor did they ever hold it against him, although as Norton Sykes, Tosher had been a virtual dictator.
It’s an odd world. A dictator can make a damn good scrap man. And vice versa, unfortunately.
FRESH GUY
by E. C. Tubb
Another Britisher presents what you might call a double-doom story—set in a graveyard, around the tombstone that marks the underground retreat of the war-torn remnants of humanity. Mankind dug under long ago; but the scent of fresh-turned dirt is present still—appetizingly, for some.
Sammy was playing knucklebones on The Tombstone when the vampire arrived. As a vampire he obviously had a lot to learn. Sammy had heard him, recognized him for what he was and had dismissed him as a possible danger long before the stranger stumbled into the light of the tiny fire which Sammy tended. Even when he finally arrived Sammy paid him no attention, concentrating instead on his game, rolling the five scraps of bone with easy familiarity.
He was good at the game, having had much time in which to practice, and he took a quiet pride in the skillful manner he tossed and snatched, flipped and caught, spun and held the knucklebones. He ended the game by throwing them high into the air, catching them on the back of his hand. It was a broad, shovel-like hand with stubby fingers, thick, strong nails and well-developed muscles.
“Not bad, eh?” Sammy flipped the bones again, letting them bounce down the back of his hand and trapping them neatly between his fingers. He looked up, grinning at the stranger.
“What?” The vampire, a pale, distraught young character was obviously out of his depth. He wore a faded khaki shirt and pants, a pair of cracked and mildewed boots and a baffled expression. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘Not bad, eh?’ “ Sammy rolled the bones lovingly between his palms. “I bet that you couldn’t handle them like that.”
“I don’t suppose I could,” admitted the stranger. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Help yourself.” Sammy waved to a spot opposite him across the fire. “Glad of company.” He rolled his bones again and stared moodily into the fire.
The stranger stared too. He seemed to be struggling with some private burden for twice he attempted to speak and changed his mind at the last moment. He squinted towards Sammy but the fire was low and the light was bad and all he could make out was a formless blur. Finally he coughed and got to the heart of what was worrying him.