Six Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Part 14

"What do you do?"

"I . . . don't know."

"Try to remember. What is your profession?"

No answer. She tried again. "Are you a hypnotist?"

"No."

"Are you a-magician?"

The answer was delayed a little, but finally came. "No."

"What are you, Jonathan Haag?"

He opened his mouth, seemed about to answer-then sat up suddenly, his manner brisk and completely free of the la.s.situde normal to the drug. "I'm sorry, my dear, but this will have to stop-for the present."

He stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. "Bad," he said, glancing up and down the street. "How distressingly bad." He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to them. Cynthia and Randall looked at him, then to each other for help.

"What is bad, Mr. Hoag?" Cynthia asked, rather diffidently. She did not have the impression a.n.a.lyzed, but he seemed like another person-younger, more vibrant.

"Eh? Oh, I'm sorry. I owe you an explanation. I was forced to, uh, dispense with the drug."

"Dispense with it?"

"Throw it off, ignore it, make it as nothing. You see, my dear, while you were talking I recalled my profession." He looked at them cheerily, but offered no further explanation.

Randall was the first to recover. "What is your profession?"

Hoag smiled at him, almost tenderly. "It wouldn't do to tell you," he said. "Not now, at least." He turned to Cynthia. "My dear, could I trouble you for a pencil and a sheet of paper?"

"Uh-why, certainly." She got them for him; he accepted them graciously and, seating himself, began to write.

When he said nothing to explain his conduct Randall spoke up, "Say, Hoag, look here-" Hoag turned a serene face to him; Randall started to speak, seemed puzzled by what he saw in Hoag's face, and concluded lamely, "Er . . . Mr. Hoag, what's this all about?"

"Are you not willing to trust me?"

Randall chewed his lip for a moment and looked at him; Hoag was patient and serene. "Yes . . . I suppose I am," he said at last.

"Good. I am making a list of some things I want you to buy for me. I shall be quite busy for the next two hours or so."

"You are leaving us?"

"You are worried about the Sons of the Bird, aren't you? Forget them. They will not harm you. I promise it." He resumed writing. Some minutes later he handed the list to Randall. "I've noted at the bottom the place where you are to meet me-a filling station outside Waukegan."

"Waukegan? Why Waukegan?"

"No very important reason. I want to do once more something I am very fond of doing and don't expect to be able to do again. You'll help me, won't you? Some of the things I've asked you to buy may be hard to get, but you will try?"

"I suppose so."

"Good." He left at once.

Randall looked from the closing door back to the list in his hand. "Well, I'll be a- Cyn, what do you suppose he wants us to get for him?-groceries!"

"Groceries? Let me see that list."

X.

They were driving north in the outskirts of the city, with Randall at the wheel. Somewhere up ahead lay the place where they were to meet Hoag; behind them in the trunk of the car were the purchases he had directed them to make.

"Teddy?"

"Yeah, kid."

"Can you make a U-turn here?"

"Sure-if you don't get caught. Why?"

"Because that's just what I'd like to do. Let me finish," she went on hurriedly. "We've got the car; we've got all the money we have in the world with us; there isn't anything to stop us from heading south if we want to."

"Still thinking of that vacation? But we're going on it-just as soon as we deliver this stuff to Hoag."

"I don't mean a vacation. I mean go away and never come back-now!"

"With eighty dollars' worth of fancy groceries that Hoag ordered and hasn't paid for yet? No soap.

"We could eat them ourselves."

"Humph! Caviar and humming-bird wings. We can't afford it, kid. We're the hamburger type. Anyhow, even if we could, I want to see Hoag again. Some plain talk-and explanations."

She sighed. "That's just what I thought, Teddy, and that's why I want to cut and run. I don't want explanations; I'm satisfied with the world the way it is. Just you and me-and no complications. I don't want to know anything about Mr. Hoag's profession-or the Sons of the Bird-or anything like that."

He fumbled for a cigarette, then scratched a match under the instrument board, while looking at her quizzically out of the corner of his eye. Fortunately the traffic was light. "I think I feel the same way you do about it, kid, but I've got a different angle on it. If we drop it now, I'll be jumpy about the Sons of the Bird the rest of my life, and scared to shave, for fear of looking in a mirror. But there is a rational explanation for the whole thing-bound to be-and I'm going to get it. Then we can sleep."

She made herself small and did not answer.

"Look at it this way," Randall went on, somewhat irritated. "Everything that has happened could have been done in the ordinary way, without recourse to supernatural agencies. As for supernatural agencies-well, out here in the sunlight and the traffic it's a little too much to swallow. Sons of the Bird-rats!"

She did not answer. He went on. "The first significant point is that Hoag is a consummate actor. Instead of being a prissy little Milquetoast, he's a dominant personality of the first water. Look at the way I shut up and said, 'Yes, sir,' when he pretended to throw off the drug and ordered us to buy all those groceries."

"Pretended?"

"Sure. Somebody subst.i.tuted colored water for my sleepy juice-probably done the same time the phony warning was stuck in the typewriter. But to get back to the point-he's a naturally strong character and almost certainly a clever hypnotist. Pulling that illusion about the thirteenth floor and Detheridge & Co. shows how skillful he is-or somebody is. Probably used drugs on me as well, just as they did on you."

"On me?"

"Sure. Remember that stuff you drank in Potbury's office? Some sort of a delayed-action Mickey Finn."

"But you drank it, too!"

"Not necessarily the same stuff. Potbury and Hoag were in cahoots, which is how they created the atmosphere that made the whole thing possible. Everything else was little stuff, insignificant when taken alone."

Cynthia had her own ideas about that, but she kept them to herself. However, one point bothered her. "How did Potbury get out of the bathroom? You told me he was locked in."

"I've thought about that. He picked the lock while I was phoning Hoag, hid in the closet and just waited his chance to walk out."

"Hm-m-m-" She let it go at that for several minutes.

Randall stopped talking, being busy with the traffic in Waukegan. He turned left and headed out of town.

"Teddy-if you are sure that the whole thing was just a hoax and there are no such things as the Sons, then why can't we drop it and head south? We don't need to keep this appointment."

"I'm sure of my explanation all right," he said, skillfully avoiding a suicide-bent boy on a bicycle, "in its broad outlines, but I'm not sure of the motivation-and that's why I have to see Hoag. Funny thing, though," he continued thoughtfully, "I don't think Hoag has anything against us; I think he had some reasons of his own and paid us five hundred berries to put up with some discomfort while he carried out his plans. But we'll see. Anyhow, it's too late to turn back; there's the filling station he mentioned-and there's Hoag!"

Hoag climbed in with no more than a nod and a smile; Randall felt again the compulsion to do as he was told which had first hit him some two hours before. Hoag told him where to go.

The way lay out in the country and, presently, off the pavement. In due course they came to a farm gate leading into pasture land, which Hoag instructed Randall to open and drive through. "The owner does not mind," he said. "I've been here many times, on my Wednesdays. A beautiful spot."

It was a beautiful spot. The road, a wagon track now, led up a gradual rise to a tree-topped crest. Hoag had him park under a tree, and they got out. Cynthia stood for a moment, drinking it in, and savoring deep breaths of the clean air. To the south Chicago could be seen and beyond it and east of it a silver gleam of the lake. "Teddy, isn't it gorgeous?"

"It is," he admitted, but turned to Hoag. "What I want to know is-why are we here?"

"Picnic," said Hoag. "I chose this spot for my finale."

"Finale?"

"Food first," said Hoag. "Then, if you must, we'll talk."

It was a very odd menu for a picnic; in place of hearty foods there were some dozens of gourmets' specialties-preserved c.u.mquats, guava jelly, little potted meats, tea-made by Haag over a spirit lamp-delicate wafers with a famous name on the package. In spite of this both Randall and Cynthia found themselves eating heartily. Hoag tried everything, never pa.s.sing up a dish-but Cynthia noticed that he actually ate very little, tasting rather than dining.

In due course Randall got his courage up to brace Hoag; it was beginning to appear that Hoag had no intention of broaching the matter himself. "Hoag?"

"Yes, Ed?"

"Isn't it about time you took off the false face and quit kidding us?"

"I have not kidded you, my friend."

"You know what I mean-this whole rat race that has been going on the past few days. You're mixed up in it and know more about it than we do-that's evident. Mind you, not that I'm accusing you of anything," he added hastily. "But I want to know what it means."

"Ask yourself what it means."

"O.K.," Randall accepted the challenge. "I will." He launched into the explanation which he had sketched out to Cynthia, Hoag encouraged him to continue it fully, but, when he was through, said nothing.

"Well," Randall said nervously, "that's how it happened-wasn't it?"

"It seems like a good explanation."

"I thought so. But you've still got to clear some things up. Why did you do it?"

Hoag shook his head thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, Ed. I cannot possibly explain my motives to you."

"But, d.a.m.n it, that's not fair! The least you could-"

"When did you ever find fairness, Edward?"

"Well-I expected you to play fair with us. You encouraged us to treat you as a friend. You owe us explanations."

"I promised you explanations. But consider, Ed-do you want explanations? I a.s.sure you that you will have no more trouble, no more visitations from the Sons."

Cynthia touched his arm. "Don't ask for them, Teddy!"

He brushed her off, not unkindly but decisively. "I've got to know. Let's have the explanation."

"You won't like it."

"I'll chance it."

"Very well." Hoag settled back. "Will you serve the wine, my dear? Thank you. I shall have to tell you a little story first. It will be partly allegorical, as there are not the . . . the words, the concepts. Once there was a race, quite unlike the human race-quite. I have no way of describing to you what they looked like or how they lived, but they had one characteristic you can understand: they were creative. The creating and enjoying of works of art was their occupation and their reason for being. I say 'art' advisedly, for art is undefined, undefinable, and without limits. I can use the word without fear of misusing it, for it has no exact meaning. There are as many meanings as there are artists. But remember that these artists are not human and their art is not human.

"Think of one of this race, in your terms-young. He creates a work of art, under the eye and the guidance of his teacher. He has talent, this one, and his creation has many curious and amusing features. The teacher encourages him to go on with it and prepare it for the judging. Mind you, I am speaking in metaphorical terms, as if this were a human artist, preparing his canvases to be judged in the annual showing."

He stopped and said suddenly to Randall, "Are you a religious man? Did it ever occur to you that all this"-he included the whole quietly beautiful countryside in the sweep of his arm-"might have had a Creator? Must have had a Creator?"

Randall stared and turned red. "I'm not exactly a church-going man," he blurted, "but- Yes, I suppose I do believe it."

"And you, Cynthia?"

She nodded, tense and speechless.

"The Artist created this world, after His Own fas.h.i.+on and using postulates which seemed well to Him. His teacher approved on the whole, but-"

"Wait a minute," Randall said insistently. "Are you trying to describe the creation of the world-the Universe?"

"What else?"

"But-d.a.m.n it, this is preposterous! I asked for an explanation of the things that have just happened to us."

"I told you that you would not like the explanation." He waited for a moment, then continued. "The Sons of the Bird were the dominant feature of the world, at first."