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“—stiltskin! Two halves with a rip from chin to fly. Yank my forelock, go ahead! Watch me fall apart at the seam. Like zipping a psychotic zipper, I fall, two Herr Doktor Admirals for the sick price of one. And which is the Doktor who heals and which the sellout best-seller Admiral? It takes two mirrors to tell. Not to mention the smoke!”
He stopped and looked around, holding his head together with his hands.
“Can you see the crack? Am I splitting again to become this crazy sailor who desires richness and fame, being sieved through the hands of crazed ladies with ruptured libidos? Suffering cat-fish, I call them! But take their money, spit, and spend! You should have such a year. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Then cheer up while I finish. Can I lie down? Is that a couch? Too short. What do I do with my legs?”
“Sit sidesaddle.”
Von Seyfertitz laid himself out with his legs draped over one side. “Hey, not bad. Sit behind. Don’t look over my shoulder. Avert your gaze. Neither smirk nor pull long faces as I get out the crazy-glue and paste Rumpel back with Stiltskin, the name of my next book, God help me. Damn you to hell, you and your damned periscope!”
“Not mine. Yours. You wanted me to discover it that day. I suppose you had been whispering Dive, Dive, for years to patients, half asleep. But you couldn’t resist the loudest scream ever: Dive! That was your captain speaking, wanting fame and money enough to chock a horse show.”
“God,” murmured Von Seyfertitz, “How I hate it when you’re honest. Feeling better already. How much do I owe you?”
He arose.
“Now we go kill the monsters instead of you.”
“Monsters?”
“At my office. If we can get in past the lunatics.”
“You have lunatics outside as well as in, now?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Often. But,” I added, “little white ones.”
“Come,” he said.
We got out of the elevator to be confronted by a long line of worshippers and supplicants. There must have been seventy people strung out between the elevator and the Baron’s door, waiting with copies of books by Madame Blavatsky, Krishnamurti, and Shirley MacLaine under their arms. There was a roar like a suddenly opened furnace door when they saw the Baron. We beat it on the double and got inside his office before anyone could surge to follow.
“See what you have done to me!” Von Seyfertitz pointed.
The office walls were covered with expensive teak paneling. The desk was from Napoleon’s age, an exquisite Empire piece worth at least fifty thousand dollars. The couch was the best soft leather I had ever seen, and the two pictures on the wall were originals—a Renoir and a Monet. My God, millions! I thought.
“Okay,” I said. “The beasts, you said. You’ll kill them, not me?”
The old man wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, then made a fist.
“Yes!” he cried, stepping up to the fine periscope, which reflected his face, madly distorted, in its elongated shape. “Like this. Thus and so!”
And before I could prevent, he gave the brass machine a terrific slap with his hand and then a blow and another blow and another, with both fists, cursing. Then he grabbed the periscope as if it were the neck of a spoiled child and throttled and shook it.
I cannot say what I heard in that instant. Perhaps real sounds, perhaps imagined temblors, like a glacier cracking in the spring, or icicles in mid-night. Perhaps it was a sound like a great kite breaking its skeleton in the wind and collapsing in folds of tissue. Maybe I thought I heard a vast breath in-sucked, a cloud dissolving up inside itself. Or did I sense clock machineries spun so wildly they smoked off their foundations and fell like brass snowflakes?
I put my eye to the periscope.
I looked in upon—
Nothing.
It was just a brass tube with some crystal lenses and a view of an empty couch.
No more.
I seized the viewpiece and tried to screw it into some new focus on a far place and some dream bacteria that might fibrillate across an unimaginable horizon.
But the couch remained only a couch, and the wall beyond looked back at me with its great blank face.
Von Seyfertitz leaned forward and a tear ran off the tip of his nose to fall on one rusted fist.
“Are they dead?” he whispered.
“Gone.”
“Good, they deserved to die. Now I can return to some kind of normal, sane world.”
And with each word his voice fell deeper within his throat, his chest, his soul, until it, like the vaporous haunts within the peri-kaleidoscope, melted into silence.
He clenched his fists together in a fierce clasp of prayer, like one who beseeches God to deliver him from plagues. And whether he was once again praying for my death, eyes shut, or whether he simply wished me gone with the visions within the brass device, I could not say.
I only knew that my gossip had done a terrible and irrevocable thing. Me and my wild enthusiasm for a psychological future and the fame of this incredible captain from beneath Nemo’s tidal seas.
“Gone,” murmured Gustav Von Seyfertitz, Baron Woldstein, whispered for the last time. “Gone.”
That was almost the end.
I went around a month later. The landlord reluctantly let me look over the premises, mostly because I hinted that I might be renting.
We stood in the middle of the empty room where I could see the dent marks where the couch had once stood.
I looked up at the ceiling. It was empty.
“What’s wrong?” said the landlord. “Didn’t they fix it so you can’t see? Damn fool Baron made a damn big hole up into the office above. Rented that, too, but never used it for anything I knew of. There was just that big damn hole he left when he went away.”
I sighed with relief.
“Nothing left upstairs?”
“Nothing.”
I looked up at the perfectly blank ceiling.
“Nice job of repair,” I said.
“Thank God,” said the landlord.
What, I often wonder, ever happened to Gustav Von Seyfertitz? Did he move to Vienna, to take up residence, perhaps, in or near dear Sigmund’s very own address? Does he live in Rio, aerating fellow Unterderseaboat Captains who can’t sleep for seasickness, roiling on their waterbeds under the shadow of the Andes Cross? Or is he in South Pasadena, within striking distance of the fruit larder nut farms disguised as film studios?
I cannot guess.
All I know is that some nights in the year, oh, once or twice, in a deep sleep I hear this terrible shout, his cry,
“Dive! Dive! Dive!”
And wake to find myself, sweating, far under my bed.
Zaharoff/Richter Mark V (#ulink_c90f8b66-65e2-513e-9bf8-43972e0666f6)
In the twilight just before sunrise, it was the most ordinary-looking building he had seen since the chicken farm of his youth. It stood in the middle of an empty field full of cricket weeds and cacti, mostly dust and some neglected footpaths in the half darkness.
Charlie Crowe left the Rolls-Royce engine running at the curb behind him and babbled going along the shadowed path, leading the way for Hank Gibson, who glanced back at the gently purring car.
“Shouldn’t you—”
“No, no,” Charlie Crowe cut in. “No one would steal a Rolls-Royce, now, would they? How far would they get, to the next corner? Before someone else stole it from them! Come along!”
“What’s the hurry, we’ve got all morning!”
“That’s what you think, chum. We’ve got—” Charlie Crowe eyed his watch. “Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen for the fast tour, the coming disaster, the revelations, the whole bit!”
“Don’t talk so fast and slow down, you’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Save it for breakfast. Here. Put this in your pocket.”
Hank Gibson looked at the coupon-green diploma.
“Insurance?”
“On your house, as of yesterday.”
“But we don’t need—”
“Yes, you do, but don’t know it. Sign the duplicate. Here. Can you see? Here’s my flashlight and my pen. Thatsa boy. Give one to me. One for you—”
“Christ—”
“No swearing. You’re all protected now, no matter what. Jig time.”
And before he knew it, Hank Gibson was elbow-fetched through a paint-flaked door inside to yet another locked door, which opened when Charlie Crowe pointed his electric laser at it. They stepped into—
“An elevator! What’s an elevator doing in a shack in an empty lot at five in the morning—”
“Hush.”
The floor sank under them and they traveled what might have been seventy or eighty feet straight down to where another door whispered aside and they stepped out into a long hall of a dozen doors on each side with a few dozen pleasantly glowing lights above. Before he could exclaim again, Hank Gibson was hustled past these doors that bore the names of cities and countries.
“Damn,” cried Hank Gibson, “I hate being rushed through one god-awful mystery after another. I’m working on a novel and a feature for my newspaper. I’ve no time—”
“For the biggest story in the world? Bosh! You and I will write it, share the profits! You can’t resist. Calamities. Chaos. Holocausts!”
“You were always great for hyperbole—”
“Quiet. It’s my turn to show and tell.” Charlie Crowe displayed his wristwatch. “We’re wasting time. Where do we start?” He waved at the two dozen shut doors surrounding them with labels marked CONSTANTINOPLE, MEXICO CITY, LIMA, SAN FRANCISCO on one side.
Eighteen ninety-seven, 1914, 1938, 1963 on the other. Also, a special door marked HAUSSMANN, 1870.
“Places and dates, dates and places. How in hell should I know why or how to choose?”
“Don’t these cities and dates ring any bells, stir any dust? Peek here. Glance there. Go on.”
Hank Gibson peeked.
To one side, through a glass window on the topmost part of a door marked 1789, he saw:
“Looks like Paris.”
“Press the button there under the glass.”
Hank Gibson pressed the button.
“Now look!”
Hank Gibson looked.
“My God, Paris. In flames. And there’s the guillotine!”
“Correct. Now. Next door. Next window.”
Hank Gibson moved and peeked.
“Paris again, by God. Do I press the button?”
“Why not?”
He pressed.
“Jesus, it’s still burning. But this time it’s 1870. The Commune?”
“Paris fighting Hessians outside the city, Parisians killing Parisians inside the city. Nothing like the French, eh? Move!”
They reached a third window. Gibson peered.
“Paris. But not burning. There go the taxicabs. I know. Nineteen sixteen. Paris saved by one thousand Paris taxis carrying troops to fend off the Germans outside the city!”
