than I knew, what was wrong with me, what medicine it would take to cure me. I was no longer trembling; I stood there, the gun cradled in my hand, ready to spit and kill. My master…
If I killed this one I would be a free man again—but I would never be free as long as it lived. Surely, I wanted to kill them, every one of them, search them out, burn them, kill them—but this one above all.
My master…still my master unless I killed it. I had a dark and certain thought that if I were alone with it, I would be able to do nothing, that I would freeze and wait while it crawled up me and settled again between my shoulder blades, searched out my spinal column, took possession of my brain and my very inner self.
But now I could kill it!
No longer frightened but fiercely exultant I raised the gun, ready to squeeze the trigger.
The Old Man watched me.
I lowered the gun a little and said uncertainly, “Boss, suppose I do kill it. You’ve got others?”
“No.”
“But you need it.”
“Yes.”
“Well, but—For the love o’ God, why did you give me the gun?”
“You know why. This one is yours; you’ve got first claim. If you have to kill it, go ahead. If you can pass it up, then the Section will use it.”
I had to kill it. Even if we killed all the others, while this one was still alive I would still crouch and tremble in the dark. As for the others, for study—why, we could capture a dozen any time at the Constitution Club. With this one dead I’d lead the raid myself. Breathing rapidly, I raised the gun again.
Then I turned and chucked the gun to the Old Man; he plucked it out of the air and put it away. “What happened?” he asked. “You were all set.”
“Uh? I don’t know. When it got right down to it, it was enough to know that I could.”
“I figured that it would be.”
I felt warm and relaxed, as if I had just killed a man or had a woman—as if I had just killed it . I was able to turn my back on it and face the Old Man. I was not even angry with him for what he had done; instead I felt warm toward him, even affectionate. “I know you did, damn you. How does it feel to be a puppet master?”
He did not take the jibe as a joke. Instead he answered soberly, “Not me. The most I ever do is to lead a man on the path he wants to follow. There is the puppet master.” He hooked a thumb at the parasite.
I looked around at it. “Yes,” I agreed softly, “‘the puppet master’. You think you know what you mean by that—but you don’t. And boss… I hope you never do.”
“I hope so, too,” he answered seriously.
I could look now without trembling. I even started to put my hands in my pockets, but the shorts had no pockets. Still staring at it, I went on, “Boss, when you are through with it, if there is anything left, then I’ll kill it.”
“That’s a promise.”
We were interrupted by a man bustling into the cage room. He was dressed in shorts and a lab coat; it made him look silly. I did not recognize him—it was not Graves; I never saw Graves again; I imagine the Old Man ate him for lunch.
“Chief,” he said, trotting up, “I did not know you were in here. I—”
“Well, I am,” the Old Man cut in. “What are you doing wearing a coat?” The Old Man’s gun was out and pointed at the man’s chest.
The man stared at the gun as if it were a bad joke. “Why, I was working, of course. There is always a chance of splattering one’s self. Some of our solutions are rather—”
“Take it off!”
“Eh?”
The Old Man waggled his gun at him. To me he said, “Get ready to take him.”
The man took his coat off. He stood there holding it and biting his lip. His back and shoulders were bare, nor was there the telltale rash. “Take that damned coat and burn it,” the Old Man told him. “Then get back to your work.”
The man hurried away, his face red, then hesitated, glanced at me, and said to the Old Man, “Chief, are you ready for that, uh,
If I killed this one I would be a free man again—but I would never be free as long as it lived. Surely, I wanted to kill them, every one of them, search them out, burn them, kill them—but this one above all.
My master…still my master unless I killed it. I had a dark and certain thought that if I were alone with it, I would be able to do nothing, that I would freeze and wait while it crawled up me and settled again between my shoulder blades, searched out my spinal column, took possession of my brain and my very inner self.
But now I could kill it!
No longer frightened but fiercely exultant I raised the gun, ready to squeeze the trigger.
The Old Man watched me.
I lowered the gun a little and said uncertainly, “Boss, suppose I do kill it. You’ve got others?”
“No.”
“But you need it.”
“Yes.”
“Well, but—For the love o’ God, why did you give me the gun?”
“You know why. This one is yours; you’ve got first claim. If you have to kill it, go ahead. If you can pass it up, then the Section will use it.”
I had to kill it. Even if we killed all the others, while this one was still alive I would still crouch and tremble in the dark. As for the others, for study—why, we could capture a dozen any time at the Constitution Club. With this one dead I’d lead the raid myself. Breathing rapidly, I raised the gun again.
Then I turned and chucked the gun to the Old Man; he plucked it out of the air and put it away. “What happened?” he asked. “You were all set.”
“Uh? I don’t know. When it got right down to it, it was enough to know that I could.”
“I figured that it would be.”
I felt warm and relaxed, as if I had just killed a man or had a woman—as if I had just killed it . I was able to turn my back on it and face the Old Man. I was not even angry with him for what he had done; instead I felt warm toward him, even affectionate. “I know you did, damn you. How does it feel to be a puppet master?”
He did not take the jibe as a joke. Instead he answered soberly, “Not me. The most I ever do is to lead a man on the path he wants to follow. There is the puppet master.” He hooked a thumb at the parasite.
I looked around at it. “Yes,” I agreed softly, “‘the puppet master’. You think you know what you mean by that—but you don’t. And boss… I hope you never do.”
“I hope so, too,” he answered seriously.
I could look now without trembling. I even started to put my hands in my pockets, but the shorts had no pockets. Still staring at it, I went on, “Boss, when you are through with it, if there is anything left, then I’ll kill it.”
“That’s a promise.”
We were interrupted by a man bustling into the cage room. He was dressed in shorts and a lab coat; it made him look silly. I did not recognize him—it was not Graves; I never saw Graves again; I imagine the Old Man ate him for lunch.
“Chief,” he said, trotting up, “I did not know you were in here. I—”
“Well, I am,” the Old Man cut in. “What are you doing wearing a coat?” The Old Man’s gun was out and pointed at the man’s chest.
The man stared at the gun as if it were a bad joke. “Why, I was working, of course. There is always a chance of splattering one’s self. Some of our solutions are rather—”
“Take it off!”
“Eh?”
The Old Man waggled his gun at him. To me he said, “Get ready to take him.”
The man took his coat off. He stood there holding it and biting his lip. His back and shoulders were bare, nor was there the telltale rash. “Take that damned coat and burn it,” the Old Man told him. “Then get back to your work.”
The man hurried away, his face red, then hesitated, glanced at me, and said to the Old Man, “Chief, are you ready for that, uh,
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