There was no pressure on him this time to forage for food. The enormous number of deaths that had occurred following the release of the virus had resulted in a surplus in local warehouses, and the stores were open again with distribution routines back to normal.
His mother was spending most of her time in church, and Carl and Claudia were back in school, which had reopened recently. Croyd knew that he would not be returning to school himself. The money supply was still good, but on reflecting that he had slept nine days longer this time than he had on the previous occasion he felt it would be a good idea to have some extra cash on hand. He wondered whether he could heat a hand sufficiently to burn through the metal door of a safe. He had had a very hard time tearing open that one—had almost given up, actually—and Bentley had assured him that it was a “tin can.” He went outside and practiced on a piece of galvanized pipe.
He tried to plan the job carefully, but his judgment was bad. He had to open eight safes that week before he obtained much in the way of money. Most of them just held papers. He knew that he set off alarms also, and this made him nervous; he hoped that his fingerprints changed too when he slept. He worked as quickly as he could and wished that Bentley were back. The dog-man would have known what to do, he felt. He had hinted on several occasions that his normal occupation had involved something somewhat less than legal.
The days passed more quickly than he would have wished. He purchased a large, all-purpose wardrobe. Nights, he walked the city, observing the signs of damage that still remained and the progress of repair work. He caught up on the news, of the city, the world. It was not hard to believe in a man from outer space when the results of his virus were all about him. He asked a bullet-domed man with webbed fingers where he might find Dr. Tachyon. The man gave him an ad- dress and a phone number. He kept them in his wallet and did not call or visit. What if the doctor examined him, told him there was no problem, and cured him? Nobody else in the family was able to make a living at this point.
The day came when his appetite peaked again, which he felt might mean that his body was getting ready for another change. This time, he observed his feelings more carefully, for future reference. It took him the rest of that day and night and part of the next day before the chills came and the waves of drowsiness began. He left a note saying good night to the others, for they were out when the feeling began to overwhelm him. And this time he locked his bedroom door, for he had learned that they had observed him regularly as he slept, had even brought in a doctor at one point—a woman who had prudently recommended that they simply let him sleep, once she learned his case history. She had also suggested that he see Dr. Tachyon when he awoke, but his mother had misplaced the paper on which she had written this. Mrs. Crenson's mind seemed to wander often these days.
He had the dream again—and this time he realized that it was again—and this was the first time that he remembered it: The apprehension was reminiscent of his feelings on the day of his last return home from school. He was walking down what seemed an empty twilit street. Something stirred behind him and he turned and looked back. People were emerging from doorways, windows, automobiles, manholes, and all of them were staring at him, moving toward him. He continued on his way and there came something like a collective sigh at his back. When he looked again they were all hurrying after him in a menacing fashion, expressions of hatred on their faces. He began to run, with a certainty that they intended his destruction. They pursued him. . . .
When he awoke he was hideous, and he had no special powers. He was hairless, snouted, and covered with gray-green scales; his fingers were elongated and possessed of extra joints, his eyes yellow and slitted; he developed pains in his thighs and lower back if he stood upright for too long. It was far easier to go about his room on all fours. When he exclaimed aloud over his condition there was a pronounced sibilance to his speech.
It was early evening, and he heard voices from downstairs. He opened the door and called out, and Claudia and Carl both hurried to his room. He opened the door the barest crack and remained behind it.
“Croyd! Are you all right?” Carl asked.
“Yes and no,” he hissed. “I'll be okay. Right now I'm starving. Bring me food. Lots of it.”
“What's the matter?” Claudia asked. “Why won't you come out?”
“Later! Talk later. Food now!”
He refused to leave his room or to let his family see him. They brought him food, magazines, newspapers. He listened to the radio and paced, quadrupedally. This time, sleep was something to be courted rather than feared. He lay back on the bed, hoping it would come soon. But it was denied him for the better part of a week.
The next time he woke he found himself slightly over six feet tall, dark-haired, slim, and not unpleasantly featured. He was as strong as he had been on earlier occasions, but after a while he concluded that he possessed no special powers—until he slipped on the stair in his rush to the kitchen and saved himself by levitating.
Later, he noticed a note in Claudia's handwriting, tacked to his door. It gave a phone number and told him he could reach Bentley there. He put it in his wallet. He'd another call to make first.
Dr. Tachyon looked up at him and smiled faintly.
“It could be worse,” he said.
Croyd was almost amused at the judgment.
“How?” he asked.
“Well, you could have drawn a joker.”
“Just what did I draw, sir?”
“Yours is one of the most interesting cases I've seen so far. In all of the others it's simply run its course and either killed the person or changed him—for better or worse. With you—Well, the nearest analogy is an earth disease called malaria. The virus you harbor seems to reinfect you periodically.”
“I drew a joker once. . . .”
“Yes, and it could happen again. But unlike anyone else to whom it's happened, all you have to do is wait. You can sleep it off.”
“I don't ever want to be a monster again. Is there some way you could change just that much of it?”
“I'm afraid not. It's part of your total syndrome. I can only go after the whole thing.”
“And the odds against a cure are three or four to one?”
“Who told you that?”
“A joker named Bentley. He looked sort of like a dog.”
“Bentley was one of my successes. He's back to normal now. Just left here fairly recently, in fact.”
“Really! It's good to know that someone made it.”
Tachyon looked away.
“Yes,” he answered, a moment later.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If I only change when I sleep, then I could put off a change by staying awake—right?”
“I see what you mean. Yes, a stimulant would put it off a bit. If you feel it coming on while you're out somewhere, the caffeine in a couple of cups of coffee would probably hold it off long enough for you to get back home.”
“Isn't there something stronger? Something that would put it off for a longer time?”
“Yes, there are powerful stimulants—amphetamines, for example. But they can be dangerous if you take too many or take them for too long.”
“In what ways are they dangerous?”
“Nervousness, irritability, combativeness. Later on, a toxic psychosis, with delusions, hallucinations, paranoia.”
“Crazy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you could just stop them if it gets near that point, couldn't you?”
“I don't believe it's that easy.”
“I'd hate to be a monster again, or—You didn't say it, but isn't it possible that I could just die during one of the comas?”
“There is that possibility. It's a nasty virus. But you've come through several attacks now, which leads me to believe that your body knows what it is doing. I wouldn't worry myself unduly on that. . . .”
“It's the joker part that really bothers me.”
“That is a possi
bility you simply have to live with.”
“All right. Thank you, Doctor.”
“I wish you would come to Mt. Sinai the next time you feel it coming on. I'd really like to observe the process in you.”
“I'd rather not.”
Tachyon nodded.
“Or right away after you awaken . . . ?”
“Maybe,” Croyd said, and he shook his hand. “By the way, Doctor . . . How do you spell 'amphetamine'?”
Croyd stopped by the Sarzannos' apartment later, for he had not seen Joe since that day in September when they had made their way home from school together, the exigencies of making a living have limited his spare time since then.
Mrs. Sarzanno opened the door a crack and stared at him. After he had identified himself and tried to explain his changed appearance, she still refused to open the door farther.
“My Joe, he is changed, too,” she said.
“Uh, how is he changed?” he asked.
“Changed. That's all. Changed. Go away.”
She closed the door.
He knocked again, but there was no response.
Croyd went away then and ate three steaks, because there was nothing else he could do.
Croyd studied Bentley—a small foxy-featured man with dark hair and shifty eyes—feeling that his earlier transformation had actually been in keeping with his general demeanor. Bentley returned the compliment for several seconds, then said, “That's really you, Croyd?”
“Yep.”
“Come on in. Sit down. Have a beer. We've got a lot to talk about.”
He stepped aside, and Croyd entered the brightly furnished apartment.
“I got cured and I'm back in business. Business is lousy,” Bentley said, after they had seated themselves. “What's your story?”
Croyd told him, of the changes and powers he'd experienced and of his talk with Tachyon. The one thing he never told him was his age, since all of his transformations bore the appearance of adulthood. He feared that Bentley might not trust him in the same fashion as he had if he knew otherwise.
“You went about those other jobs wrong,” the small man said, lighting a cigarette and coughing. “Hit or miss is never good. You want a little planning, and it should be tailored to whatever your special talent is, each time around. Now, you say that this time you can fly?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. There are lots of places high up in skyscrapers that people think are pretty secure. This is the time we hit those. You know, you've got the best setup of anyone there is. Even if someone sees you, it don't matter. You're going to look different next time around. . . .”
“And you'll get me the amphetamines?”
“All you want. You come back here tomorrow—same time, same station. Maybe I'll have a job worked out for us. And I'll have your pills for you.”
“Thanks, Bentley.”
“It's the least I can do. If we stick together we'll both get rich.”
* * *
Bentley did plan a good job, and three days later Croyd brought home more money than he had ever held before. He took most of it to Carl, who had been handling the family's finances.
“Let's take a walk,” Carl said, securing the money behind a row of books and glancing significantly toward the living room where their mother sat with Claudia.
Croyd nodded.
“Sure.”
“You seem a lot older these days,” said Carl—who would be eighteen in a few months—as soon as they were on the street.
“I feel a lot older.”
“I don't know where you keep getting the money. . . .”
“Better you don't.”
“Okay. I can't complain, since I'm living off it, too. But I wanted you to know about Mom. She's getting worse. Seeing Dad torn apart that way. . . . She's been slipping ever since. You missed the worst of it so far, the last time you were asleep. Three different nights she just got up and went outside in her nightgown—barefoot yet, in February, for crissake!—and she wandered around like she was looking for Dad. Fortunately, someone we knew spotted her each time and brought her back. She kept asking her—Mrs. Brandt—if she'd seen him. Anyhow, what I'm trying to say is she's getting worse. I've already talked to a couple of doctors. They think she should be in a rest home for a while. Claudia and I think so, too. We can't watch her all the time, and she might get hurt. Claudia's sixteen now. The two of us can run things while she's away. But it's going to be expensive.”
“I can get more money,” Croyd said.
When he finally got hold of Bentley the following day and told him that they had to do another job soon, the small man seemed pleased, for Croyd had not been eager for a quick follow-up to the last one.
“Give me a day or so to line something up and work out the details,” Bentley said. “I'll get back to you.”
“Right.”
The next day Croyd's appetite began to mount, and he found himself yawning occasionally. So he took one of the pills.
It worked well. Better than well, actually. It was a fine feeling that came over him. He could not recall the last time he'd felt quite that good. Everything seemed as if it were going right for a change. And all of his movements felt particularly fluid and graceful. He seemed more alert, more aware than usual, also. And, most importantly, he was not sleepy.
It was not until nighttime, after everyone else had retired, that these feelings began to wear off. He took another pill. When it began to work he felt so fine that he went outside and levitated high above the city, drifting in the cold March night between the bright constellations of the city and those far above, feeling as if he possessed a secret key to the inner meaning of it all. Briefly, he thought of Jetboy's battle in the sky, and he flew over the remains of the Hudson Terminal which had burned when pieces of Jetboy's plane fell upon it. He had read of a plan to build a monument to him there. Was this how it felt when he fell?
He descended to swoop among buildings—sometimes resting atop one, leaping, falling, saving himself at the last moment. On one such occasion, he beheld two men watching him from a doorway. For some reason that he did not understand, this irritated him. He returned home then and began cleaning the house. He stacked old newspapers and magazines and tied them into bundles, he emptied wastebaskets, he swept and mopped, he washed all of the dishes in the sink. He flew four loads of trash out over the East River and dropped them in, trash collections still not being quite regular. He dusted everything, and dawn found him polishing the silverware. Later, he washed all of the windows.
It was quite sudden that he found himself weak and shaking. He realized what it was and he took another pill and set a pot of coffee to percolating. The minutes passed. It was hard to remain seated, to be comfortable in any position. He did not like the tingling in his hands. He washed them several times, but it would not go away. Finally, he took another pill. He watched the clock and listened to the sounds of the coffeepot. Just as the coffee became ready the tingling and the shaking began to subside. He felt much better. While he was drinking his coffee he thought again of the two men in the doorway. Had they been laughing at him? He felt a quick rush of anger, though he had not really seen their faces, known their expressions. Watching him! If they'd had more time they might have thrown a rock. . . .
He shook his head. That was silly. They were just two guys. Suddenly, he wanted to run outside and walk all over the city, or perhaps fly again. But he might miss Bentley's call if he did. He began pacing. He tried to read but was unable to focus his attention as well as usual. Finally, he phoned Bentley.
“Have you come up with anything yet?” he asked.
“Not yet, Croyd. What's the rush?”
“I'm starting to get sleepy. You know what I mean?”
“Uh—yeah. You take any of that shit yet?”
“Uh-huh. I had to.”
“Okay. Look, go as light on it as possible. I'm working on a couple angles now. I'll try to have something lined up by tomorrow. If it's no go then, you
stop taking the stuff and go to bed. We can do it next time. Got me?”
“I want to do it this time, Bentley.”
“I'll talk to you tomorrow. You take it easy now.”
He went out and walked. It was a cloudy day, with patches of snow and ice upon the ground. He realized suddenly that he had not eaten since the day before. That had to be bad, when he considered what had become his normal appetite. It must be the pills' doing, he concluded. He sought a diner, determined to force himself to eat something. As he walked, it occurred to him that he did not care to sit down in a crowd of people and eat. The thought of having all of them around him was unsettling. No, he would get a carryout order. . . .
As he headed toward a diner he was halted by a voice from a doorway. He turned so quickly that the man who had addressed him raised an arm and drew back.
“Don't . . .” the man protested.
Croyd took a step back.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
The man had on a brown coat, its collar turned all the way up. He wore a hat, its brim drawn about as low as it would go and still permit vision. He kept his head inclined forward. Nevertheless, Croyd discerned a hooked beak, glittering eyes, an unnaturally shiny complexion.
“Would you do me a favor, sir?” the man asked in a clipped, piping voice.
“What do you want?”
“Food.”
Automatically, Croyd reached for his pocket.
“No. I got money. You don't understand. I can't go in that place and get served, looking like I do. I'll pay you to go in and get me a couple hamburgers, bring them out.”
“I was going in anyway.”
Later, Croyd sat with the man on a bench, eating. He was fascinated by—jokers. Because he knew he was partly one himself. He began wondering where he would eat if he ever woke up in bad shape and there was nobody home.
“I don't usually come this far uptown anymore,” the other told him. “But I had an errand.”
“Where do you guys usually hang out?”
“There's a number of us down on the Bowery. Nobody bothers us there. There's places you get served and nobody cares what you look like. Nobody gives a damn.”