The Enemy Within

  Bang-Bang was in a severely tailored black suit, black shirt and white tie—the typical gangster setup. But he was wearing an old, leather, taxi driver's cap that looked so out of place with his suit that it seemed to be an incomplete disguise.

  "But I tell you it IS important!" Bang-Bang was say­ing. He seemed very agitated. "I came right down here! There was your name, right on the bulletin board! It had a time and everything! PSYCHIATRIC CONSULTATION!"

  "I know," said Heller. "But is that really bad?"

  "Oh, Jesus Christ, yes!" said Bang-Bang. "They must think you're loopy! I see you just don't grab at the seriousness of it, Jet."

  So it was Jet, now. Must have gotten it from Izzy.

  "Well, I know," said Heller. "But..."

  "They're mind benders!" said Bang-Bang. "Shrinks! They can put you in the slammer the rest of your life with no charges. You can't even turn state's evidence or take the Fifth! They got no sense of legality but the law and fuzz is all behind them."

  They were down at the garage level now and walking through the garage.

  "But if..." Heller tried to say.

  "You don't get it," said Bang-Bang. "They just sign an order and put you away with the loonies. They jam you full of drugs and fry your brains! They even take your skull apart with an ice pick! They ain't happy unless you're a complete vegetable! And you don't have to have done nothing! The government depends on them completely to do away with birds they don't want around!"

  "Well, well," said Heller. "That sounds pretty bad."

  "It IS bad. And these shrinks are the looniest of the lot!"

  They had arrived at a car.

  It was the old, old Really Red cab! And it certainly looked different! It was a shining orange. It was all groomed up. It had no chipped windows. As Heller opened the door to get in back, a dome light came on and I could see shiny new leather upholstery. It looked like a brand-new antique!

  Bang-Bang slammed the door behind Heller and then jumped under the wheel in front. He started the cab up. The engine roared into life and then purred as he backed it out of its stall.

  They shot out of the basement garage and headed east. A big sign said:

  Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive

  Bang-Bang shot into the traffic stream, heading north. Heller was mainly watching the East River beside them, sparkling in the morning sun. But I could see on peripheral vision that Bang-Bang must think he was fly­ing a whirlybird, the way he ignored imminent tail col­lisions and went through holes that didn't seem to exist.

  He also wasn't watching his driving. He yelled back through the open divider, "Maybe they got onto us." Then he said, "Maybe they found out I was a marine. They know all marines is crazy."

  He caused a limousine to dodge out of his way and seemed to be trying to part a semi-trailer from its cab. "Hey," he yelled back to Heller, "I got a great idea. Maybe we just ought to blow up the place!"

  With a squeal of brakes and several skids he was onto 168th Street. He rolled to a stop in a taxi rank. He jumped out and opened the door for Heller. When Hel­ler was on the sidewalk, Bang-Bang dropped a sign over the door label. The sign said Out of Service Until Inspected by the Bomb Squad.

  Bang-Bang pointed. "It's office sixty-four, it said. Doctor Kutzbrain. I'd do this for you, kid, only I ain't got many brains to spare. Now, don't let them put any straitjacket on you. They don't even allow a phone call. So just run if it looks bad. I'll keep the engine going for a quick getaway."

  Bang-Bang reached into the cab and put the flag down. A police radio at once turned on. It was a dummy meter. Illegal!

  Heller went in and was shortly giving all sorts of par­ticulars to a receptionist in nurse's costume. He showed her his student papers. Then he filled out a long form about previous mental illnesses by writing on it, Prevail­ing opinion in dispute.

  "You can go in now. You don't have an appointment with Doctor Schitz, so I don't have to sedate you first." The nurse pushed him through a door.

  Doctor Kutzbrain was peeling an apple at his desk. His hair stood out straight on either side of his head. His glasses were so thick they made his eyes look like black carp swimming in bowls.

  "Is this Lizzie Borden?" said Doctor Kutzbrain. He cut himself and swore.

  "This is Jerome Terrance Wister, the engineering stu­dent you asked to see," said the nurse. Then added, "I think." She laid the card on the desk.

  "Too bad you never seem to come up with Lizzie Borden," said the doctor. "Now, I could have done a lot with that case. Could have gotten rid of thousands of par­ents." He cut himself again. Then he lowered his head and peered at Heller. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Jerome Terrance Wister," said the nurse. "You know. That one. I'll leave you two now. Don't be naughty. Unless I'm here, that is." She closed the door behind her.

  "Well, Borden," said the doctor. "This is pretty grave. Cutting up your parents that way with an axe. Pretty grave. Pardon the Freudian slip."

  I was pretty interested, actually. I might learn some­thing new about psychology so I paid close attention to what the doctor was saying.

  "Ouch, (bleep) it," he said. He had cut himself again.

  He threw the apple in the wastebasket and started to chew on the knife.

  Heller pushed the card the nurse had left so it could be seen by the doctor.

  "Aha!" said the doctor. "Two names! Now that is a very revealing symptom. Two names. Invites schizo­phrenia of the older type."

  "Two names?" said Heller in a wary voice.

  "Yes. It's right here on the card. Jerome and Ter­rance. Two names. Were you twins? No." He waved the knife at Heller. "There is no reason to beat around the bush, Jerome or Terrance or whatever you might call yourself in the next few minutes." He saw he was hold­ing the knife. He looked at Heller sadly. "Why did you eat my apple?"

  The doctor threshed around in a desk drawer for a bit. "Where is that folder? Very grave case."

  He came up holding some paper and a pair of scis­sors. He began to cut the paper into the shape of a paper doll. Then, disgustedly, he said, "No, that wasn't what I was looking for. Why are you here, Borden?"

  "You sent for me: Wister," said Heller.

  "AH!" said the doctor. "That clears that up. I was looking for the folder! Yes." He dug into the drawer again, removed some balls of twine and with reluctance laid aside a top.

  "The folder," said Heller. "Is it that one on your desk?"

  "Precisely," said Doctor Kutzbrain. He found it and opened it up. He cleared his throat. He read. He said, "Now, she keeps talking about she is going to do every­thing to make you fail."

  "Who?"

  "Miss Simmons, your Nature Appreciation profes­sor, that's who. She is in the Calming Ward just now. Now, Borden, such a reaction is, of course, the normal female reaction to a male. It is technically called the 'black widow spider gene syndrome.' You see, Borden, it is all a matter of evolution. Men evolved from reptiles. That is a scientific, indisputable fact. But women, Borden, evolved from black widow spiders and that, too, is a scientific, indisputable fact. It is proven by my own paper on it. But I see that I am talking above your head. However, those spiders you see up on the ceiling aren't mine. They were left by the last patient. Do you follow me," he consulted the card, "Jerome?"

  "Quite clear," said Heller.

  "Good. Now, the fact that women have this reaction to men is disturbing only because it is rational. You see," he consulted the card, "Terrance, everything a mental patient thinks or says is a delusion. When a per­son is in a mental ward, they are, of course, a mental patient. So anything she is saying is a delusion. Do you follow me," he consulted the card, "Empire University?"

  "Very closely," said Heller.

  "So obviously, if she says you are a good man, you aren't. But she is not saying you are a good man. She is saying you are an atom bomb. So, of course, you aren't. You must be some other kind of bomb. A hydrogen, per­haps? Come, tell me truthfully," he consulted the card, "Gracious P
alms, you can confide in me. I am bound by the Hippocratic oath sometimes. Except in police mat­ters, of course.

  "But to get on with this interview, it says here that Miss Simmons keeps screaming you killed eight men with your bare feet and she even got loose one day and got to a call box and phoned the police."

  Heller's hands tightened on the arms of the inter­view chair.

  "They came, of course," said Doctor Kutzbrain. "Yes, it all comes back to me now even though it was sev­eral days ago. We cooperate very closely with the police.

  It seems they had noticed eight bodies in a park. Now, what do you think of that?"

  Heller's grip tightened on the chair arms.

  "However," he consulted the card, "New York, you must remember what I told you about the black widow gene, evolutionary proven, scientific fact concerning women. It was a clear case of guilt transference. A role reversal, you know. She lured those poor, innocent men into the park and got them fighting over her so that she could enjoy both being raped and watching the mad male natural rivalry explode into mutual murder to further exploit and gratify her natural sexual appetites.

  "Now, the police had another theory they had been working on which was that two rival gangs were using corpses to mark out the boundaries of mutually disputed territory. We teach the police, you know, and many wild animals mark out precise territories. But in this case, they were applying an incorrect theory.

  "I pointed this out and proved it to them by showing them my own paper on the black widow gene evolution of women. They then understood that it was the natural thing for a woman to do and they marked down the find­ings of lure-rape-murder for sexual titillation on the case and closed it. Miss Simmons, already being in the psy­chopathic ward, therefore is insane and that is how the case came to be closed."

  "You're going to keep Miss Simmons locked up?" said Heller.

  "Oh, no! It is totally against professional ethics not to let the criminally insane loose on the public. But maybe, just this once, to oblige them down at City Hall— for we must serve them, after all, since they pay us—we will keep her inside for a while. She's given the Tactical Police Force a lot of trouble, you know. Something about bomb protests. If people want to be bombs, let them be bombs. One should never interfere with personal liberty. Do you follow," he consulted the card again. But he didn't see a name. He said, "... 'Advices'? 'Advices'? It says here you are called to an interview for advices."

  He sat back and he thought. He pursed his lips and he stroked them. Then he looked at the Simmons folder and massaged his forehead. "Well," he said, at last, "the only advice I can give you is that when you find stray women lying about with broken legs, leave them alone." He thought for a moment. "Yes. Just leave them alone!"

  "Is Miss Simmons going to come back on teaching staff?" said Heller.

  "Why do you ask that?" said Doctor Kutzbrain.

  "If she's insane, how can she teach?"

  "Oh, nonsense," said the doctor. "If she's insane, it won't make any difference. All bright people have to be at least neurotic. So if she's insane, that makes her a genius, so of course she can teach!" He looked at the folder. "It says here she must be released in time to take her class in the next semester. What gave you the insane idea that insane people couldn't teach school? You'd have to be insane even to try it!"

  Because the doctor had picked up the scissors and the paper again, Heller must have thought the interview was concluded for he started to get up.

  Doctor Kutzbrain was instantly distracted and cut himself. He reached out a hand and urgently waved Hel­ler to sit back down.

  "I just remembered why you were sent for!" said the doctor. "My God, yes. It came to me like a flash." He pawed through the folder hurriedly. "It was important, too. It refers to us. To our own hospital staff. And they come first!"

  He dredged up a huge red sheet. It had URGENT all across the top of it. "Aha! I knew we'd get down to this! The hospital staff is complaining about the litter you are making for them!"

  "Me?"

  "Indeed so!" said Doctor Kutzbrain triumphantly. "This is an important staff! They have to give drug injec­tions every hour on the hour to themselves and the patients. They have to shock whole wards, morning, noon and night. They haven't got time to be cleaning the floor!"

  The doctor leaned forward and shook an accusing fin­ger at Heller. "She is tearing up the flowers you send to bits! She is stamping them into the concrete! She is slam­ming them into the toilets and clogging all the plumbing! SO, STOP SENDING HER FLOWERS AT ONCE! DO YOU HEAR?"

  Heller drew back from the intimidating finger and nodded.

  Doctor Kutzbrain threw the folder into the waste-basket, picked up his scissors and cut himself. "End of student psychiatric interview! NURSE SCREW! Send in Borden now!"

  Heller went out, taking the interview order card with him. He firmly made the nurse sign it off as com­pleted.

  He went outside to where Bang-Bang alertly had the motor running.

  Bang-Bang got out and elaborately wiped the inside of his leather cap sweatband. "You didn't run out, so I assume you got away." He opened the old cab's shining door. He took a bag, apparently dynamite, off the seat. "I guess we won't be blowing up the place today."

  Heller got in. Bang-Bang closed the door, removed the sign, threw the bag on the front floorboards and got in. He put up the flag and the police radio went off.

  Heller said, "Bang-Bang, those people are crazy!"

  "So, hell, what's news? Everybody knows that. Where we going now?"

  "If there's nothing more up here, I better get to the office."

  "Heigh-ho, Silver!" said Bang-Bang and rushed the cab perilously out into the traffic. It made me kind of giddy watching the viewscreen, streets and signs and trucks flashing about.

  I tried to concentrate on the interview. There must be a lot there to be learned. But actually, I myself was far too sick at heart about myself to concentrate.

  Chapter 2

  Heller was not paying any attention to Bang-Bang's driving. He reached into a rucksack and pulled out a text­book. It was a paper-covered text and on the top of it was written in pencil:

  You asked what Marketing was. This simpli­fied text is recommended.

  Izzy

  What was a combat engineer doing going off into a subject like marketing? One more thread in the crazy pat­tern he was weaving!

  Evidently, he had already almost finished the book, for there was a marker near the end. He opened it up and while, as seen in his peripheral vision, Bang-Bang sought to separate nurses from their baby carriages and massive trailers from their cabs, Heller demolished the remainder of the text.

  There was one page at the end. It only had one thing on it: a paragraph. It said, To integrate his grasp of the sub­ject, the student must now do a complete marketing project, getting a specific product wanted and accepted by consumers.

  Heller sat there looking out. His eyes were picking out advertising signs. He watched quite a few go by.

  Then his eyes unfocused, a thing I had seen him do before when he was thinking deeply. To himself he said, "Beans? Bootleg whiskey? Seagulls? Shoes? Bunion powder? No, no, no. Oh, a survey! I haven't done a con­sumer survey."

  He leaned forward and yelled through the mainly closed partition, "Bang-Bang! If you were a consumer, what would you really want to consume the most of?"

  Bang-Bang skidded with screeching tires around a street-under-repair obstruction as he yelled back. "I'll let you in on something if you promise not to spread it around." He mounted a curb and got around a produce truck. "Everybody thinks I'm called Bang-Bang because of explosives. That ain't so." He careened past a fire truck. "Cherubino can tell you. I been called Bang-Bang since I was fourteen." He leaped the cab lightly over an open manhole cover. "The reason I'm called Bang-Bang is because of girls. If Babe knew I was going in and out of the Gracious Palms, she'd have a fit!"

  "So the answer to the question of what you'd con­sume the most of is girl
s."

  "And girls and girls!" Bang-Bang yelled back, nar­rowly missing one on a crosswalk to prove his point.

  Heller sat back. "Girls. Hm." He made a note on the inside back leaf of the marketing book, "Survey done. Item: girls."

  After that harrowing ride that violated all laws of traf­fic and nature, Bang-Bang let Heller out at the main entrance of the Empire State Building with a yell that he'd put the taxi in their parking lot as he drove away.

  Heller looked up. It made me dizzy: the building, even though you couldn't see the top from the street or even a quarter of its height, seemed like it was going into the clouds.

  He threaded his way through the hurrying throngs. He walked past the ranks of express and other kinds of elevators and entered the one that, apparently, had its first stop on his floor. No one paid him any attention.

  He got out. Their hall had changed. It had more brass plates and it had palms at intervals. I had not remembered how really vast that half a floor of theirs was!

  He found Izzy in the communications room. "Hi, Izzy!" he said above the roar and chatter of teletype machines. "How's it?"

  Izzy smiled at him wanly, probably the most smile Izzy could manage. He was still in a Salvation Army Good Will suit. His horn-rimmed glasses accentuated his beak of a nose. "I hoped you wouldn't be in until things were better," said Izzy. He held up a sheet. "We just lost on the ruble exchange with Italy. It's an awful strain. We can't seem to get the hundred thousand up above a half million. Conditions are so uncertain."

  "Well, we're paying the rent," said Heller.

  "Oh, we're not just here to pay rent," said Izzy. "If corporations are to take over governments, we ought to be thinking in acceptable sums like trillions."