And then the phocomelus thought, Maybe Stockstill is a perpetual imitation, brought into existence the day the first bomb fell on the Bay Area; that was the day Bill was conceived, wasn’t it?
That Bonny Keller, he thought; it all emanates from her. All the trouble in the community… the Austurias situation, which almost wrecked us, divided us into two hostile camps. She saw to it that Austurias was killed, and actually it should have been that degenerate, that Jack Tree up there with his sheep; he’s the one who should have been shot, not the former school teacher.
That was a good man, a kindly person, the phoce thought, thinking of Mr. Austurias. And hardly anyone—except me– supported him openly at his so-called trial.
To the phoce, Doctor Stockstill said tartly, “Be more careful with that ‘mobile of yours, Hoppy. As a personal favor to me.”
“I said I was sorry,” Hoppy answered.
What are you afraid of?” the doctor said.
“Nothing,” Hoppy said. “I’m afraid of nothing in the entire world.” And then he remembered the incident at the Foresters’ Hall, how he had behaved. And it was all over town; Doctor Stockstill knew about it even though he had not been present. “I have a phobia,” he admitted, on impulse. “Is that in your line, or have you given that up? It has to do with being trapped. I was trapped once in a basement, the day the first bomb fell. It saved my life, but—” he shrugged.
Stockstill said, “I see.”
“Have you ever examined the little Keller girl?” Hoppy said.
“Yes,” Stockstill said.
With acuity, Happy said, “Then you know. There’s not just one child but two. They’re combined somehow; you probably know exactly how, but I don’t—and I don’t care. That’s a funny person, that child, or rather she and her brother; isn’t that so?” His bitterness spilled out. “They don’t look funny. So they get by. People just go on externals, don’t they? Haven’t you discovered that in your practice?”
Stockstill said, “By and large, yes.”
“I heard,” Happy said, “that according to State law, all funny minors, all children who are in any way funny, either feral or not, have to be turned aver to Sacramento, to the authorities.”
There was no response from the doctor; Stockstill eyed him silently.
“You’re aiding the Kellers in breaking the law,” Happy said.
After a pause, Stockstill said, “What do you want, Happy?” His voice was low and steady.
“N-nothing,” Hoppy stammered. “Just justice, I mean; I want to see the law obeyed. Is that wrong? I keep the law. I’m registered with the U.S. Eugenics Service as a—” He choked on the word. “As a biological sport. That’s a dreadful thing to do, but I do it; I comply.”
“Hoppy,” the doctor said quietly, “what did you do to the glasses man from Bolinas?”
Spinning his ‘mobile, Happy glided swiftly off, leaving the doctor standing there.
What did I do to him, Happy thought. I killed him; you know that. Why do you ask? What do you care? The man was from outside this area; he didn’t count, and we all know that. And June Raub says he wanted to nap me, and that’s good enough for most people—it’s good enough for Earl Colvig and Onion Stroud and Cas Stone, and they run this community, along with Mrs. Tallman and the Kellers and June Raub.
He knows I killed Blaine, he realized. He knows a lot about me, even though I’ve never let him examine me physically; he knows I can perform action at a distance… but everyone knows that. Yet, perhaps he’s the only one who understands what it signifies. He’s an educated man.
If I see that imitation of Stuart McConchie, he thought suddenly, I will reach out and squeeze it to death. I have to.
But I hope I don’t see it again, he thought. I can’t stand the dead; my phobia is about that, the grave: I was buried down in the grave with the part of Fergesson that was not disintegrated, and it was awful. For two weeks, with half of a man who had consideration for me, more so than anyone else I ever knew. What would you say, Stockstill, if you had me on your analyst’s couch? Would that sort of traumatic incident interest you, or have there been too many like it in the last seven years?
That Bill-thing with Edie Keller lives somehow with the dead, Happy said to himself. Half in our world, half in the other. He laughed bitterly, thinking of the time he had imagined that he himself could contact the other world. it was quite a joke on me, he thought. I foaled myself more than anybody else. And they never knew. Stuart McConchie and the rat, Stuart sitting there munching with relish…
And then he understood. That meant that Stuart survived; he had not been killed in the Emergency, at least not at first, as Fergesson had. So this perhaps was not an imitation that he had seen just now.
Trembling, he halted his ‘mobile and sat rapidly thinking.
Does he know anything about me? he asked himself. Can he get me into any trouble? No, he decided, because in those days—what was I? Just a helpless creature on a Coyernment-built cart who was glad of any job he could find, any scrap tossed to him. A lot has changed. Now I am vital to the entire West Marin area, he told himself; I am a top-notch handy.
Rolling back the way he had come he emerged once more on the main street and searched about for Stuart McConchie. Sure enough, there he was, heading in the direction of Andrew Gill’s tobacco and liquor factory. The phoce started to wheel after him, and then an idea came to him.
He caused McConchie to stumble.
Seated within his ‘mobile he grinned to himself as he saw the Negro trip, half-fall, then regain his footing. McConchie peered down at the pavement, scowling. Then he continued on, more slowly now, picking his way over the broken cement and around the tufts of weeds with care.
The phoce wheeled after him and when he was a pace or so behind he said, “Stuart McConcbie, the TV salesman who eats raw rats.”
As if struck the Negro tottered. He did not turn; he simply stood, his arms extended, fingers apart.
“How are you enjoying the afterlife?” Hoppy said.
After a moment the Negro said in a hoarse voice, “Fine.” He turned, now. “So you got by.” He looked the phoce and his ‘mobile up and down.
“Yes,” the phoce said, “I did. And not by eating rats.”
“I suppose you’re the handy here,” Stuart said.
“Yes,” Hoppy said. “No-hands Handy Hoppy; that’s me. What are you doing?”
“I’m—in the homeostatic vermin trap business,” Stuart said.
The phoce giggled.
“Is that so goddam funny?” Stuart said.
“No,” the phoce said. “Sorry. I’m glad you survived. Who else did? That psychiatrist across from Modern—he’s here. Stockstill. Fergesson was killed.”
They both were silent then.
“Lightheiser was killed,” Stuart said. “So was Bob Rubenstein. So were Connie the waitress and Tony; you remember them.”
“Yes,” the phoce said, nodding.
“Did you know Mr. Crody, the jeweler?”
“No,” the phoce said, “afraid not.”
“He was maimed. Lost both arms and was blinded. But he’s alive in a Government hospital in Hayward.”
“Why are you up here?” the phoce said.
“On business.”
“Did you come to steal Andrew Gill’s fornmla for his special deluxe Gold Label cigarette?” Again the phace giggled, but he thought, It’s true. Everyone who comes sneaking up here from outside has a plan to murder or steal; look at Eldon Blaine the glasses man, and he came from Bolinas, a much closer place.
Stuart said woodenly, “My business compels me to travel; I get all around Northern California.” After a pause he added. “That was especially true when I had Edward Prince of Wales. Now I have a second-rate horse to pull my car, and it takes a lot longer to get somewhere.”