“Right. Let’s suppose he was, first. The answer then is that for some good reason you don’t want to remember anything about him.”
“What sort of reason?”
“Probably one that’s played hell with your ego. If we could locate it, your memory would very likely return. Did you ever try to harm your brother?”
“Not since he began to exist here.” Galt said gently.
“Uh-huh.” Abernathy drummed on the desk. “The indirect approach is necessary. Since you can’t remember anything about your brother, the information’s got to come from other sources.”
“I’VE been collecting it. I’ve written back home to all our friends and relatives, and I put a detective agency on Tim’s trail. And I’m pumping my sister.” Galt chewed on his lip. “What about the direct approach?”
“We’ve tried that. The bloc’s too strong. Word associations tell nothing. I–”
“Nothing? Wait a minute. What’s the implication?”
“That your brother didn’t exist up to two years ago,” Abernathy admitted readily. “Which is no real evidence at ali. Except insofar as it proves you refuse to admit his early existence. The hypnosis experiments failed, too. Your subconscious has a gag in its mouth.”
“Isn’t that a bit unusual?”
“It is. One answer is you might once have tried to kill your brother.”
“Ha,” Galt said. “A clue at last.”
“Hell with you,” Abernathy countered amiably. “I’m not a detective. I’ve known both you and Tim for years, and I find it hard to believe he’s the sort of being you imagine. What is he, a superman?”
“Not necessarily. That’s anthropomorphic thinking. Man always deifies himself. Yahveh, Odin, Zeus– they’re all supermen. A projection of ego, if you’ll let me talk like you for a bit. Why limit it to human laws?”
“A superman wouldn't be so limited.”
“I’m thinking of extensions,” Galt said. “Imagine a place where our dimensions and rules don’t exist. A place not according to Hoyle. A creature living there wouldn’t necessarily be a super-dooper, but he would be fitted to his environment. Right?”
“So far,” Abernathy admitted.
“Uh-huh. Such a being, in this world, might reach out farther than we do.”
“I don’t get it,” the other said, after a pause.
“Extensions. Some protozoa can send out pseudopods, others can’t. Call those pseudopods talents, abilities, senses–anything. My, uh, brother isn't human. I’m not contending he’s a superman. I say he’s not a fourteen-karat human being.”
“Could we–see–such a creature? Wouldn’t he be so entirely different that we’d suspect something haywire about him?”
“I do,” Galt said flatly. He went on: “Hunters used to dress themselves in bison skins so they could mingle with a herd. Humans are cleverer than bison. My brother has certain talents we don’t know anything about. He’s masquerading.”
“Why?”
“Ask the bison. No, I don’t mean hunting–-though if it was that, it’d be a different sort of hunting from what we can conceive. It needn’t involve killing. And there are other motives. Unfortunately all the ones I can think of are basically human. So they don’t apply.”
“That’s theory, not evidence.”
GALT took out a thick envelope and unfolded papers. “Look at this stuff. It’s unfinished, but it’ll give you an idea.”
Abernathy glanced over charts, graphs, and a double-columned biography. Galt said, “I’ve been comparing my life with my brother’s. There’s an odd similarity. It’s not a complete file yet, but–”
“You realize that this sort of thing–” Abernathy tapped the documents. “It’s what I usually see. Patients muster all possible proof for their theories or delusions.”
“I know. That’s what handicaps me. I’m forced into the exact position of a–mental case.”
The psychiatrist tossed the papers back across his desk. “All right. Keep investigating. If you can convince yourself that you’re wrong about this business, fine.”
Galt returned the evidence to its envelope. “I’m getting a dossier from the detective people today. Meantime–I haven’t convinced you, eh?”
Abernathy shook his head silently. Galt grinned, shrugged, and went away. He made his way to the nearest bar and gulped a stiff four fingers of rye. It didn’t help a great deal. After a while he taxied to the apartment of his sister.
As he walked toward the steps, a flower-pot shattered on the pavement just behind him. When Galt looked up, he saw Tim’s head sticking out of a window three stories above him.
“Look out!” Tim called, and then– “Oh, Galt! That was a close one.”
Galt didn’t answer. He stood with his head tilted back, licking his lips and watching his brother’s plump, anxious face.
As Tim drew back out of sight, he winked. There was no doubt about it. That sly, triumphant, absurd wink–ugh! Galt felt cold. Tim suspected, and–and this was the logical next step.
MARY ELLEN was throwing a cocktail party. She was a brittle, blond divorcee of indeterminate years, who hated liquor but drank because everyone else did. The apartment was filled with guests; Galt knew few of them. He kissed Mary Ellen casually and asked for Tim.
“You must have just missed him. He went out a minute ago.”
Galt accepted a drink, which didn't taste very good. “What’d he want?” “Liquor, I suppose. I’d asked him over. I asked you, too–remember?” “Um-m.” Galt was wondering just how much of a limitation human guise gave to Tim. A supernormal being, one felt, should be able to kill by pure force of mind, or at least a bolt of personally manufactured lightning. But that, again, was muddy thinking, badly anthropomorphic. So?
“Look,” Galt said, remembering something. “Do you still have those old pictures?”
“Pictures?” Mary Ellen blinked. “Which ones?”
“Photographs. Of us as kids. Especially Tim.”
“Well–somewhere. Sure. I’ll dig 'em up for you when I get time.”
“Make it now,” Galt said. “Please. I need them.”
Mary Ellen seemed slightly displeased, but amenable to suggestion. She took Galt into the bedroom and fumbled through a bureau drawer. Presently she unearthed an album.
“Lend it to me,” Galt suggested. “You'll want to get back to your guests.”
“Okay.” She went out, to return with a fresh drink which Galt accepted gratefully. Seated on the bed, he thumbed through the album.
Family photographs – the usual things. At the seashore, in parks, on lawns, on porches; posed professional shots–what he had expected. All bore notations in white ink, written carefully under each picture. The handwriting was that of Mrs. Cavendish, Galt’s mother, eight years dead.
There were pictures of Tim as a baby, as a boy, as a youth, and as a man. These Galt examined closely. If they were forgeries, they were expertly made.
Tim and Galt had resembled each other closely. They still did. One picture, quite old, showed a baby reclining in a basket of roses. Under it was the legend, “Baby Tim–two months.”
Galt thumbed the pages, and finally found what he sought. It was quite similar, except that the infant’s face was altered a little, and the basket was shaped differently and held crysanthemums. A careful retouching job might have accounted for that.
The other pictures of Tim also had one common denominator. Neither pose nor background was entirely original. They were, if not lifted bodily, at least inspired by the other snaps in the album.
Galt tucked the book under his arm and went out, nodding to Mary Ellen. His watch told him it was nearly time for his appointment with the detective he’d hired. But a surprise awaited him at his apartment.