Shooting Star/Spiderweb

something few men ever get or ever realize they want—personal interest. I suddenly knew that I could do what I had promised: remake him, remold him into a better, more integrated, healthy personality.

But why should I? Suddenly it all came back to me: a picture of Caldwell, dozens of men like Caldwell and what they had done to me in the past.

“Sorry, Mr. Caldwell is busy and cannot be disturbed... Afraid there’s nothing doing right now...If you’d care to leave your name...No, I haven’t time to discuss it with you...”

Yes, there were a lot of Caldwells, a lot of fat, well-fed Mr. Bigs around, ready and waiting to make the little fellows dance to their tune, ready to play God.

Well, I wasn’t having any more. From now on, I was Mr. Big and the Caldwells could dance for me.

“All right, that’s enough,” I snapped.

“But I’m not finished yet.”

“Sorry, another time.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

And so we started.

I gave him assignments galore—went through the whole bag of tricks.

I supplied him with a card, an order pad, and a briefcase full of sample neckties and sent him into a haberdashery shop, cold, to pose as a tie salesman and get an order.

Another day I got him hopelessly lost in the canyons and made him drive us back.

I kept him awake for two days and two nights, denied him food and water for twenty-four hours, ordered him to grow a beard.

It was silly, it was pathetic, it was as simple as A-B-C, and he loved it. Because I kept up a fast line of patter about personality development, exposing oneself to new experience variants, learning dormant skills and realizing and utilizing psychic potential. The very simplicity of the methodology is what made it so effective. I was always at his side, always ready with a new problem, always eager to discuss his reactions, listen to him talk about himself. He was completely sold.

As a matter of fact, it didn’t hurt him a bit. It was really good therapy. He dropped about eight pounds in two weeks, took on some color, stopped washing his hands every hour. He was still a string saver, but the change of pace and the absence of Eve combined to restore his sex drive and focus it upon more normal goals.

It surprised me, at first, to see him benefit. But why shouldn’t he benefit? The fake religions, the fake healers, the fake mystics, all have a history of success with sufferers and seekers. Sometimes the success is illusory and temporary, often the converts plunge still further into a final morass of maladjustment, but that doesn’t seem to matter to them.

Certainly the change made Caldwell happy. He felt free, uninhibited, readjusted.

“I’m ready to start fresh now,” he kept telling me. “And thanks to you, I know what I want to do. I was never happy in corporation law, anyway. Handling other peoples’ affairs and other peoples’ funds—that’s living your life secondhand. You’ve shown me I know how to sell, how to analyze. And I do have a background of business experience. Seems to me I ought to take advantage of it.”

“What did you have in mind, Ed?”

“Real estate. There’s a boom building up again in the south, you know. Beach development, housing. I’ve had my eye on some property for a long time, now. But I always kept putting it off, being cautious and afraid. Well, now I’m ready.

“And if I do, Roberts—I’d like to show my appreciation to you. Cut you in on the deal if you want.”

“But your funds are tied up,” I reminded him. “Everything’s invested in that stock, remember?”

He laughed. It was a surprisingly energetic laugh. “That was a lot of nonsense. I was talking like an old woman in those days, wasn’t I? Sure, if I sell, the company may have to reorganize and Imperial might take over. But I’ve got my own life to lead.”

This was a new Caldwell talking, and I listened with new interest.

“What do you say, Roberts? Should I go ahead, sell my stock? And do you want in if I do?”

“Well.” I hedged. “I don’t know if you’re ready yet. Give me a little time to analyze the elements involved. I trust you won’t do anything rash until we work things out.”

“Naturally I wouldn’t make a move without your say-so. But I want action.”

“All right.” I nodded. “I think I can promise you some action very shortly.”

And we left it at that, and I went home.

My new place on New Hampshire was a white frame affair, seven rooms and a fireplace—conventional enough, because I didn’t operate from here. Rogers had a bedroom on the second floor, and he kept out of my way, using the back entrance. I wasn’t usually around much anyhow. I ate out, and the night work didn’t give me much chance to try out the fireplace-and-slippers routine.

Once in a while, like tonight, I had a chance to relax. Or thought I did. That’s why I set the pint bottle out on the table and poured myself a shot.

I had to be careful. Rogers mustn’t see me drink. If he was home, he’d be upstairs, though, with his own pint. The important thing was to keep my occasional indulgence from the Professor.

To hell with the Professor!

I took my first drink on that. And as I did so, I realized I meant it. Perhaps Caldwell’s offer today had started me off. Whatever it was, I felt differently now. I knew I had to get out, get away. If only I could take advantage of his friendly offer, go into real estate or something legitimate. Why, this was the kind of thing I’d always looked for.

And now it came too late. Much too late. Because I couldn’t go in with Caldwell. My job was to line him up for the big trimming. And I couldn’t run, either. Because they’d bring me back. I’d have company all the way—some brawny dick sitting next to me in a coach car, trying to make conversation and hide the handcuffs.

No, I couldn’t run because that would only mean trouble. Besides, I was thinking like Eddie Haines now, not Judson Roberts. Not Judson Roberts, who sat in the driver’s seat, who had a fancy office and clients and money rolling in.

Or did he? The Professor was really in the driver’s seat. And the money was rolling in to him, not to me. Sure, I was drawing my hundred a week plus expenses—but he was making more, would make thousands on these killings.

Killings. That wasn’t a good word to use or think about. I was just a stooge. Professor Hermann had me where he wanted me, and I’d never get out. I couldn’t save Caldwell from whatever fate the Professor had planned. I couldn’t save myself.

But I could have another drink...

“Good evening.”

The Professor had come in quietly, using his own key. He stood in the doorway and stared.

“Come in, sit down,” I said. “I didn’t expect you.”

“That is obvious.”

“You mean the whiskey? I was just having a nightcap.”

He sat down at the table and crossed his arms. The sleeves made a black X on the table. X marks the spot. Black suit again. All that money coming in and he still dressed in the same clothing. Like a minister. Or an undertaker...

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Not a thing. Should there be?”

“Rogers tells me you do a lot of this lately in the evening.”

Rogers was a little rat. I raised my glass and drank to holes in his cheese. “Not so much. Besides, what else is there for me to do?”

“You might keep up your studies. There is no end to learning, you know.”

“I’m doing all right. The money’s coming in, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I really cannot complain on that score.”

“Then I’m entitled to my own way of amusing myself.”

“Amusing yourself.” The Professor ran a hand across his gleaming skull. I thought of a janitor waxing a dance floor. That was better than thinking about gleaming skulls.

He stared at me across the table. “So you are still interested in amusement, eh? That’s the end-all and be-all