had two bowls of clam chowder. As he spooned it up, he wondered whether enough fresh water was coming into his tank.
When he got back to his apartment, he stood for a long time in the middle of the living room, thinking. Of water, of the taste of salt, of sun. At last he roused himself to undress. In the bathroom he took his usual assortment of psychiatric drugs. And the syrup of senta beans.
He woke about two in the morning, feeling utterly miserable. His head hurt, his throat ached, the air in the room was hot and dry. Worst of all was his longing for his absent person. He knew now who he was—Wilmer Bellows, who was a squid in a tank at the municipal aquarium. He wanted to get back to himself.
He started to dress. Then he checked himself. He couldn’t possibly get into the aquarium building at this hour. If he tried, he’d only set off a burglar alarm. But he wouldn’t go through another night like this one. Tomorrow he’d hide in the aquarium when it came closing time.
He sluiced his face and neck with water, and lay down on the chesterfield in the living room. He turned and twitched until daybreak. Then he took a long cold shower. For breakfast, he unzipped a plastic package of sardines.
Once he was back in the aquarium, his malaise disappeared. He seemed in fine shape, with his tank properly aerated and plenty of clean salt water bubbling in. Glub-glub. Life was good.
As the day progressed, Wilmer began to fear that he had attracted the attention of the guard. He’d tried to stay away from his tank, but it hadn’t been easy, when he was so deeply attracted to himself. All the same, he managed to hide at closing time, dodging adroitly from the visiphone booth to the men’s room and back to another visi booth, and when the building was quiet, he came tiptoeing out again.
He shone his flashlight on himself. Yes, he was fine. Well, now. They might have a little snack.
He would have liked to feed him some fish meal, but he was afraid that if he went into the pas sages behind the tanks he’d get caught. He had to settle for some seaweed crackers and a thermos of clam broth. He didn’t know when he’d enjoyed a feed so much.
The night wore on. Wilmer grew sleepy. He leaned up against the glass of his tank in drowsy contentment, dreaming softly of rock pools and gentle tides. When the nightwatchman made his third round, at one-fifteen, Wilmer was asleep on his feet.
The watchman saw him, of course. He hesitated. He was a big man, and Wilmer was slight; he could probably have overpowered him easily. On the other hand, an aquarium is a poor place for a scuffle. And something in the pose of the man by the squid tank alarmed the watchman. It didn’t seem natural.
The watchman went to his office and vizzed the cops. He added that he thought it would be a good idea if they brought a doctor along.
Wilmer awoke from his dreams of pelagic bliss to find himself impaled on the beams of three flashlights. Before he had time to get alarmed and jet backward, the fourth man stepped forward and spoke.
“My name is Dr. Roebuck,” he said in a deep, therapeutic voice. “I assume that you have some good reason for being where you are now. Perhaps you would like to share that reason with me.”
Wilmer’s hesitation was brief. Years of psycho-therapy had accustomed him to unburdening himself to the medical profession. “Come over by the sea horses,” he said. “I don’t want the others to hear.”
Briefly—since his throat was sore—he explained the situation to Dr. Roebuck. “So now I’m a squid,” he ended.
“Um.” Dr. Roebuck rubbed his nose. He had had some psychiatric training, and Wilmer did not seem particularly crazy to him. Besides, he was aware that a patient who is aggressive, anxious, and disoriented may actually be in better psychological shape than a person who is quiet and cooperative. Wilmer wasn’t anxious or aggressive, but he was certainly disoriented.
“When’s your doctor coming back?” he asked.
“Week from next Friday.”
“Well, we might wait until then. You can’t stay here, though. Could you afford a few days in a nursing home?”
Wilmer made a sort of gobbling noise.
“What’s the matter?” asked Roebuck.
“Don’t know. Air’s dry. Throat hurts.”
“Let me look at it.”
With one of the cops’ flashlights, Roebuck examined Wilmer’s throat. “Good lord,“he said after a moment. “Good lord.”
“Matter?”
“Why, you’ve got—” it had been a long time since Roebuck had taken his course in comparative anatomy. Still, there was no mistaking it. “Why, man, you’ve got gills.!”
“Have?” Wilmer asked uncertainly.
“Yes. Well, I don’t suppose that makes much difference. Can you afford a nursing home?”
“Got ‘nu ff money. Can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Live
“Nonsense,” answered Roebuck, who could be stern on occasion. “You can’t stay here.”
“…not?”
“Because it would annoy the other fish.”
Against the cogency of this argument, Wilmer was helpless. He submitted to being led out to the police ‘copter and flown to the Restwell Nursing Home. Roebuck saw him into a bathtub of salty water, and promised to come back next day.
Wilmer was still in the bath next morning.
“Where am I?” he asked as Roebuck came in.
“Why in the Restwell Nursing Home.” Roebuck sat down on the corner of the tub.
“No, no. Where am
“Oh. Still in a tank at the Municipal Aquarium, I suppose.”
“I want back.”
“Impossible.”
Wilmer began to weep. As he wept, he kept ducking his neck under the water to hydrate his gills.
“Let me look at those gills,” said Roebuck, after the third duck. “Hum. They’re more prominent than they were.”
“…I WANT MY SQUID.”
“You can’t have it. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to put up with this until Dr. Adams gets back.”
“So long to wait,” said Wilmer wistfully. “Want squid.”
He continued to ask for his squid on Roebuck’s next two visits, but on the fourth day the doctor found him sitting up in a chair, wearing a faded pink bathrobe.
“Out of the water, I see,” said Roebuck. “How are you feeling today?”
“O.K.,” Wilmer answered in a high-pitched, listless voice. “Joints hurt, though.” There was the hint of a lisp in his speech.
“Joints? Could be caused by staying in the water so long.
“Move over by the light… You know, this is most unusual. Your gills seem to be going a way.” Roebuck frowned.
“Gillth?” Wilmer giggled. “What are you talking about, you funny man? Jointh hurt. And boneth. Fix it, Mither Man.”
Roebuck frowned a little longer. Then, on a hunch, he ordered a series of skeletal x-rays. They showed an unusually large amount of cartilage for an adult skeleton, and a pelvis that was definitely gynecoid.
Roebuck was astonished. He knew how powerful psychosomatic effects can be; he would not have found it inconceivable that Wilmer’s libidinal identification with the squid would finally have resulted in Wilmer’s becoming completely aquaticized. But now the man’s gills were atrophying, and his skeleton was becoming that of an immature female! It wasn’t reason able. Some remarkable psychic changes must be taking place.
What was happening, of course was that Wilmer’s libido, balked by its primary object, the squid, was ranging back over the other objects he had almost identified with, trying to find a stable one. It was an unconscious
