“Of the explanations, yours, sir, is the most nearly accurate,” the professor continued, nodding to the travel man. “It was the suicide of a daughter. She had been driven from her home because of the father’s madly melodramatic suspicions of her affair with his assistant—which proved to have been quite innocent, if terribly sincere. She had loved her father dearly. Sorrow overcame her, and she took poison. But afterwards, she wanted to get home—to tell her father that he was forgiven.”
“And did she ever tell him, if she never got there?”
“The visitations ceased,” the professor said pedantically.
“And you found out all this from your researches?”
“Yes”—in a toneless voice.
The fire had almost died down. Now it flared up brightly and for a moment Martin could see the professor’s face. He saw . . . and sat in shocked silence. He should have realized it before. There was no other way a man could know so much about it. Through the darkness, he could half see a smile on the old man’s lips now. The old man was remembering that, after all, his daughter had forgiven him.
“It’s a fair enough story,” the doctor said at last. “But I still can’t see it as a picture.”
The Star Dummy
“. . . It’s something—outside of me,” Paul Peters found himself saying. “I’ve read stories, Father, about . . . losing control. It sounded absurd. But this is real. It . . . he talks to me.”
It was close and dark in the booth, but Paul could almost see the slow smile spreading from the Paulist priest. “My son, I know that anonymity is usual in the confessional booth. But since there is only one professional ventriloquist in this parish, it’s a little hard to maintain in this case, isn’t it? And knowing you as I do outside of the confessional, Paul, does make a difference in advising you. You say that your dummy—”
“Chuck Woodchuck,” Paul muttered venomously.
“Chuck talks back to you, says things not in your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Not even in your subconscious mind?”
“Can my conscious mind answer that?”
“Question withdrawn. Paul, to certain souls I might say simply fast and pray. To others I might suggest consulting with the Archbishop for permission for a formal exorcism. To you, however, I think I might make a more materialistic recommendation: see an analyst.”
Paul groaned in the darkness. “It’s more than that. It’s something outside of me . . .”
“Occam’s razor,” the Paulist murmured. “With your fondness for science fiction, you’ll appreciate that. See if the simplest answer works. If it doesn’t, we can discuss less materialistic causes. See an analyst. And perhaps you needn’t offend the good doctor by telling him that I also advise prayer along with his treatment.”
“. . . and I see no reason,” the eminent analyst concluded, “why we should not dispel your demon in a relatively brief time. In fact, young man, we’ll leave you in better shape than when you started having these hallucinations. Your choice of profession is of course highly symptomatic. A predilection for ventriloquism clearly indicates a basically schizoid personality, which chooses to externalize one portion of itself.”
Paul brought his attention back from the splendid view of the Bay. “And you’ll fix that up?”
The analyst deigned to smile. “Easily, I hope.”
“I don’t know,” Paul ventured, “if you’ve heard of a friend of mine named Joe Henderson? Writes science fiction?”
“That escapist dianetics-spawning rubbish?” the analyst exclaimed, as if each word were spelled with four letters.
“As you say. My friend went to an analyst, and in the course of the first interview mentioned his profession. Aha!’ said the doctor gleefully. ‘We’ll soon put a stop to that nonsense!’ ”
“Sound attitude,” the analyst agreed.
“Only it occurred to Joe that then how was he going to pay his bills—including, of course, the doctor’s. So somehow Joe never did get himself analyzed . . .”
Paul got up hesitantly. “I’m a professional ventriloquist, Doctor. I’m a good one. I make good money. At least, I used to when . . .” his voice became a little unsteady for a trained ventriloquist, or even for a normal man . . . “when Chuck was nothing more than an amusingly carved piece of wood. It’s the only business I know. If you ‘cure’ me of it, well—Othello’s occupation’s gone.”
“This Othello.” The analyst’s eyes sharpened. “Another externalization? Does he speak to you too?”
“Tell you what,” said Paul. “I’ll send Chuck in to see you. He’ll tell you more about me than I can.”
Which was perfectly true, Paul thought as he rode down fifteen stories. Could anyone, even the psychiatrist—even the priest—imagine what it was like to sit there awake all night in the dark room with the carved wood telling you all about yourself? All the little indecencies, the degradations of humanity hidden deep under your thoughts. Taunting you with the baseness of your flesh viewed with a cold contempt which only wood could feel. Sitting there listening, listening and feeling the contempt probe ever more deeply, ever more accurately.
Somehow he was on the sidewalk in front of the office building, shaking so violently that he suddenly had to force his hands around the standard of a No-Parking sign to keep himself erect.
Fortunately, this was San Francisco, where no one is ever far from a bar. When he was capable again of freeing one hand from the standard, he made the sign of the cross and moved off. A brief wordless prayer and two wordless straight bourbons later he knew, since he could not return to the room where the wood lay, the best place for him that afternoon.
The zoo is a perfect place for relaxation, for undoing internal knots. Paul had often found it so when baffled by script problems, or by the idiosyncrasies of agencies and sponsors. Here are minds of a different order, a cleaner, freer creation to which you can abandon yourself, oblivious of human complexities.
He knew most of the animals by sight as individuals,
