Time Enough at Last Read online

  "Why not devise a self-starter,” suggested Mr. Feathersmith, recalling that millions had been made out of them, “a gadget you press with the foot, you know, that will crank the engine with an electric motor?"

  "Why not wings?” asked the surly mechanic. He did not realize that both were practical, or that Mr. Feathersmith had seen better days. The trouble with Mr. Feathersmith was that he had always been a promoter and a financier, with little or no knowledge of the mechanical end of the game.

  "It works,” he insisted solemnly, “a storage battery, a motor, and a gilhookey to crank the motor. Think it over. It would make us rich."

  "So would perpetual motion,” answered the garage man. And that was that.

  Dr. Simpson, when contact was made, was even a poorer consolation.

  "Ephedrine? Vitamins? Thyroxin? You're talking gibberish—I don't know what you mean. Naturally, a man of your age is likely to get short of breath at times—even faint. But shucks, Mr. Feathersmith, don't let that bother you. I've known men to live to a hundred that didn't stack up as well as you. Take it easy, rest plenty with a nap every afternoon, and you'll be all right. We're only young once, you know."

  * * * *

  When Mr. Feathersmith found that the good doctor had nothing to offer better than a patented “tonic” and poultices for his rheumatism, he thereafter let him strictly alone. The situation as to vitamins and glandular extracts was worse than hopeless—the dieticians had not got around yet to finding out about calories, let alone those. Mr. Feathersmith worried more and more over Satan's inexplicable delay in bestowing youth befitting the age, for Fortin had insisted the Old Boy would fulfill his promise if the price was paid. But until that was done, the old financier could only wait and employ his time as profitably as he could.

  He kept ransacking his brains for things he could invent, but every avenue proved to be a blind alley. He mentioned the possibility of flying to the circle that sat about the lobby stove, but they scornfully laughed it down. It was an obvious impossibility, except for the dirigible gas bags Santos-Dumont was playing with in France. He tried to organize a company to manufacture aluminum, but unfortunately no one had heard of the stuff except one fellow who had been off to school and seen a lump of it in the chemical laboratory. It was almost as expensive as gold, and what good was it?

  Mr. Feathersmith realized then that if he were in possession of a 1942 automobile no one could duplicate it, for the many alloys were unknown and the foundry and machine shop practice necessary were undeveloped. There was nothing to paint it with but carriage paint—slow-drying and sticky. There were no fuels or lubricants to serve it, or any roads fit to run it on.

  He played with other ideas, but they all came croppers.

  He dared not even mention radio—it smacked too much of magic—or lunacy. And he most certainly did not want to be locked up as a madman in an insane asylum of the era. If standard medicine was just beginning to crawl, psychiatry was simply nonexistent. So he kept quiet about his speculations.

  Since life had become so hard and he was cut off from any normal intercourse with his fellow townsmen, he yearned for good music. But, alas, that likewise was not to be had outside one or two metropolitan orchestras. He went once to church and heard a home-grown, self-taught soprano caterwaul in a quavering voice. After that he stayed away. He caught himself wishing for a good radio program—and he had altered considerably his standards of what was good.

  A week rolled by. During it he had another stroke that was almost his last. The New York doctor had warned him that if he did not obey all the rules as to diet and other palliatives, he might expect to be taken off at any time. Mr. Feathersmith knew that his days were numbered—and the number was far fewer than it would have been if he had remained in the modern age he had thought so unbearable. But still there was the hope that the Devil would yet do the right thing by him.

  That hope was finally and utterly blasted the next day. Mr. Feathersmith was in the grip of another devastating fit of weakness and knew that shortly he would be unable to breathe and would therefore fall into a faint and die. But just before his last bit of strength and speck of consciousness faded, there was a faint plop overhead and an envelope fluttered down and into his lap. He looked at it, and though the stamp and cancellation were blurred and illegible, he saw the return address in the corner was “Bureau of Complaints and Adjustments, Gehenna.” His trembling fingers tore the missive open. A copy of his contract fell out into his lap.

  He scanned it hurriedly. As before, it seemed flawless. Then he discovered a tiny memorandum clipped to its last page. He read it and knew his heart would stand no more. It was from the cute little witch of Fifth Avenue.

  "DEAREST SNOOKY-WOOKY:

  His Nibs complains you keep on bellyaching. That's not fair. You said you wanted to be where you are, and there you are. You wanted your memory unimpaired. Can we help it if your memory is lousy? And not once, old dear, did you cheep about also having your youth restored. So that lets us out. Be seeing you in Hell, old thing.

  Cheerio!"

  He stared at it with fast-dimming eyes.

  "The little witch—the bad, badgering little—” and then an all-engulfing blackness saved him from his mumbling alliteration.

  THE YELLOW PILL

  ROG PHILLIPS

  ADAPTED FOR OUT OF THIS WORLD (1958) & OUT OF THE UNKNOWN (1969)

  VIDEOGRAPHY

  #1

  Series: Out of This World

  Host: Boris Karloff

  Episode title: The Yellow Pill

  Based on: “The Yellow Pill” by Rog Phillips

  Publication: Astounding Science Fiction, October 1958

  Teleplay: Leon Griffiths

  Director: Jonathan Alwyn

  Cast: Nigel Stock (John Frame), Richard Pasco (Michael Connor), Peter Dyneley (Inspector Slinn), Pauline Yates (Helen Carter).

  Running Time: hour episode

  Medium: B&W.

  Air Date: June 30, 1962

  #2

  Series: Out of the Unknown

  Episode title: The Yellow Pill

  Teleplay: Leon Griffiths

  Director: Michael Ferguson

  Cast: Francis Matthews (John Frame), Angela Browne (Helen Carter), Glynn Edwards (Inspector Slinn), Stephen Bradley (Wilfred Connor), Steve Peters (Plain Clothes Man #1), James Haswell (Plain Clothes Man #2).

  Running Time: hour episode

  Medium: Color.

  Air Date: March 25, 1969

  THE YELLOW PILL

  Dr. Cedric Elton slipped into his office by the back entrance, shucked off his topcoat and hid it in the small, narrow-doored closet, then picked up the neatly piled patient cards his receptionist Helena Fitzroy had placed on the corner of his desk. There were only four, but there could have been a hundred if he accepted everyone who asked to be his patient, because his successes had more than once been spectacular and his reputation as a psychiatrist had become so great. Because of this that his name had become synonymous with psychiatry in the public mind.

  His eyes flicked over the top card. He frowned, then went to the small square of one-way glass in the reception room door and looked through it. There were four police officers and a man in straitjacket.

  The card said the man's name was Gerald Bocek, and that he had shot and killed five people in a supermarket, and had killed one officer and wounded two others before being captured.

  Except for the straitjacket, Gerald Bocek did not have the appearance of being dangerous. He was about twenty-five, with brown hair and blue eyes. There were faint wrinkles of habitual good nature about his eyes. Right now he was smiling, relaxed, and idly watching Helena, who was pretending to study various cards in her desk file but was obviously conscious of her audience.

  Cedric returned to his desk and sat down. The card for Jerry Bocek said more about the killings. When captured, Bocek insisted that the people he had killed were not people at all, but blue-scaled Venusian lizards who had boarded his sp
aceship, and that he had only been defending himself.

  Dr. Cedric Elton shook his head in disapproval. Fantasy fiction was all right in its place, but too many people took it seriously. Of course, it was not the fault of the fiction. The same type of person took other type of fantasy seriously in earlier days, burning women as witches, stoning men as devils—

  Abruptly Cedric deflected the control on the intercom and spoke into it. “Send Gerald Bocek in, please,” he said.

  A moment later the door to the reception room opened. Helena flashed Cedric a scared smile and got out of the way quickly. One police officer led the way, followed by Gerald Bocek closely flanked by two officers with the fourth one in the rear, who carefully closed the door. It was impressive, Cedric decided. He nodded toward a chair in front of his desk and the police officers sat the straitjacketed man in it, then hovered nearby, ready for anything.

  "You're Jerry Bocek?” Cedric asked.

  The straitjacketed man nodded cheerfully.

  "I'm Dr. Cedric Elton, a psychiatrist,” Cedric said. “Do you have any idea at all why you have been brought to me?"

  "Brought to you?” Jerry echoed, chuckling. “Don't kid me. You're my old pal, Gar Castle. Brought to you? How could I get away from you in this stinking tub?"

  "Stinking tub?” Cedric said.

  "Spaceship,” Jerry said. “Look, Gar. Untie me, will you? This nonsense has gone far enough."

  "My name is Dr. Cedric Elton,” Cedric enunciated. “You are not on a spaceship. You were brought to my office by the four policemen standing in back of you, and—"

  Jerry Bocek turned his head and studied each of the four policemen with frank curiosity. “What policemen?” he interrupted. “You mean these four gear lockers?” He turned his head back and looked pityingly at Dr. Elton. “You'd better get hold of yourself, Gar,” he said. “You're imagining things."

  "My name is Dr. Cedric Elton,” Cedric said.

  Gerald Bocek leaned forward and said with equal firmness, “Your name is Gar Castle. I refuse to call you Dr. Cedric Elton because your name is Gar Castle, and I'm going to keep on calling you Gar Castle because we have to have at least one peg of rationality in all this madness or you will be cut completely adrift in this dream world you've cooked up."

  Cedric's eyebrows shot halfway up to his hairline.

  "Funny,” he mused, smiling. “That's exactly what I was just going to say to you!"

  Cedric continued to smile. Jerry's serious intenseness slowly faded. Finally an answering smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. When it became a grin Cedric laughed, and Jerry began to laugh with him. The four police officers looked at one another uneasily.

  "Well!” Cedric finally gasped. “I guess that puts us on an even footing! You're nuts to me and I'm nuts to you!"

  "An equal footing is right!” Jerry shouted in high glee. Then abruptly he I sobered. “Except,” he said gently, “I'm tied up."

  "In a strait jacket,” Cedric corrected.

  "Ropes,” Jerry said firmly.

  "You're dangerous,” Cedric said. “You killed six people, one of them a police officer, and wounded two other officers."

  "I blasted five Venusian lizard pirates who boarded our ship,” Jerry said, “and melted the door off of one food locker, and seared the paint on two others. You know as well as I do, Gar, how space madness causes you to personify everything. That's why they drill into you that the minute you think there are more people on board the ship than there were at the beginning of the trip you'd better go to the medicine locker and take a yellow pill. They can't hurt anything but a delusion."

  "If that is so,” Cedric said, “why are you in a strait jacket?"

  "I'm tied up with ropes,” Jerry said patiently. “You tied me up. Remember?"

  "And those four police officers behind you are gear lockers?” Cedric said. “O.K., if one of those gear lockers comes around in front of you and taps you on the jaw with his fist, would you still believe it's a gear locker?"

  Cedric nodded to one of the officers, and the man came around in front of Gerald Bocek and, quite carefully, hit him hard enough to rock his head but not hurt him.

  Jerry's eyes blinked with surprise, then he looked at Cedric and smiled.

  "Did you feel that?” Cedric said quietly.

  "Feel what?” Jerry said. “Oh!” He laughed. “You imagined that one of the gear lockers—a police officer, in your dream world—came around in front of me and hit me?” He shook his head in pity. “Don't you understand, Gar, that it didn't really happen? Untie me and I'll prove it. Before your very eyes I'll open the door on your Policeman and take out the pressure suit, or magnetic grapple, or whatever is in it. Or are you afraid to? You've surrounded yourself with all sorts of protective delusions. I'm tied with ropes, but you imagine it to be a straitjacket. You imagine yourself to be a psychiatrist named Dr. Cedric Elton, so that you can convince yourself that you're sane and I'm crazy. Probably you imagine yourself a very famous psychiatrist that everyone would like to come to for treatment. World famous, no doubt. Probably you even think you have a beautiful receptionist? What is her name?"

  "Helena Fitzroy,” Cedric said.

  Jerry nodded. “It figures,” he said resignedly. “Helena Fitzroy is the Expediter at Mars Port. You try to date her every time we land there, but she won't date you."

  "Hit him again,” Cedric said to the officer. While Jerry's head was still rocking from the blow, Cedric said, “Now! Is it my imagination that your head is still rocking from the blow?"

  "What blow?” Jerry said, smiling serenely. “I felt no blow."

  "Do you mean to say,” Cedric said incredulously, “that there is no corner of your mind, no slight residue of rationality, that tries to tell you your rationalizations aren't reality?"

  Jerry smiled ruefully. “I have to admit,” he said, “when you seem so absolutely certain you're right and I'm nuts, it almost makes me doubt. Untie me, Gar, and let's try to work this thing out sensibly.” He grinned. “You know, Gar, one of us has to be nuttier than a fruit cake."

  "If I had the officers take off your strait jacket, what would you do?” Cedric asked. “Try to grab a gun and kill some more people?"

  "That's one of the things I'm worried about,” Jerry said. “If those pirates came back, with me tied up, you're just space crazy enough to welcome them aboard. That's why you must untie me. Our lives may depend on it, Gar."

  "Where would you get a gun?” Cedric asked.

  "Where they're always kept,” Jerry said. “In the gear lockers."

  Cedric looked at the four policemen, at their revolvers holstered at their hip, and sighed. One of them grinned feebly at him.

  "I'm afraid we can't take your strait jacket off just yet,” Cedric said. “I'm going to have the officers take you back now. I'll talk with you again tomorrow. Meanwhile I want you to think seriously about things. Try to get below this level of rationalization that walls you off from reality. Once you make a dent in it the whole delusion will vanish.” He looked up at the officers. “All right, take him away. Bring him back the same time tomorrow."

  The officers urged Jerry to his feet. Jerry looked down at Cedric, a gentle expression on his face. “I'll try to do that, Gar,” he said. “And I hope you do the same thing. I'm much encouraged. Several times I detected genuine doubt in your eyes. And—” Two of the officers pushed him firmly toward the door. As they opened it Jerry turned his head and looked back. “Take one of those yellow pills in the medicine locker, Gar,” he pleaded. “It can't hurt you."

  At a little before five thirty Cedric tactfully eased his last patient all the way across the reception room and out, then locked the door and leaned his back against it.

  "Today was rough,” he sighed.

  Helena glanced up at him briefly, then continued typing. “I only have a little more on this last transcript,” she said.

  A minute later she pulled the paper from the typewriter and placed it on the neat stack beside her.
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  "I'll sort and file them in the morning,” she said. “It was rough, wasn't it, doctor? That Gerald Bocek is the most unusual patient you've had since I've worked for you. And poor Mr. Potts. A brilliant executive, making half a million a year, and he's going to have to give it up. He seems so normal."

  "He is normal,” Cedric said. “People with above normal blood pressure often have very minor cerebral hemorrhages so small that the affected area is no larger than the head of a pin. All that happens is that they completely forget things that they knew. They can relearn them, but a man whose judgment must always be perfect can't afford to take the chance. He's already made one error in judgment that cost his company a million and a half. That's why I consented to take him on as a—Gerald Bocek really upset me, Helena. I consented to take a five hundred thousand dollar a year executive as a patient."

  "He was frightening, wasn't he,” Helena said. “I don't mean so much because he's a mass murderer as—"

  "I know. I know,” Cedric said. “Let's prove him wrong. Have dinner with me."

  "We agreed—"

  "Let's break the agreement this once."

  Helena shook her head firmly. “Especially not now,” she said. “Besides, it wouldn't prove anything. He's got you boxed in on that point. If I went to dinner with you, it would only show that a wish fulfillment entered your dream world."

  "Ouch,” Cedric said, wincing. “That's a dirty word. I wonder how he knew about the yellow pills? I can't get out of my mind the fact that if we had spaceships and if there was a type of space madness in which you began to personify objects, a yellow pill would be the right thing to stop that."

  "How?” Helena said.

  "They almost triple the strength of nerve currents from end organs. What results is that reality practically shouts down any fantasy insertions. It's quite startling. I took one three years ago when they first became available. You'd be surprised how little you actually see of what you look at, especially of people. You look at symbol inserts instead. I had to cancel my appointments for a week. I found I couldn't work without my professionally built symbol inserts about people that enable me to see them—not as they really are—but as a complex of normal and abnormal symptoms."