Lee Hayden had sent eleven men to their
death in deep space. Now he wanted only to die
himself. It was at this crucial point that he met—
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat.There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on hisrag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and waveredbefore his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over:
You're through, Hayden—all washed up—this is the bottom—you can'tgo any lower—Lee Hayden—boy genius—all washed up—you made the tripin a hurry, son—right down from the top to the bottom in nothingflat—why don't you give up, why don't you kite off, you gutless wonderof the ages—too weak to live—too yellow to die—
On and on the tape played while along the street, came the fastidiousto step daintily around the wreck in the gutter; the callous to grinand sneer; the timid to hurry by without looking.
Then a voice: "Can I help you?"
"Go 'way."
A hand on his shoulder. The voice brisk, cheerful. "Come now—thegutter is no place for a man of your caliber."
Lee grunted and rolled over. Someone who knew him evidently; someoneechoing the myth of his "brilliance". "I said get the hell—" He openedan eye. If this was an old friend, the man had gone out of memory.Plump, cheerful, rosy-faced, well-cut clothes. A man with an air ofconfidence.
And something more.
It was the something more that stopped Lee from swinging at the man'splump chin after allowing himself to be lifted to his feet. The manlooked critically into Lee's face as the latter swayed. He took a snowyhandkerchief from his pocket. He wiped filth from Lee's face in themanner of one wiping the face of a child. "I think you need a drink,young fellow."
Lee grinned crookedly. "Now you're talkin'."
The plump man steered Lee down the street, around a corner, under aglittering marquee. An immaculate doorman glared with frosty eyes.His look of disgust partially sobered Lee. "Now wait a minute," Leemumbled. After all, a man never lost all his pride.
He was drawing away, instinctively seeking shadows, when the doorman'seyes shifted to the plump man. They cleared instantly. He saluted,bowed, said "Good evening, Mr. Clifford."
"Good evening, John. We need a snifter or two of your excellent scotch."
"Certainly, sir." The doorman opened the portal as though the Secretaryof State were honoring the Lotus Room with his presence.
Lee was busy marveling as they crossed the hotel lobby, brushing closeto hastily drawn-back mink coats and formal clothes. It was certainlytime for the bouncer to appear. But the hostess at the door of theLotus Room—a blonde dream wearing something that resembled a pinkcloud—gave the plump man a look Lee felt should have been reservedonly for God.
"Mr. Clifford! What table would you like?"
Mr. Clifford smiled. "Good evening, my dear." He turned to Lee. "Mr.Hayden, this is Daphne—Mr. Lee Hayden, my dear."
Her eyes turned obediently to Lee and he was sober enough to note thecomplete absence of revulsion; only pity in her friendly, open gaze.He thanked her silently and thought: Even a bum like me still has alittle pride and sensitivity left.
But a bum hides it behind grossness. Lee growled, "You got any decentliquor in this snob-joint?"
Snob-joint! Not so long ago he felt entirely at home in such places.