The Science Fiction Anthology. Fritz Leiber

in no hurry now. And while you’re thinking, let me give you a few hints. No more cripples or disease. No ugly people, unless they choose to be. And no law.”

      “No—law?”

      “How would you police such a world? A man could change his face at will, or his fingerprints. Even his teeth. Probably he could do things I can’t imagine yet.”

      The buzzer went again, with Mrs. Grant’s subtle urgency. Amos ignored it, yet he hardly knew when Frank left the room.

      He realized the chemist had done him a favor. The selfish thing would have been to keep the secret and the boon all to himself; instead, he’d given Amos the choice.

      But what was the choice? Suppressing the drug would cost him his job. There was no doubt about that.

      He was standing with his back to the door when he heard it open. He turned and faced Detrick’s annoyed frown. “Amos, we can’t keep this man waiting. He’s—”

      All of Amos’ frustration and the new burden coalesced into rage. He ran toward Detrick. “You baboon-faced huckster!” he yelled. “Get out! Get out! I’ll tell you when you can come in here!” He barely caught his upraised fist in time.

      Detrick stood petrified, his face ludicrous. Then he came to life, ducked out, and pulled the door shut behind him.

      Amos waited no longer; if he had to decide, he wanted the data first-hand. He spread out the file Barnes had left him and looked through it for dosages. Apparently it wasn’t critical, so he poured a little of the powder into a tumbler, added water and threw it down. There was a mild alkaline taste, which he washed out of his mouth with more water. Then he sat down to wait.

      A monotone seemed to be rattling off trivia; almost faster than he could grasp it, even though it was in his head and not in his ears: “Paris green/calcium acetoarsenite/beetle invasion Texan cotton/paint pigment/obsolete/should eliminate/compensation claim/man probably faking infection/Detrick likes because we only source/felt like hitting him when we argued about it/correspondence Buffalo last year/they say keep/check how use as poison/damned wife—”

      The last thought shocked his intellect awake. “Hey!” Intellect demanded. “What’s going on here?”

      “Oh; you’ve broken through,” said Unconscious. “That was fast. Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds since you drank it. Probable error, one-third second. I’ve only been awake a few minutes myself. Minute/sixty per hour/twenty-four hours day/days getting shorter/September/have raincoat in car/wife wants new car/raincoat sweats plasticizer/stinks/Hyatt used camphor—”

      “Hold up a minute!” cried Intellect.

      “You want me to stop scanning?”

      “Is that what you’re doing? Scanning what?”

      “Memory banks, of course. Don’t you remember the book we read three years ago? ‘Human brain estimated—’ Oh, all right; I’ll slow down. You could follow me better if you’d let me grow some permanent direct connections.”

      “Am I stopping you?”

      “Well, not you, exactly. I’ll show you.” Unconscious began directing the growth of certain nerve tendrils in the brain. Amos could only follow it vaguely.

      “Fear!” screamed a soundless voice. “Stop!”

      “What was that?” Intellect asked, startled.

      “That was Id. He always fights any improvements, and I can’t override him.”

      “Can I?”

      “Of course; that’s mainly what you’re for. Wait till I get these connections finished and you’ll see the whole setup.”

      “FEAR!” shrieked Id. “STOP! NO CHANGE!”

      “SHUT UP!” yelled Intellect.

      It was strange being integrated; Amos found he was aware on two levels simultaneously. While he responded normally to his external environment, a lightning inner vision saw everything in vastly greater detail. The blink of an eye, for instance, was an amazing project. Even as commands flashed out and before the muscles started to respond, extra blood was rushing into the area to nourish the working parts. Reports flowed back like battle assessments: these three muscles were on schedule; this was lagging; that was pulling too hard. An infinitesimal twinge of pain marked some minor accident, and correction began at once. A censor watched the whole operation and labeled each incoming report: trivial, do not record; trivial, do not record; trivial, do not record; worth watching, record in temporary banks; trivial, do not....

      He felt now that he could look forward to permanent health, and so far he didn’t seem to be losing his identity or becoming a moral monster (though certain previously buried urges—toward Alice Grant, for instance—were now rather embarrassingly uncovered). He was not, like Frank Barnes, inclined to slip out of the situation at once. He still felt the responsibility to make the decision.

      He carried the vial of powder and the lab records home with him, smuggled them past his wife’s garrulity (it didn’t bother him now) and hid them. He went out with her cheerfully to visit some people he didn’t like, and found himself amused at them instead of annoyed. In general, he felt buoyant, and they stayed quite late.

      When they did get home, an urgent message was waiting on the telephone recorder, and it jolted him. He grabbed up the hat and coat he’d just laid down.

      “What is it?” his wife demanded.

      “I’ve got to go down to the plant.” He hesitated; it was hard to say the words that were charged with personal significance. “The watchman found Frank Barnes dead in the laboratory.”

      “Who?”

      “Frank Barnes! My chief chemist!”

      “Oh.” She looked at him, obviously concerned only with what effect, if any, it might have on her own circumstances. “Why do you have to get mixed up in it?”

      “I’m the boss, damn it!” He left her standing there and ran for the garage.

      The police were already at the plant when he arrived. Fred’s body lay on the floor of his office, in a corner behind some file cabinets, face up.

      “What was it?” Amos asked the man from the coroner’s office, dreading the answer he expected.

      The answer wasn’t the one he expected. “Heart attack.”

      Amos wondered if they were mistaken. He looked around the office. Things weren’t disarrayed in any way; it looked as if Frank had simply lain down and died. “When did you find him?” he asked the watchman.

      “A little after one. The door was closed and the lights were out, but I heard the cat yowling in here, so I came in to let it out, and saw the body.”

      “Any family?” one of the city men asked.

      “No,” said Amos slowly, “he lived alone. I guess you might as well take him to the ... morgue. When can I call about the autopsy?”

      “Try after lunch.”

      Amos watched them carry Frank away. Then he put out the lights and closed up the laboratory. He told the watchman he’d be around for a while, and went to his office to think.

      As nearly as he knew, Frank had taken the drug less than twenty-four hours before he had. Death had come late at night, which meant Frank had been working overtime. Why? And why hadn’t he been able to save himself?

      “Not logical,” his unconscious stated firmly. “He should have felt it coming and made repairs.”

      “This whole thing’s a delusion,” said Amos dully, aloud.

      “No, it isn’t,” said a peculiar voice behind him.

      He whirled and saw the black tomcat grinning up at him. He gasped, wondering if he were completely