Part 1

NO TIME FOR TOFFEE!

By Charles F. Myers

Life was Marc's oyster, but: subversives had shot him--a ghost was ready to haunt his corpse--and Toffee was loving him to death!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy July 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

_Just as he stepped to the microphone Marc caught sight of the swarthy man. He saw the red scar across the left eyebrow, the dull flash of metal in the large hairy hand. By then it was too late even to cry out. In the next instant the glass panel in the control booth shattered._

_Marc felt an explosion of hot pain deep inside his chest. He was aware of looking around dumbly at Dick Drewson and seeing Drewson's face register shocked disbelief. Then the scene--the room, Drewson and the others--disappeared, engulfed in a blinding sheet of flame--and Marc knew he was falling...._

* * * * *

Somewhere, in a place where time and space didn't exist, grey mists began to seeth and swirl, and withall there was an ominous rumbling. The High Council was almost in session.

In a sense, the High Council was already in session, for the Heads of the Council had developed their intellects to such an inconceivable degree that when a meeting of the Council was imminent they could send their thoughts on ahead of them and get the meeting under way even before putting in an appearance. There was an exchange of views and information long before the Heads accomplished the mundane and troublesome business of materialization. Thus it was that the mists of Limbo now rumbled with thought, counter thought and--on this particular occasion--downright aggravation, even before the arrival of the Supreme Head in the vapored chambers. There was an air of foreboding.

Having declined all vanities in the pursuit of the Ultimate Intelligence, the Heads had allowed themselves to evolve into literal representations of their titles. Directing all their energy and development to the brain and its encasement, their bodies had suffered proportionately so that now they were little more than a group of preposterously large craniums, shaggy with cerebration, bearing faces weighted with the ponderous woe of Life, Death, Eternity and other such mental ballast. Five in all, they made up a company to be avoided whatever the cost.

* * * * *

The Supreme Head cleared his throat and Eternity rattled with phlegmy discontent. Baleful glances were exchanged all around.

"Well," said the Supreme Head, after a pause for attention. "I suppose you all know the reason for this meeting by now?"

The Second Head, a bald party with large ears, nodded sadly. "You say this blighted Pillsworth has gone and got himself shot this time?"

"Precisely," the Supreme Head affirmed. "In a broadcasting studio, if you please. There's simply no keeping that man out of trouble."

"But why should we want to keep him out of trouble?" the Third Head, an elongated customer with eye pouches, wanted to know. "That's hardly our responsibility."

"There's George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head said fatefully. "Surely you haven't forgotten about George?"

A hush fell over the Council, a hush of horror.

"Not George again?" the Second Head shuddered. "We don't have to face him again, do we?" He looked around beseechingly at the others. "After all, Pillsworth's only injured, isn't he? He's not dying?"

The Supreme Head looked for a moment as though he wished he had shoulders so he might shrug them hopelessly. "The vibrations are confused again," he sighed. "I don't know what the interference is around Pillsworth, but the call never comes through clearly. All we know is that he's gotten himself into another mess of some sort and is either dead or dying."

"It seems that the subversives are still strongly active in the United States, and of course Pillsworth couldn't stay out of it like a good citizen. He was approached by some men delegated by government authority to take control of national advertising. The theory was that American advertising could be used as a strong combative propaganda weapon against the enemy propaganda already circulating through the country. A committee was delegated to secure the cooperation of the nation's leading advertising agencies. Naturally, since Pillsworth is the nation's leading advertising executive, they contacted him first."

"Then Pillsworth is a subversive?" the First Head enquired. "That's how he got into trouble?"

"Not at all," said the Supreme Head. "That's just it. Pillsworth wasn't subversive, but the government committee was."

"Eh?"

"Exactly. It turned out that the program was one of the cleverest propaganda schemes ever devised. Actually, their aim was to insert alien ideals into the nation's advertising."

"But you said the plan had government approval."

"That's the really clever part of it. The method of presentation, while seeming on the surface to denounce the foreign creed and uphold the American one, actually was designed to win support for the enemy. The sales psychology employed was of the negative."

"Negative?"

"That's correct. It's the old principle of telling people they don't want a thing until they develop a feeling of defiance and decide they are going to have it. It's an extremely subtle approach, but almost infallible if properly developed. Knowing this, these men had a perfect plan, so subtle that even the government didn't recognize it. Also, they had help from within. A certain Congressman Entwerp pushed through the legislation."

"But Pillsworth saw through it?"

* * * * *

"Instantly," the Supreme Head nodded. "It was a principle he had been using assiduously for years, in fact the very one through which he achieved his success. The whole plot was as clear as a May morn the moment he heard it. That's when the trouble started. He contacted Congressman Entwerp."

"Oh, dear!"

"Indeed. Entwerp responded by holding Pillsworth up to ridicule."

"But Pillsworth had logic on his side."

The Supreme Head smiled tolerantly. "That's the Earth for you every time," he said. "Show a human a bit of logic and he gets truculent on the spot. Pillsworth was denounced as a witch hunter and instructed under penalty of law to cooperate to the fullest."

"Shocking," the Third Head said. "I begin to feel sorry for this Pillsworth."

"Pillsworth was similarly shocked. But he didn't feel sorry for himself. Despite his inclination for the quiet conservative life, he fought back."

"Good," the Fourth Head put in. "I'm glad; it gives the story zip."

"My thought in telling you this," the Supreme Head said caustically, "is merely to inform, not entertain."

"Sorry, sir."

The Head nodded acknowledgment. "But to get on, Pillsworth presented his case to a news broadcaster and asked to be allowed to recite his story to the nation in the interests of national security. He was shot. By whom we do not know; the fellow got away. But the fact we must hold in mind is that he definitely was shot."

"Then it really is serious," the Third Head said. "We may have to interview this deadly George after all."

"It's unavoidable," the Supreme Head sighed. "There's no way around it."

"But we're not positive Pillsworth is dead yet. Couldn't we wait and be sure?"

"His vibrations have been broken," the Supreme Head said. "Actually we have no cause to hesitate." He sighed. "I suppose we might as well get it over with."

The others nodded in reluctant agreement. There was an oppressive silence.

"But didn't we banish George?" the First Head said. "We must have after his last excursion to Earth."

"That's right," the Second Head agreed. "I remember distinctly. He attempted to fire poor Pillsworth off into outer space without a pressure suit. We banished him to the Void to sing bass in the Moaning Chorus."

"We certainly picked the right party for the job," the First Head reflected. "There isn't a more base spirit in all Limbo. Has he been summoned?"

* * * * *

The Supreme Head coughed regretfully. "I issued the call through Message Center before I announced the council."

"Oh, dear," the First Head murmured, "then the stinker is practically on the sloop at this very moment."

"The stinker is crossing the sloop even now," the Supreme Head amended, his gaze fastened hauntedly on a disturbance in the outer mists. "Here he comes."

"Secure your valuables," the Second Head said morosely. "And keep your hands in your pockets."

Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth's long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the moiling vapors. It grew to full stature, rounded out at the shoulders, extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant pause, but nothing further developed.

"The rotter's ashamed to face us," the First Head observed sourly.

"Little wonder," the Third Head muttered. "After the way he's blotted the haunting profession, he hasn't got a leg to stand on."

"George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head intoned with exasperation, "spiritual projection of the mortal entity, Marc Pillsworth, approach the Council. And put on your head, you fool."

George stirred, and his head, working from the chin upward, materialized, revealing the face of Marc Pillsworth. All in all, as faces go, Marc's--and consequently also George's--hit very close to average. It was a nice face, a pleasant face, for all its lack of distinction. On George, therefore, it was a misleading face. With its lean plainness, its serious grey eyes and its shock of sandy hair, it failed utterly to express even a whit of George's unprincipled temperament.

"Is that better, sir?" George asked, edging warily forward.

"Hardly that," the Supreme Head groused. "The less of you the better. However it helps us somewhat to get a clue to the inner festerings of that depraved mind of yours." He gazed at George for a long, reflective moment, then made a sad, clucking sound. "I simply cannot imagine what Marcus Pillsworth must have thought when he discovered that his spiritual entity was a tacky, ebony-hearted, feather-headed wretch like you. Why aren't you more like your mortal source?"

George shrugged sheepishly. "I guess I'm just no damn good," he murmured.

"You flatter yourself," the Supreme Head said. "You're much worse than no damn good. You're simply awful. I wonder if Limbo will ever live you down."

"I hope so, sir," George said contritely.

"Nevertheless," the Supreme Head went on, "much as I loathe it, I suppose we must get on with it. I suppose you know why you've been summoned?"

George nodded dimly. "They reported me for teaching the Moaning Chorus to syncopate."

"What!" the Supreme Head gasped. "You did _what_?"

* * * * *

George looked up, afrighted; he'd given himself away again with no need. "Yes, sir," he sighed resignedly, "I thought that if we got up a good hot act we might be able to wangle a few guest shots with the Celestial Choir. Actually, we've worked out a really sock arrangement of the _Wham Bam Blues_. I'm sure that if you heard it...."

"No!" the Supreme Head roared. "You _couldn't_! Of all the unmitigated...!" He stopped and waited for his spleen to subside. "George Pillsworth," he said, "you are insufferable."

"I suppose so, sir," George said. "However my intentions...."

"Blast your intentions!"

"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry."

"Never mind. In that case it's probably just as well that things are as they are. It'll be a great relief to be rid of you."

"Rid of me?" George said fearfully. "You aren't going to...?"

"Unfortunately, no," the Supreme Head sighed. "What I mean is that your mortal part, Marc Pillsworth, has got himself shot."

George looked up sharply. His whole aspect changed; his eye brightened; his entire being grew more alert. "I'm to be sent to Earth as a permanent haunt? Oh, sir...!"

"Hold it!" the Supreme Head snapped. "Don't go into a spring dance. There's a hitch."

"Oh," George said, but his eagerness was not noticeably dampened.

To George, the merest prospect of a visit to Earth was only to be regarded with rapturous anticipation. To him that distant world of mortals was a place of boundless and exquisite attraction. It was made up in equal parts of liquor, women and larceny and anything else that existed there was merely the result of these things brought together in odd combination. For George, Earth was absolutely the last gasp.

Of course George had never achieved the ultimate accomplishment of establishing permanent residence on Earth, for on all of his previous visits he had arrived only to find that Marc was still alive and that he could not legitimately remain. If on these occasions, George had done his level best to rectify this error with whatever murderous means at hand, it did not imply that the ghost held any personal animosity for Marc. It was simply that George's was the sort of temperament which boggled at almost nothing to achieve its end.

"What's the catch?" he asked.

"Don't be flip," the Supreme Head admonished. "And stop syncopating."

"Syncopating?" George asked innocently. "I'm standing perfectly still."

"It's your mind," the Supreme Head said. "It's jogging about like a cat on hot bricks. It shows all over you. This is an occasion of enormous seriousness."

* * * * *

George did his best to assume an expression of profound sobriety. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

"First of all," the Supreme Head continued, "as usual there is some question as to Pillsworth's actual status. He has been shot, it's true, and his vibrations are definitely broken. However, experience has taught us to be wary in the case of Pillsworth. Often we have acted on false alarms in the past and have been sorry." The Head paused and beetled his brow. "Of course we need not have regretted those errors had you behaved yourself at all in the manner of a decent, self-respecting shade. Nevertheless, we don't dare take a chance despite our reluctance in the matter. Pillsworth's wound falls into the mortality class, so we have no alternative but to issue you your travel orders and the usual allotment of ectoplasm." He fixed George with an unhappy stare. "And get that look of evil delight off your face."

"Sorry, sir," George said.

"And make up your mind right now that this is a business trip. If Pillsworth is not dead or definitely dying when you arrive you will return instantly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if he isn't dead or dying you will do nothing to alter this state of affairs. You will not undertake on your own initiative to shove him off tall buildings, under moving trucks or into open manholes. You will not threaten him with ropes, guns, explosives, rare poisons or knives, or attempt to dispatch him to heaven by means of rocket. Have you got all that straight?"

"Yes, sir," George said quietly. "Hands off. I understand."

"I hope you do," the Head said ominously, "for your own sake. Anyway, I suppose you'd better go along now and start checking out through Supply. All that's left here is for you to raise your right hand and swear by memory to the Ten Commandments of the Hunter's code. However, I suppose you've got them all cribbed on the sleeve of your robe."

George lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir," he murmured. "I have."

"Then skip it," the Head sighed resignedly. "Just clear out."

"Yes, sir," George said, brightening. "Thank you, sir."

As the mists swirled up around George, and he gradually dissolved into their vaporish currents, a joyous grin lighted his face....

* * * * *

Three sets of eyes fastened clinically on the X-ray with worried, professional interest.

"There's a slight chance," the first doctor said, "if we operate immediately."

"Too slight," the second murmured. "The bullet's too close to the heart. He'll die on the table."

"He'll die anyway. We're merely taking the only chance there is."

"I suppose so. Has his wife arrived yet?"

"She's with him now."

"He's not conscious, is he?"

"No, certainly not, but they could not keep her away."

"We'd better explain how it is. We're almost certain to lose him."

"I suppose so."

There was a pause before they turned and reluctantly left the room. Outside, in the hospital corridor, the first doctor proceeded to the door at the end of the hall while the other two stayed behind. He opened the door and quietly stepped inside.

Marc lay still on the bed, his pleasant face drawn and pale against the pillow. Julie sat beside the bed, a classic figure of silent grief, her blonde beauty drained with uncomprehending fright. She did not cry. Nor did she move as the doctor walked toward her from the door.

"Mrs. Pillsworth ..." the doctor said, but Julie remained motionless. He moved closer to her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. "We've just seen the X-ray." At this Julie looked up. "We'll have to operate instantly. The preparations are being made now." He paused. "The chances for success are negligible."

Julie nodded dazedly. "I know," she whispered. "I know...."

She did not resist as the doctor took her arm and guided her to the door. At the last moment, though, she paused and looked back at the lean face on the pillow.

"He looks so peaceful," she said. "He looks so content. Does a dying man ever dream, doctor?"

* * * * *

Even Marc himself could not have fitted a positive answer to Julie's question. Did he dream? Or had he merely retreated from the world to a realm of absolute reality? He didn't know himself.

He remembered passing through caverns of roaring darkness, only to be caught up by a tongue of searing flame and hurled into some obscure dimness where it seemed that all the thought, melody, all the remembered sensation of a lifetime writhed about him like vague forms, one interposed upon the other, in unpatterned confusion.

But now these entangled vagaries faded away and suddenly he found himself sitting on a green slope at the outer perimeter of a grove of graceful trees. A blue mist drifted lightly up the far rise to soften the horizon. Marc was no stranger to this place for he had visited it often. He felt no dismay at finding himself again in the valley of his own mind. Indeed, through the last few years, it had become as familiar to him as his own home or office. So had the redheaded minx who found her existence there.

Marc stirred and looked around. The landscape was uninhabited. No lovely, lightly clad figure appeared on the horizon, no lithe form emerged from the groves and ran toward him.

Marc frowned anew over the improbable fact of Toffee. Certainly she existed in his mind, a constant and consistent product of his imagination. That was perfectly easy to understand. The parts of it, though, that he never quite got used to were her periods of existence outside his mind, in the world of actuality.

What Marc had never been able to really comprehend was that his mind could project into the physical world a physical being--to such an extent that her existence was not only apparent to himself but also to everyone else who came within the radius of the mental vibration which produced the girl.

The question in Marc's mind, then, was whether Toffee really existed, was truly real, or whether she was merely an hallucination, a sort of contagious hysteria.

Toffee's personality always got in the way of the answer. The girl was infinitely distracting, from the pert aliveness of her quick green eyes to the full redness of her lips. Beyond that there was the almost shameful perfection of her supple young body. These things blocked analytical thought. Then, too, there was her unerring instinct for roaring, bounding madness, and her absolute contempt for the logical, the moral or the conservative. Toffee, in brief, was at once brash, embarrassing, impetuous, warm, high-handed, endearing, maddening and completely unforgettable. So to all practical purposes, then, she was real; the matter of Toffee's source was pallidly unimportant next to the vivid fact of Toffee herself.

Marc stretched luxuriously and got to his feet, but as he did so he peered around toward the green obscurity of the forest. There was still no movement, no sound. He frowned quizzically. This wasn't at all usual. Always before Toffee had been there to greet him almost at the instant of his arrival. Another time she would be swarming all over him by now.

* * * * *

He shrugged and started aimlessly up the rise. At first he climbed unhurriedly, but as he drew nearer the trees his gait quickened. At the outskirts of the forest he found himself pausing to listen, but there was no sound. The feathery branches swayed in silent grace before him. A small concern began to trickle into his mind.

The blue mists broke smoothly before his stride as he entered the cool enclosure of the forest. Again he paused.

"Toffee...?" he found himself calling.

There was no answer.

He shoved ahead, and now there was a sort of anxiety in his step, and he took care not to break the stillness lest Toffee answer. An odd feeling of bereavement came over him, though he told himself it was foolish. After all, the girl was entirely imaginary, and a pack of trouble into the bargain. Then suddenly he stopped.

An odd murmuring seemed to come from the left. He moved in that direction, stopped to listen, then hurried on. Ahead he saw a dim lightness sketched through the trees, a suggestion of a clearing obscured by the dense branches. He approached it, parted the foliage and looked out. He stopped short.

Toffee sat in the middle of the clearing, her legs folded under her. Her eyes were closed and one slender hand was pressed to her forehead in an attitude of labored concentration. Her slight tunic, an emerald transparency at best, did little to conceal the impertinent perfection of her figure. She was leaning forward just a bit, and her flaming hair hung loose over her shoulders. She seemed to be chanting something to herself, though Marc couldn't make it out.

"Toffee...?" he said, and stepped forward to brace himself against the inevitable rush of brash affection.

The girl opened her eyes and looked around hastily.

"Sit down somewhere," she said, "and be quiet."

"Huh?" Marc asked.

Toffee didn't answer. Instead, she closed her eyes, swayed back lightly on her shapely haunches and began the muttered chant anew.

Marc swayed a trifle himself, with astonishment--and perhaps a tinge of disappointment. This wasn't like Toffee at all, not by a long shot. He moved slowly to her side and gazed down at her intent, upturned face.

"Toffee...?" he hazarded.

She didn't open her eyes. Her lips moved. "Molecules," she said.

"What?" Marc asked.

"Molecules," Toffee repeated. "Molecules ... molecules...."

"Molecules?" Marc said. "What are you talking about?"

Toffee opened her eyes at this and looked up at him with anxious irritation.

"Please be still," she said. "I've got to think about molecules exclusively. It isn't helping any, your gabbing away in my ear."

"But why?" Marc asked. "What about molecules?"

"Everything depends on them, that's all," Toffee said impatiently. "Now, just...."

"But wait a min--!"

"Quiet," Toffee said. "Don't you realize that you're tottering on the brink of death at this very moment? Me, too, for that matter."

"Death?" Marc asked. "What are you talking about?"

* * * * *

Toffee looked at him aghast. "Don't you remember?" she asked. "Have you actually forgotten about being shot in the studio?"

Marc stared down at her in growing horror. A small, agonized memory screamed out of the dark inner shadows of his awareness.