Part 1

Toffee Turns The Trick

By CHARLES F. MYERS

The _fixage_ pills caused a major change in Marc's life--they not only made him a babe in arms--but Toffee's to boot!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Adventures February 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The strange valley, its glossy emerald carpet unruffled and unmarked, its scattered groves of odd, feathery trees undisturbed by the blue mists languishing at their feet, lay dozing in the diffused light of a sunless sky. Then, at the crest of a distant knoll, the mists suddenly stirred and gave way to a slender, gold-sandaled foot which was neatly attached to a really top-notch leg.

The leg swung gracefully into view and was instantly joined by various other notable appointments; another exquisite leg, for instance, a body of disquieting shapeliness and a pert young face. As an almost needless bonus there were also two vivid green eyes, a full red mouth and a plethora of gleaming titian hair. Together, these dazzling bits of merchandise added up to Toffee, blithe mistress of the valley of Marc Pillsworth's subconscious mind.

_Certainly, Marc Pillsworth was not the first man to have a girl on his mind but at least he could claim the distinction of being the first to have one actually dwelling therein!_

The girl paused a moment, gazed at the glowing sky and frowned. Barely discernible in the distance, a number of tiny storm clouds had bunched themselves together and were rapidly being joined by more of their kind. Thoughtfully Toffee started down the slope and across the valley, her slender hips weaving an indolent rhythm beneath the green transparency of her brief tunic.

She watched the gathering clouds with mixed emotions. They meant, of course, that Marc was suffering some sort of mental annoyance, some sort of anxiety ... and for that she was sorry. On the other hand, however, they might also be an indication that she was soon to be released into the world of actuality, a prospect that delighted her beyond words. Compared to the well ordered tranquility of Marc Pillsworth's subconscious, the outer world seemed to her a wonderful region of boundless pleasures and delightful excitements. If there was even a remote possibility that she was soon to be materialized in that glittering world she wanted to know about it at the earliest possible moment.

Crossing the valley, reaching the rising slopes at its outer boundaries, she turned into a sharp ravine and stopped. Ahead lay the region of Marc's conscious mind, and she could not enter there, she could only watch from the distance and wait.

Marc's conscious mind ... at least the portion of it that was visible to Toffee ... was like nothing so much as a great, dark cavern. At one end, however, the darkness was relieved by a large circular screen-like arrangement that reflected scenes and images with a penetrating, third dimensional clarity. These reflections were, of course, of the innumerable things upon which Marc gazed throughout the day. Looking at the screen from within was like looking through a great, round window.

As Toffee watched, the screen registered only a blank expanse of ceiling. Then the scene shifted abruptly, and an oak panel slid into view. A blur followed. Then a window. The window remained a moment, then skidded nervously out of range to be replaced by an eager, hawk-featured face.

Behind Toffee the storm clouds began to thicken and multiply more swiftly.

The face on the screen was furiously animated, the mouth wagging away at a terrific clip. Toffee couldn't hear the words that were the result of this frantic facial activity, but she could watch closely and try to read the lips.

* * * * *

In his private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc's gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing before him on the desk. He sighed.

"Just think of it!" the little man was saying. "All humanity will be fairly trampling itself, trying to get _Fixage_. And you will be in on the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!"

"I don't want to think of it," Marc muttered, then, realizing with a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he pressed his advantage. "As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me to bring this ... uh ... this ..." he waggled a finger at the bottle on the desk "... to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a quarter owner of the invention." He fixed the little man with a severe gaze. "In other words, you haven't been able to slither through a single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too...."

The little man held up an arresting hand. "You misunderstand!" he cried. "They don't make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words.... How old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?"

"Thirty-two," Marc sighed. "But it seems more like fifty."

"Thirty-two! You're right at the peak!"

"If I were at the peak," Marc said, "I would jump off."

"Just think!" the man continued. "Just think what it would mean if you could remain thirty-two for the rest of your life! Even if you live to be a hundred and thirty-two! See what I mean? No loss of faculties. No decrease in vigor. Thirty-two till the day you die! And look at the commercial value of the thing. The women. My word, the women! There isn't a woman alive who wouldn't pauperize her husband and family for a thing like Fixage. They'd be young and beautiful forever!"

"Or young and ugly," Marc murmured. With an air of finality he gripped the edge of his desk and boosted himself to his feet. "And besides, Mr. Culpepper, this agency is not interested in ventures of this sort. Frankly, I don't see why you came to me at all. When you've a proven product, fully backed and on the market, I will be happy to do business with you. But not until. It's my job to sell things to the public, not the manufacturers."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the little man's finger darted toward Marc's face. "Those wrinkles, Mr. Pillsworth!" the little man rasped. He looked as though he'd just opened the door on a closet full of vampires. "Those marks of worry and age around your eyes! They can be stopped! Permanently!"

Marc backed away, affrighted. For a moment he was very close to hiding his face in his hands. He recovered his poise just in time however.

"This is incredible," he said with hostile dignity. "My wrinkles were come by honestly, Mr. Culpepper, and if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to have them pointed at. Also, I'll thank you to stop talking in headlines and get out of my life and my office. You've already talked me out of my lunch hour and I've a great deal of work to do."

At last Mr. Culpepper seemed to get the idea. He shrugged and turned partly away.

"Oh, well," he said. "I'm willing to wait until you've made up your mind. In the meantime, I'll just leave that bottle with you, and you can think it over. You could even try it yourself and see how it works. You'll be surprised what it will do for you."

"You'll be surprised what I'll do for it," Marc said, "if you leave it here." He picked the bottle up and started around the desk with it. "Here, take it with you. I don't want you to have any excuse to come creeping back in here. Do you have your hat?"

But now the little man was as anxious to leave as Marc was to have him leave. He raced to the door and threw it open.

"Just keep it," he called back. "I'll drop back in a few days." And just before closing the door, he added, "I don't wear a hat."

* * * * *

Marc returned to the desk and sank into his chair. He deposited the bottle before him and regarded it thoughtfully. "Holy smoke," he murmured, "where do they come from, these crackpot ideas?"

The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc's secretary, bounded into the room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn't had a decent girdle since the war.

"Hi, boss man," she said airily. "You look awful. What's the big beef?"

"I feel awful," Marc said. "Whatever possessed you to let that little creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?"

"He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy," Memphis said, "I thought he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?"

Marc nodded. "Got on 'em and stayed on 'em. My head is splitting."

"That's bad," Memphis said. "Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He's on his way over. If you're in bad shape now you'll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We'll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes."

Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc's brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other.

"Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished."

Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said.

"Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out."

"Yeah," Marc murmured. Then he sat up. "What!"

It struck him, all of a sudden, that he hadn't any aspirin either. A chill went through him. He opened his eyes and glanced at the desk, and his heart accepted an invitation to the rhumba. The little green bottle had moved to the edge of the desk and it was open!

"Memphis!"

Memphis was standing in the doorway. "Shut up," she said. "Lie down, take it easy. I'll stall Wheeler in the waiting room and feed him raw meat to dull his appetite."

She closed the door behind her.

Marc made the length of the room without once noticeably touching the floor. He grabbed the bottle and stared at its label. "_Take one_," it instructed, "_every six months_."

Panic crept across the silent room, but Marc forced it back.

"Oh, well," he murmured, "there's probably nothing to it. Couldn't be."

Then it hit him.

The nausea came in waves, each one growing deeper and more relentless than the last. Everything was suddenly edged in black and gold, and slowly the room began to sway. Marc felt his knees go weak and he started back toward the lounge, stumbling; if he was going to die, he might as well do it in style. He might have cried out only his throat was suddenly dry and stiff.

* * * * *

Toffee fled across the valley and darted into a tiny grove of trees just as the last faint glow in the sky gave way to complete darkness. A driving wind lashed the trees above her in frenetic rhythm, and the darkness was suddenly split by a writhing streak of white lightning. Her hair whipped stingingly across her face, and her tunic pressed flat against her body until it was like a part of her. Her expression, if it could have been seen, was a curious mixture of terror and exhilaration. She steadied herself against a tree and turned into the wind so that her hair blew away from her eyes. She peered into the darkness and waited.

She didn't have to wait long; the storm lasted only a moment and then it was gone. All at once the darkness was replaced by the same diffused glow that had prevailed before its coming, and the valley had returned to its former state of drowsy tranquility. Toffee emerged from the grove and surveyed the valley with expectant eyes. She was not disappointed; a lank figure lay crumpled at the bottom of the knoll. With a little cry of gladness, she ran toward it.

"Marc!" she cried. She threw herself down beside him on the grass. "You divine devil, you! I've been expecting you all day." In a burst of enthusiasm, she threw her arms around him and hugged him to her.

Marc opened his eyes and frowned. "Handle with care," he said thickly. "I think I'm fragile." He glanced around at the valley and his face registered recognition. "So I'm back here again, am I? I'm not dead then."

"You drew a blank," Toffee said. "It was a daisy, too. This valley wasn't fit for man nor any other kind of beast when you hit it. What happened?"

Marc boosted himself forward and ran a lean hand through his sandy hair. "I don't remember," he said. "It must have been terrific, I feel all twisted up inside."

"Just a little shaken up," Toffee said confidently. "You'll be all right. Tell me, just to make conversation, how's your wife? That big blonde?"

"Away," Marc said. "Julie went to Kansas to look after an ailing relative. A cousin, I believe."

Toffee nodded with satisfaction. "Good," she said. "That leaves me a free field, doesn't it?" The speculation in her eyes was undisguised. "We will have fun. Lots."

"Now look here," Marc said, trying to look firm. "Let's not have any horsing around. Just this once why don't you stay here, where you belong? Just because I dream you up that doesn't mean that you have to come popping into my life, messing it up. Be reasonable."

"Sure," Toffee said. "I'll be reasonable ... dirt cheap, if need be. I'll listen to any proposition you may have to make ... if it's not too respectable." She twined her arms around his neck. "Kiss me. All this dull talk is beginning to tire me."

Marc was in the midst of shoving her away from him when the storm returned. It came as suddenly and as mysteriously as it had departed, lashing the trees on the knoll against each other, driving the light from the sky. In a sudden start of surprise, Marc clutched Toffee to him.

"Why, you impetuous old rogue!" Toffee cried. "What a clutch!"

For a moment they clung together, helpless under the driving blast of the wind. Then they felt themselves being lifted, as by a giant hand, and hurled into space.

* * * * *

A vari-colored pin-wheel whirled through the darkness and struck Marc squarely between the eyes. Instantly his mind cleared a little, and he opened his eyes. A strip of oak paneling met his gaze, its dark grains writhing before him like water snakes in a pond. He turned over on the lounge and looked at the room. Slowly the room and its objects fell into place and became fixed. He flinched.

Toffee smiled down at him. "Greetings," she said. "Always flat on your back, aren't you?"

Marc gazed at the girl and her brief tunic without pleasure; it was a sight that shocked his finer sensibilities. Surrounded by the severity of the office she looked even more naked somehow than she really was. Absently he tried to imagine her in a more suitable background, but the only setting that occurred to him was one that featured a great deal of plumbing and running water. His mind veered away from a vision that thoroughly repelled him.

"Go 'way," he said. "If you have any shame at all, go 'way and hide yourself. I don't want to look at you."

"You should be so lucky," Toffee retorted. "And don't try pulling any of your phony moralistic airs on me. Remember, I know what's in your mind." She sat down on the edge of the lounge. "How do you feel?"

Marc sat up and considered. He examined his emotions and state of health with care, and was soundly surprised at his findings.

"I feel wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I feel great!"

"Who boffed you?" Toffee asked.

"Boffed?" Marc asked. "How do you mean?" He thought back, trying to remember. "Oh, that!" he said finally. His gaze wandered to the green bottle on the desk. "Those pills. I took a couple." He laughed shortly. "They hit me like a sledge hammer, but they don't seem to have had any serious effects. Memphis gave them to me by mistake just before...." His eyes widened. "Oh, my gosh! How long have I been out? Old man Wheeler may walk in here any moment! He mustn't see you!"

"Who's Wheeler?" Toffee asked.

"A client. He's about sixty-eight and as...."

"I'll leave," Toffee said. "When they get past sixty I begin to lose interest ... and patience."

Marc took her by the arm and started her across the room. "You can take the rear door," he said. "It leads to the hallway and.... Stop twitching your hips like that. When you get outside...."

He stopped and made a small whining noise.

It was as though the ceiling had suddenly come crashing down around his head. For a moment he was numb all over. Then he could feel himself sinking toward the floor, but he wasn't falling. The sensation was alarmingly strange and disagreeable.

"What the devil's...!"

He stopped again; his voice was echoing back to him in an unfamiliar falsetto. The words were his but the voice definitely was not. He started back in alarm, tripped over something and sat down heavily on the floor. It was then that he glanced up and saw Toffee. For a moment he was certain he was losing his mind.

Instead of the well-curved, half-clad redhead he had last seen, he was now confronted by a chunky little moppet of about eight. Her heretofore inadequate tunic now covered her completely, part of it even trailing on the floor. He opened his mouth to speak but gave it up as Toffee expressed his emotions for him with a shrill scream of dismay. Apparently unmindful of her sudden transformation, however, she was staring at him with horror.

"You've shrunk!" she cried. "You've ... you've shriveled!"

Her voice, also, had moved up an octave or so.

* * * * *

Marc quickly turned his attention to his own person and found to his complete stupefaction that Toffee spoke the truth. Indeed he had shrunk like a ten-dollar suit in a cloudburst. What he had tripped over had been his own trouser legs, the spare yardage of which was wadded loosely about his ankles.

"Those pills!" he yelped. "Good grief! They've not only stopped my age, they've backed it up!"

Toffee giggled a little hysterically. "You look so funny!" she tittered. "Your ears are so big. And ... and you've got freckles!"

Marc winced; it was probably all too true. As a youngster he had been plagued with these disfigurements and he had been very sensitive about them. After all, being called "pitcher ears" and "leopard puss" hadn't been fun. Outgrowing these names had been his own personal triumph. And now all that was cancelled; he was back where he had started. He looked up woundedly.

"Look who's laughing," he said. "With that pot belly of yours, you're no glamour item yourself."

An expression of utmost horror swept Toffee's face as she ceased to stare at Marc and turned her attention to herself. One quick, shuddering glance told her the story. This time she screamed as though she really meant it.

"No!" she shrieked. "No! NOooooh! It isn't _me_! It _isn't_!" She turned on Marc, raging. "You did this! You swallowed those crazy pills!" Irrationally, she held her hand under his mouth. "Spit them out!" she demanded. "Spit them out this instant or I'll rip those revolting ears right off your despicable head!"

"Don't be disgusting," Marc said, looking away.

"You'll be surprised how disgusting I can really be," Toffee wailed, "if you don't do something about this."

"What can I do?" Marc asked helplessly. "After all the pills were Culpepper's idea, not mine. He's the only one that can do anything about it."

"Get him!" Toffee cried. "Get him! Ring him, call him, wire him, cable him! Only get him!" Her cherubic face began to pucker, her large eyes beginning to cloud. "Wouldn't you know that I'd have to suffer too, just because you were simple-minded enough to take a couple of pills! Wouldn't you know? Look at me! ... just a shapeless little chunk of blubber. I've got about as much appeal as a smudge pot. Less!"

"Stop your sniveling," Marc said crossly. "It isn't helping matters. And I've got to think."

"Why start now?" Toffee asked waspishly.

Marc thoughtfully rolled up his trousers and got to his feet. Full length, he was even stranger to look upon than when sitting down.

His coat sleeves hung limp at his sides, extending nearly a foot beyond his hands; his shirt collar, previously a perfect fit, was now a perfect scream; his scrawny neck jutted out of it like a wire coat hanger. When he walked, his shoes shifted loosely about his feet, making an annoying clattering noise against the floor. Marc Pillsworth, taken all in all, which really wasn't so very much as things stood, had suddenly become an offense to both eye and ear. Toffee, who, on the other hand, had retained a goodly portion of her comeliness, regarded him with distaste.

"If we ever get out of this, pitcher ears," she said, "I hope you have to go through your adolescence again."

* * * * *

Suddenly they both jumped as the door opened and Memphis' head jutted into the room. The secretary opened her mouth to say something, then froze, goggle-eyed. She stared blankly at Marc and Toffee, and they, for want of anything better, simply stared back. There was a long moment of super-charged silence before Memphis found her voice.

"Wh ... ," she said weakly. "Where's Mr. Pillsworth?"

Toffee laughed bitterly. "That jerk," she murmured.

Memphis smiled stiffly. "I don't know how you got in here, honey," she said with false sweetness, "but you really shouldn't be here; this is a business office."

"You're telling me?" Toffee said. "I'm the kid that got the business in it."

Memphis cleared her throat. "Now why don't you just tell me where Mr. Pillsworth has gone and then run along and play?"

Toffee turned to Marc. "Listen to that overstuffed tomato giving us the rush act," she said. She cast glittering eyes toward Memphis. "For two cents I'd come over there and hammer your big thick shins for you. And if you don't clear out I may decide to do it for free. Beat it yourself. You're bothering us."

Memphis gasped. Then she turned to Marc. "Tell me, sonny," she said, "how does your sister like her spankings ... sunny side up or over easy? Or are you a wiseacre too? Now, look here...." She stopped short as her gaze fell on Marc's sagging costume. Her eyes grew wise and fearful. "You're wearing Mr. Pillsworth's suit!" she shrieked. "What have you done to him?"

"You'd be surprised, Bertha," Toffee sneered. "In my opinion it wasn't half what he deserved."

For a moment Memphis was struck dumb. Then her voice came back to her in a lusty scream. She wheeled around and charged out of the room. A second later there was the sound of a telephone dial being put into frenzied motion. Memphis was bawling for the police even as she dialed.

Marc, who had remained in a state of mental and physical paralysis during this disquieting interview, suddenly came to life.

"Now see what you've done!" he piped in his child's voice. "Why couldn't you tell her the truth?"

"She'd have to be daffy to believe it," Toffee said. "Besides, I didn't like her attitude; she was treating me like a child."

"Now we'll have to run for it," Marc said. "Once the police get hold of us, we'll never find Culpepper."

They left the office through the rear door and made their way quickly down the hall to the fire escape window. Marc pointed to a blue convertible in the parking lot below.

"We'll have to try to drive the thing somehow," he said. "After we've gotten away, we'll do what we can about getting in touch with Culpepper."

"I'd like to get in touch with him," Toffee lisped, "with a crowbar."