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Authors: Richard Matheson

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BOOK: Duel
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“Amazing. And this knowledge you say you've acquired—are you conscious of an
increase
in it since your ill-fated visit to the library?”
Fred nodded. “I know more than ever.”
The professor bounced the fingertips of both hands against each other. “A book on language by Pei. Section 9-B in the library, book number 429.2, if memory serves. Can you quote from it?”
Fred looked blank, but words followed almost immediately. “Leibnitz first advanced the theory that all language came not from a historically recorded source but from proto-speech. In some respects he was a precursor of—”
“Good, good,” said Arthur Fetlock. “Apparently a case of spontaneous telepathic manifestations coupled with clairvoyance.”
“Meaning?”
“Telepathy, Elderman. Telepathy! Seems every book or educated mind you come across, you pick clean of content. You worked in the French office, you spoke French. You worked in the Mathematics office, you quoted numbers, tables, axioms. Similarly with all other offices, subjects and individuals.” He scowled, purse-lipped. “Ah, but why?”
“Causa qua re,”
muttered Fred.
A brief wry sound in Professor Fetlock's throat. “Yes, I wish I knew, too. However …” He leaned forward. “What's that?”
“How come I can learn so much?” Fred asked worriedly. “I mean—”
“No difficulty there,” stated the stocky psychologist. “You see, no man ever utilized the full learning capacity of the brain. It still has an
immense potential. Perhaps that's what's happening to you—you're realizing this potential.”
“But how?”
“Spontaneously realized telepathy and clairvoyance plus infinite retention and unlimited potential.” He whistled softly. “Amazing. Positively amazing. Well, I must be going.”
“But what'll I do?” Fred begged.
“Why, enjoy it,” said the professor expansively. “It's a perfectly fantastic gift. Now look—if I were to gather together a group of faculty members, would you be willing to speak to them? Informally, of course.
“But—”
“They should be entranced, positively entranced. I must do a paper for the
Journal.
”
“But what does it mean, Professor?” Fred Elderman asked, his voice shaking.
“Oh, we'll look into it, never fear. Really, this is revolutionary. An unparalleled phenomenon.” He made a sound of delighted disbelief. “In-credible.”
When Professor Fetlock had gone, Fred sat defeatedly in his bed. So there was nothing to be done—nothing but spout endless, inexplicable words and wonder into the nights what terrible thing was happening to him. Maybe the professor was excited; maybe it was exciting intellectual fare for outsiders. For him, it was only grim and increasingly frightening business.
Why? Why? It was the question he could neither answer nor escape.
He was thinking that when Eva came in. He lifted his gaze as she crossed the room and sat down on the bed.
“What did he say?” she asked anxiously.
When he told her, her reaction was the same as his.
“That's all? Enjoy it?” She pressed her lips together in anger. “What's the matter with him? Why did Doctor Boone send him?”
He shook his head, without an answer.
There was such a look of confused fear on his face that she reached out her hand suddenly and touched his cheek. “Does your head hurt, dear?”
“It hurts inside,” he said. “In my …” There was a clicking in his throat. “If one considers the brain as a tissue which is only moderately compressible, surrounded by two variable factors—the blood it contains and the spinal fluid which surrounds it and fills the ventricles inside the brain we have—”
He broke off spasmodically and sat there, quivering.
“God help us,” she whispered.
“As Sextus Empiricus says in his
Arguments Against Belief in a God,
those who affirm, positively, that God exists cannot avoid falling into an impiety. For—”
“Fred, stop it!”
He sat looking at her dazedly.
“Fred, you don't … know what you're saying. Do you?”
“No. I never do. I just—Eva, what's going on!”
She held his hand tightly and stroked it. “It's all right, Fred. Please don't worry so.”
But he did worry. For behind the complex knowledge that filled his mind, he was still the same man, simple, uncomprehending—and afraid.
Why was it happening?
It was as if, in some hideous way, he were a sponge filling more and more with knowledge and there would come a time when there was no room left and the sponge would explode.
 
Professor Fetlock stopped him in the hallway Monday morning. “Elderman, I've spoken to the members of the faculty and they're all as excited as I. Would this afternoon be too soon? I can get you excused from any work you may be required to do.”
Fred looked bleakly at the professor's enthusiastic face. “It's all right.”
“Splendid! Shall we say four-thirty then? My offices?”
“All right.”
“And may I make a suggestion?” asked the professor. “I'd like you to tour the university—all of it.”
When they separated, Fred went back down to the basement to put away his tools.
At four twenty-five, he pushed open the heavy door to the Department of Psychological Sciences. He stood there, waiting patiently, one hand on the knob, until someone in the large group of faculty members saw him. Professor Fetlock disengaged himself from the group and hurried over.
“Elderman,” he said, “come in, come in.”
“Professor, has Doctor Boone said anything more?” Fred insisted. “I mean about—”
“No, nothing. Never fear, we'll get to it. But come along. I want you to—Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!”
Fred was introduced to them, standing in their midst, trying to look at ease when his heart and nerves were pulsing with a nervous dread.
“And did you follow my suggestion,” Fetlock asked loudly, “and tour all the departments in the university?”
“Yes … sir.”
“Good, good.” Professor Fetlock nodded emphatically. “That should complete the picture then. Imagine it, ladies and gentlemen—the sum total of knowledge in our entire university—all in the head of this one man!”
There were sounds of doubt from the faculty.
“No, no, I'm serious!” claimed Fetlock. “The proof of the pudding is quite ample. Ask away.”
Fred Elderman stood there in the momentary silence, thinking of what Professor Fetlock had said. The knowledge of an entire university in his head. That meant there was no more to be gotten here then.
What now?
Then the questions came—and the answers, dead-voiced and monotonous.
“What will happen to the sun in fifteen million years?”
“If the sun goes on radiating at its present rate for fifteen million years, its whole weight will be transformed into radiation.”
“What is a root tone?”
“In harmonic units, the constituent tones seem to have unequal harmonic values. Some seem to be more important and dominate the sounding unity. These roots are—”
All the knowledge of an entire university in his head.
“The five orders of Roman architecture.”
“Tuscan, Doric, Corinthian, Ionic, Composite. Tuscan being a simplified Doric, Doric retaining the triglyphs, Corinthian characterized by—”
No more knowledge there he didn't possess. His brain crammed with it. Why?
“Buffer capacity?”
“The buffer capacity of a solution may be defined as dx/dpH where dx is the small amount of strong acid or—”
Why?
“A moment ago. French.”
“Il n'y a
qu'un instant.
”
Endless questions, increasingly excited until they were almost being shouted.
“What is literature involved with?”
“Literature is, of nature, involved with ideas because it deals with Man in society, which is to say that it deals with formulations, valuations and—”
Why?
“Rule for masthead lights on steam vessels?” A laugh.
“A steam vessel when under way shall carry (a) on or in front of the foremast or, if a vessel without a foremast, then in the forepart of the vessel, a bright, white light so constructed as to—”
No laughter. Questions.
“How would a three-stage rocket take off?”
“The three-stage rocket would take off vertically and be given a slight tilt in an easterly direction, Brennschluss taking place about—”
“Who was Count Bernadotte?”
“What are the by-products of oil?”
“Which city is—?”
“How can—?”
“What is—?”
“When did—?”
And when it was over and he had answered every question they asked, there was a great, heavy silence. He stood trembling and yet numb, beginning to get a final knowledge.
The phone rang then and made everyone start.
Professor Fetlock answered it. “For you, Elderman.”
Fred walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.
“Fred?” he heard Eva say.
“
Oui
.”
“What?”
He twitched. “I'm sorry, Eva. I mean yes, it's me.”
He heard her swallowing on the other end of the line. “Fred, I … just wondered why you didn't come home, so I called your office and Charlie said—”
He told her about the meeting.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, will you be—home for supper?”
The last knowledge was seeping, rising slowly.
“I'll try, Eva. I think so, yes.”
“I been worried, Fred.”
He smiled sadly. “Nothing to worry about, Eva.”
Then the message sliced abruptly across his mind and he said, “Goodbye, Eva,” and dropped the receiver. “I have to go,” he told Fetlock and the others.
He didn't exactly hear what they said in return. The words, the transition from room to hall were blurred over by his sudden, concentrated need to get out on the campus.
The questioning faces were gone and he was hurrying down the hall on driven feet, his action as his speech had been—unmotivated, beyond understanding. Something drew him on. He had spoken without knowing why; now he rushed down the long hallway without knowing why.
He rushed across the lobby, gasping for breath. The message said,
Come. It's time.
These things, these many things—who would want to know them? These endless facts about all earthly knowledge.
Earthly
knowledge …
As he came half tripping, half running down the building steps into the early darkness, he saw the flickering bluish-white light in the sky. It was aiming over the trees, the buildings, straight at him.
He stood petrified, staring at it, and knew exactly why he had acquired all the knowledge he had.
The blue-white light bore directly at him with a piercing, whinning hum. Across the dark campus, a young girl screamed.
Life on the other planets,
the last words crossed his mind,
is not only possibility but high probability.
Then the light hit him and bounced straight back up to its source, like lightning streaking in reverse from lightning rod to storm cloud, leaving him in awful blackness.
 
They found the old man wandering across the campus grass like a somnambulant mute. They spoke to him, but his tongue was still. Finally, they were obliged to look in his wallet, where they found his name and address and took him home.
A year later, after learning to talk all over again, he said his first
stumbling words. He said them one night to his wife when she found him in the bathroom holding a sponge in his hand.
“Fred, what are you doing?”
“I been squeezed,”
he said.
THE TWO MEN CAME OUT OF THE STATION ROLLING a covered object. They rolled it along the platform until they reached the middle of the train, then grunted as they lifted it up the steps, the sweat running down their bodies. One of its wheels fell off and bounced down the metal steps and a man coming up behind them picked it up and handed it to the man who was wearing a rumpled brown suit.
“Thanks,” said the man in the brown suit and he put the wheel in his side coat pocket.
Inside the car, the men pushed the covered object down the aisle. With one of its wheels off, it was lopsided and the man in the brown suit—his name was Kelly—had to keep his shoulder braced against it to keep it from toppling over. He breathed heavily and licked away tiny balls of sweat that kept forming over his upper lip.
When they reached the middle of the car, the man in the wrinkled
blue suit pushed forward one of the seat backs so there were four seats, two facing two. Then the two men pushed the covered object between the seats and Kelly reached through a slit in the covering and felt around until he found the right button.
The covered object sat down heavily on a seat by the window.
“Oh, God, listen to'm squeak,” said Kelly.
The other man, Pole, shrugged and sat down with a sigh.
“What d'ya expect?” he asked.
Kelly was pulling off his suitcoat. He dropped it down on the opposite seat and sat down beside the covered object.
“Well, we'll get ‘im some o' that stuff soon's we're paid off,” he said, worriedly.
“If we can find some,” said Pole who was almost as thin as one. He sat slumped back against the hot seat watching Kelly mop at his sweaty cheeks.
“Why shouldn't we?” asked Kelly, pushing the damp handkerchief down under his shirt collar.
“Because they don't make it no more,” Pole said with the false patience of a man who has had to say the same thing too many times.
“Well, that's crazy,” said Kelly. He pulled off his hat and patted at the bald spot in the center of his rust-colored hair. “There's still plenty B-twos in the business.”
“Not many,” said Pole, bracing one foot upon the covered object.
“
Don't,”
said Kelly.
Pole let his foot drop heavily and a curse fell slowly from his lips, Kelly ran the handkerchief around the lining of his hat. He started to put the hat on again, then changed his mind and dropped it on top of his coat.
“Christ, it's hot,” he said.
“It'll get hotter,” said Pole.
Across the aisle a man put his suitcase up on the rack, took off his suit coat and sat down, puffing. Kelly looked at him, then turned back.
“Ya think it'll be hotter in Maynard, huh?” he asked.
Pole nodded. Kelly swallowed dryly.
“Wish we could have another o' them beers,” he said.
Pole stared out the window at the heat waves rising from the concrete platform.
“I had three beers,” said Kelly, “and I'm just as thirsty as I was when I started.”
“Yeah,” said Pole.
“Might as well've not had a beer since Philly,” said Kelly.
Pole said, “Yeah.”
Kelly sat there staring at Pole a moment. Pole had dark hair and white skin and his hands were the hands of a man who should be bigger than Pole was. But the hands were as clever as they were big. Pole's one o' the best, Kelly thought, one o' the best.
“Ya think he'll be all right?” he asked.
Pole grunted and smiled for an instant without being amused.
“If he don't get hit,” he said.
“No, no, I mean it,” said Kelly.
Pole's dark, lifeless eyes left the station and shifted over to Kelly.
“So do I,” he said.
“Come
on
,” Kelly said.
“Steel,” said Pole, “ya know just as well as me. He's shot t'hell.”
“That ain't true,” said Kelly, shifting uncomfortably. “All he needs is a little work. A little overhaul ‘n' he'll be good as new.”
“Yeah, a little three-four grand overhaul,” Pole said, “with parts they don't make no more.” He looked out the window again.
“Oh … it ain't as bad as that,” said Kelly. “Jesus, the way you talk you'd think he was ready for scrap.”
“Ain't he?” Pole asked.
“No,” said Kelly angrily, “he
ain't.
”
Pole shrugged and his long white fingers rose and fell in his lap.
“Just cause he's a little old,” said Kelly.
“Old.” Pole grunted.
“Ancient.”
“Oh …” Kelly took a deep breath of the hot air in the car and
blew it out through his broad nose. He looked at the covered object like a father who was angry with his son's faults but angrier with those who mentioned the faults of his son.
“Plenty o' fight left in him,” he said.
Pole watched the people walking on the platform. He watched a porter pushing a wagon full of piled suitcases.
“Well … is he okay?” Kelly asked finally as if he hated to ask.
Pole looked over at him.
“I dunno, Steel,” he said. “He needs work. Ya know that. The trigger spring in his left arm's been rewired so many damn times it's almost shot. He's got no protection on that side. The left side of his face's all beat in, the eye lens is cracked. The leg cables is worn, they're pulled slack, the tension's gone to hell. Christ, even his gyro's off.”
Pole looked out at the platform again with a disgusted hiss.
“Not to mention the oil paste he ain't got in 'im,” he said.
“We'll get 'im some,” Kelly said.
“Yeah,
after
the fight,
after
the fight!” Pole snapped. “What about
before
the fight? He'll be creakin' around that ring like a goddamn—
steam shovel
. It'll be a miracle if he goes two rounds. They'll prob'ly ride us outta town on a rail.”
Kelly swallowed. “I don't think it's that bad,” he said.
“The
hell
it ain't, said Pole. “It's worse. Wait'll that crowd gets a load of ‘Battling' Maxo from Philadelphia. Oh—
Christ,
they'll blow a nut. We'll be lucky if we get our five hundred bucks.”
“Well, the contract's signed,” said Kelly firmly. “They can't back out now. I got a copy right in the old pocket.” He leaned over and patted at his coat.
“That contract's for Battling Maxo,” said Pole. “Not for this—steam shovel here.”
“Maxo's gonna do all right,” said Kelly as if he was trying hard to believe it. “He's not as bad off as you say.”
“Against a B-
seven?
” Pole asked.
“It's just a
starter
B-seven,” said Kelly. “It ain't got the kinks out yet.”
Pole turned away.
“Battling Maxo,” he said. “One-round Maxo. The battling steam shovel.”
“Aw, shut the hell up!” Kelly snapped suddenly, getting redder. “You're always knockin' 'im down. Well, he's been doin' okay for twelve years now and he'll keep on doin' okay. So he needs some oil paste. And he needs a little work. So
what?
With five hundred bucks we can get him all the paste he needs. And a new trigger spring for his arm and—and new leg cables! And everything. Chris-
sake.
”
He fell back against the seat, chest shuddering with breath and rubbed at his checks with his wet handkerchief. He looked aside at Maxo. Abruptly, he reached over a hand and patted Maxo's covered knee clumsily and the steel clanked hollowly under his touch.
“You're doin' all right,” said Kelly to his fighter.
 
The train was moving across a sun-baked prairie. All the windows were open but the wind that blew in was like blasts from an oven.
Kelly sat reading his paper, his shirt sticking wetly to his broad chest. Pole had taken his coat off too and was staring morosely out the window at the grass-tufted prairie that went as far as he could see. Maxo sat under his covering, his heavy steel frame rocking a little with the motion of the train.
Kelly put down his paper.
“Not even a word,” he said.
“What d'ya expect?” Pole asked. “They don't cover Maynard.”
“Maxo ain't just some clunk from Maynard,” said Kelly. “He was big time. Ya'd think they'd”—he shrugged—“remember him.”
“Why? For a coupla prelims in the Garden three years ago?” Pole asked.
“It wasn't no three years, buddy,” said Kelly.
“It was in 1994,” said Pole, “and now it's 1997. That's three years where I come from.”
“It was late '94,” said Kelly. “Right before Christmas. Don't ya remember? Just before—Marge and me …”
Kelly didn't finish. He stared down at the paper as if Marge's picture were on it—the way she looked the day she left him.
“What's the difference?” Pole asked. “They don't remember
them
for Chrissake. With a coupla thousand o' the damn things floatin' around? How could they remember 'em? About the only ones who get space are the champeens and the new models.”
Pole looked at Maxo. “I hear Mawling's puttin' out a B-nine this year,” he said.
Kelly refocused his eyes. “Yeah?” he said uninterestedly.
“Hyper-triggers in both arms—
and
legs. All steeled aluminum. Triple gyro. Triple-twisted wiring. God, they'll be beautiful.”
Kelly put down the paper.
“Think they'd remember him,” he muttered. “It wasn't so long ago.”
His face relaxed in a smile of recollection.
“Boy, will I ever forget that night?” he said. “No one gives us a tumble. It was all Dimsy the Rock, Dimsy the Rock.
Three
t‘one for Dimsy the Rock. Dimsy the Rock—fourth rankin' light heavy. On his way t'the top.”
He chuckled deep in his chest. “And did we ever put him away,” he said.
“Oooh.”
He grunted with savage pleasure. “I can see that left cross now.
Bang
! Right in the chops. And old Dimsy the Rock hittin' the canvas like a—like a
rock,
yeah,
just
like a rock!”
He laughed happily. “Boy, what a night, what a night,” he said. “Will I ever forget that night?”
Pole looked at Kelly with a somber face. Then he turned away and stared at the dusty sun-baked plain again.
“I wonder,” he muttered.
Kelly saw the man across the aisle looking again at the covered
Maxo. He caught the man's eye and smiled, then gestured with his head toward Maxo.
“That's my fighter,” he said, loudly.
The man smiled politely, cupping a hand behind one ear.
“My fighter,” said Kelly. “Battling Maxo. Ever hear of 'im?”
The man stared at Kelly a moment before shaking his head.
Kelly smiled. “Yeah, he was almost light heavyweight champ once,” he told the man. The man nodded politely.
On an impulse, Kelly got up and stepped across the aisle. He reversed the seatback in front of the man and sat down facing him.
“Pretty damn hot,” he said.
The man smiled. “Yes. Yes it is,” he said.
“No new trains out here yet, huh?”
“No,” said the man. “Not yet.”
“Got all the new ones back in Philly,” said Kelly. “That's where”—he gestured with his head—“my friend 'n I come from. And Maxo.”
Kelly stuck out his hand.
“The name's Kelly,” he said. “Tim Kelly.”
The man looked surprised. His grip was loose.
“Maxwell,” he said.
When he drew back his hand he rubbed it unobtrusively on his pants leg.
“I used t‘be called ‘Steel' Kelly,” said Kelly. “Used t'be in the business m‘self. Before the war o' course. I was a light heavy.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. That's right. Called me ‘Steel' cause I never got knocked down once. Not
once.
I was even number nine in the ranks once. Yeah.”
BOOK: Duel
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