The Hibited Man

Chapter IV.

Once outside, the crowd streamed off in all directions. Some ran for the Green Room, others for the circular staircase at the back of the scenery room that led up to the stage—Otterburn later wondered what the audience must have thought when the females boiled out onto the stage yelling their heads off.

Others ran up the little stairs near the mirror and threw open the door which, as Otterburn could see, was the main backstage exit, the Stage Door. He ran up the steps after them and followed them down another alley to the street.

Since it was the middle of the theater hour with most of the customers in their seats, the crowd on the sidewalks had thinned. Otterburn, thinking it about time he went away from there, looked around for means of transportation.

In front of him he saw a policeman's horse, standing calmly with one forefoot on the curb. No doubt the cop had parked the animal while he went into the theater to investigate the disturbance. Well, he might as well have one more fling.

Otterburn, still clutching his paint-can, swung into the saddle. He collected the reins into his left hand—(which also held the paint-can)—and kicked the horse into motion. At first the beast showed signs of fractiousness at being mounted by a strange rider, but in his present exalted mood Thomas Otterburn was no man to let a mere horse buffalo him. He whacked the animal's rump with the paint-brush and set it to cantering down the avenue.

Ahead of him, screaming, ran three of the chorus-girls. One wore a petticoat with wire stiffening, another a brassiere, and the third a pair of shoes and a broad green stripe across her backside.

Otterburn took a good schloop of paint on his brush and, as his horse passed a bald pedestrian, brought the brush down with a smack on the man's head. He swung at another man afoot but missed and almost swung himself out of the saddle. A third dodged behind an automobile when he saw Otterburn's intention.

Then the three babes had disappeared and from behind him rose a clamor of yells, whistles and sirens. It was time to switch again. He pulled up at a comer and jumped off the horse. The force-field, as he expected, saved him from the jar when he hit pavement.

He threw the paint-can as far as he could and, with the brush, again slapped the horse, which took off down the avenue. Looking hastily around, Otterburn sighted a fire-box. He quickly pulled a false alarm by way of diversion and ran down the side-street.

Since this street, on the edge of the theatrical district, was occupied almost entirely by office-buildings and garment-lofts, it had hardly any pedestrians. The few there were looked at Otterburn as he ran past, but made no move to stop him. At the next corner he turned again. The most promising refuge was an all-night barber shop. He leaped down the four steps that led to it.

When police and firemen swarmed over the neighborhood five minutes later, Thomas Otterburn lay blissfully in a barber-chair with his face covered by lather. He had just finished saying, "Don't shave the upper lip. Think I'll grow a mustache."

By the time the barber had finished the commotion had died. Otterburn looked ruefully at his suit, which now bore several smears of green paint in addition to the spots from its earlier misadventures. He asked, "Have you got some turpentine?"

As it happened the barber did have some turpentine. When Otterburn had abated the worst of the paint-stains he thanked the barber, paid up and strolled back to the street. Everything seemed normal.

He stretched his muscles a little. A shade tired, yes, but not the least bit sleepy. Who said go home? The night was yet young and even if Lucy and M'rie were gone beyond recovery there were plenty more...

Next morning at about ten Thomas Otterburn opened his front door in answer to a knock. Before he could move, strong arms shot in and seized his wrists. Handcuffs clicked.

"We got him, Professor," said one of the cops, holding tight."Okay, now you turn the gadget off."

Otterburn started to remonstrate when he recognized Seymour Barlow, Eduard Dubrowsky and Dr. de Castro. Dubrowsky opened the front of Otterburn's pajamas wide enough to get his fingers on the switch of the materiostat.

Click!

"All right," he said."He's no longer invulnerable, and if you'll unlock these handcuffs and hold his arms I'll get the contraption off him."

"Am I pinched?" asked Otterburn innocently.

"You sure are, brother," said one of the cops.

"What for? That little fun I had last night?"

"Whew! Just about everything. Disorderly conduct, assault, stealing a cop's horse, a can of paint and et cetera."

Otterburn's eyes lighted up."You know, I've never been pinched in my life, even for speeding? This'll be swell. I've always wondered what it would be like to be tried and sentenced."

"No, no," wheezed Barlow."Don't say such dreadful things, Tom. We'll prove to the court that it was all the fault of this infernal machine of Ed's, which affected you so that all your brain was numb except the thalamus. How do you feel now, you poor boy? Ed, if you've ruined his mind I'll never forgive you."

"I'm all right," said Otterburn."A little tired maybe. But you know, I didn't sleep a wink all night?"

"That is as I thought it might be," said de Castro."Since sleep is an inhibitory process the field, by suppressing that process, prevents sleep."

Otterburn waved the explanation aside."Say, how did you guys find out I was the culprit?" If they were looking for a sudden return of his mousy-meek former personality with the switching off of the materiostat, they were disappointed. He faced them with a grin, thoroughly at ease and willing to talk forever on any subject they chose.

Barlow explained."Lucy—you know, she went home when you first started acting up in that night-club. She thought you'd gone crazy. Anyway, she read in the paper this morning about the dangerous madman who terrorized the theatrical district last night. She figured you must be it, and called me on the phone. I got the cops, because we couldn't let you go on that way, you know. What did you do the rest of the night?"

'Tell you some time," said Otterburn with a leer.

"Oh. Look him over, Doc. You can't move him until he's been examined, officer. No telling what state the poor boy's health is in."

De Castro gave Otterburn a brief once-over—pulse, temperature, knee-jerk, and other elementary tests. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and said, "He seems in perfect condition to me. As for his mental condition I should have to give him more extensive tests."

"Very well officer," said Barlow."Guess we go down to the magistrate and speak our piece as soon as poor Tom gets his clothes on—oh, who are you?"

A man had stepped into the apartment, saying, "Good morning. You Mr. Otterburn? Got something for ya. G'bye."

Otterburn turned the papers that had been thrust into his hands over a few times before he unfolded them and started to read them.

Barlow looked over his shoulder and whistled."Summons for a civil suit by the Trocadero Restaurant and another by the Mayfair Theater. You poor, poor fellow! I'll try to find a good lawyer."

Otterburn carelessly stuck the papers in the pocket of the coat he was putting on."Okay, it doesn't worry me any. Let's go, gents."

Two hours later they were at the laboratory. Because the judge was not sitting that Saturday morning Otterburn was out on bail, pending his hearing.

De Castro, who had been giving Otterburn psychological tests, said, "He reacts normally for a man of extraverted type. Not the extreme state he was in while he had the harness on, but still an uninhibited type with little superego control.

"However, with his high intelligence the suppression of the superego is not too harmful because he will avoid antisocial actions on a basis of calculated self-interest."

"Does that mean he's safe to let run loose?" asked Barlow.

"Surely. If I had met him for the first time I should have said he was a natural-born salesman or actor type. Whether in his present state he is suitable for scientific research is another matter."

"What's the prognosis?"

"I have no idea, since the case is without precedent. He may remain as he is or revert to his former condition."

Dubrowsky spoke up."Afraid that's the end of Project Styx. Idea was to provide a light psychoelectronic armor for soldiers to deflect bullets and things approaching the surface of an organic substance at high speed. Obviously won't do if the harness makes men into maniacs."

"Of course," said de Castro, "this was an extreme case. This young man has led a very repressed life, so under the influence of the field he tried to throw off all the inhibitions and repressions of the last ten years at once."

"Still wouldn't be practical," said Dubrowsky.

"Not for you, perhaps," said de Castro, "but for me I see all sorts of possibilities. For melancholies, where the inhibitory process has been carried to the point of catatonia."

"Tom," said Barlow, "you've got two or three weeks' leave accumulated. Why don't you take your vacation now? And if there's any question at the end of that time take some leave without pay on top of it. I'll shuffle the papers so you can come back to your job when you're up to it."

Otterburn yawned."Okay, Fats, I'm up to anything."

"Well—uh—that's not all. This business will give us bad publicity. Arrests, civil suits and the like. We might even have a Congressional Committee snooping around and it would be just as well if you weren't here when they were. See what I'm getting at?"

"I see all right," said Otterburn, rising."And I can say this, Seymour—take your job and stick it. I'm through. Have one of the girls type me out a resignation and send it to my apartment and I'll sign it. So long, twerps!" He went out whistling.

A month later Thomas Otterburn, having made his peace with the law, turned up unexpectedly at the laboratories.

Grinning, poised and dressed well if a shade loudly, he shook hands and slapped backs all around.

"Hey there, Lucy!" he cried."Give us a kiss—that's a good girl. You engaged to Don yet? Why, what's holding you up? Don't look at me that way. I'm having too much fun as a professional wolf.

"Hi, Seymour! I just dropped in to make arrangements with the paint lab for submitting samples for tests under the new ND specs. Yeah, I'm a paint-salesman now. Straight commish plus bonus and I'm making twice as much as you are and three times as much as I ever did. Oh, there's my man now. So long."

"Wait a second," said Barlow."What happened to those civil suits? The restaurant and the theater?"

"Oh, I talked them out of it."

"You what?"

"Sure, I convinced 'em the publicity was worth more than the damage they'd suffered. They're not bad guys when you get to talk to them. Same way I got my job. I went after the company that made the paint I used to decorate those babes' behinds. Well, be seein' ya."

They stared after the departing demon salesman. Lucy said, "I'm afraid I liked him better the way he was before. Now he makes even Donald seem like a quiet meek sort by comparison."

"Me meek?" snorted McQueen."Why—"

Barlow said, "I guess that's our answer; he's changed for good. And to think the poor boy was one of my most brilliant intellects. That's a real tragedy—our most promising young engineer a martyr to science."

Donald McQueen interrupted."What d'you mean, martyr? Didn't you get that about the dough he's making? He looks prosperous, don't he? Well then, who's crazy, him or us?"

Barlow started, then looked very uncomfortable."Well, I suppose if you put it that way—“