The Starcomber Read Free Page A

alarm. He knew those brazen bells. They tested them every Wednesday noon.
    It’s like a game, he told himself. It’s fun. It’s nothing to be scared of. It’s being safely, sanely, joyously a kid again and when we quit playing, I’m going home to mama and dinner and papa reading me the funnies and I’m a kid again, really a kid again, forever.
    There still was no hue and cry when he reached the main floor. He complained about his indignity to the receptionist. He complained to the protection guards as he forged James Derelict’s name in the visitors’ book, and his inky hand smeared such a mess on the page that the forgery was undetected. The guard buzzed the final gate open. Halsyon passed through into the street, and as he started away he heard the brass of the bells begin a clattering that terrified him.
    He ran. He stopped. He tried to stroll. He could not. He lurched down the street until he heard the guards shouting. He darted around a comer, and another, tore up endless streets, heard cars behind him, sirens, bells, shouts, commands. It was a ghastly Catherine Wheel of flight. Searching desperately for a hiding place, Halsyon darted into the hallway of a desolate tenement.
    Halsyon began to climb the stairs. He went up three at a clip, then two, then struggled step by step as his strength failed and panic paralyzed him. He stumbled at a landing and fell against a door. The door opened. The Faraway Fiend stood within, smiling briskly, rubbing his hands.
    â€œGlückliche Reise,” he said. “On the dot. God damn. You twenty-three skidooed, eh? Enter, my old. I’m expecting you. Be it never so humble . . .”
    Halsyon screamed.
    â€œNo, no, no! No Sturm und Drang, my beauty,” Mr. Aquila clapped a hand over Halsyon’s mouth, heaved him up, dragged him through the doorway and slammed the door.
    â€œPresto-changeo,” he laughed. “Exit Jeffrey Halsyon from mortal ken. Dieu vous garde.”
    Halsyon freed his mouth, screamed again and fought hysterically, biting and kicking. Mr. Aquila made a clucking noise, dipped into his pocket and brought out a package of cigarettes. He flipped one out of the pack expertly and broke it under Halsyon’s nose. The artist at once subsided and suffered himself to be led to a couch, where Aquila cleansed the ink from his face and hands.
    â€œBetter, eh?” Mr. Aquila chuckled. “Non habit-forming. God damn. Drinks now called for.”
    He filled a shot glass from a decanter, added a tiny cube of purple ice from a fuming bucket, and placed the drink in Halsyon’s hand. Compelled by a gesture from Aquila, the artist drank it off. It made his brain buzz. He stared around, breathing heavily. He was in what appeared to be the luxurious waiting room of a Park Avenue physician. Queen Anne furniture. Axminster rug. Two Hogarths and a Copley on the wall in gilt frames. They were genuine, Halsyon realized with amazement. Then, with even more amazement, he realized that he was thinking with coherence, with continuity. His mind was quite clear.
    He passed a heavy hand over his forehead. “What’s happened?” he asked faintly. “There’s like . . . Something like a fever behind me. Nightmares.”
    â€œYou have been sick,” Aquila replied. “I am blunt, my old. This is a temporary return to sanity. It is no feat, God damn. Any doctor can do it. Niacin plus carbon dioxide. Id genus omne. Only temporary. We must search for something more permanent.”
    â€œWhat’s this place?”
    â€œHere? My office. Anteroom without. Consultation room within. Laboratory to left. In God we trust.”
    â€œI know you,” Halsyon mumbled. “I know you from somewhere. I know your face.”
    â€œOui. You have drawn and redrawn me in your fever. Ecce homo. But you have the advantage, Halsyon. Where have we met? I ask myself.” Aquila put on a brilliant speculum, tilted