Monkey On His Back - Charles V de Vet

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Monkey on his Back by Charles V. De Vett. Under
the cloud of cast off identities lay the shape of
another man. Was it himself? He was walking endlessly down
a long, glass walled corridor. Bright sunlight slanted in through

(00:21):
one wall on the blue knapsack across his shoulders. Who
he was and what he was doing here was clouded.
The truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but
it was not reached by surface awareness. The corridor opened
at last into a large, high domed room, much like
a railway station or an air terminal. He walked straight ahead.

(00:46):
At the sight of him, a man leaned negligently against
a stone pillar to his right, but within vision straightened
and barked in order to him halt. He lengthened his stride,
but gave no other sign. Two men hurried through a
doorway of a small anteroom to his left, calling to him.

(01:06):
He turned away and began to run. Shouts and the
sound of charging feet came from behind him. He cut
to the right, running toward the escalator to the second floor.
Another pair of men were hurrying down two steps at
a stride with no break in pace. He veered into
an opening beside the escalator. At the first turn, he

(01:30):
saw that the aisle merely circle the stairway coming out
into the depot again on the other side. It was
a trap. He glanced quickly around him. At the rear
of the space was a row of lockers for traveler use.
He slipped a coin into a pay slot, opened the
zipper on his bag, and pulled out a flat briefcase.

(01:52):
It took him only a few seconds to push the
case into the compartment, lock it and slide the key
along the floor beneath the locker. There was nothing to
do after that except waight. The men pursuing him came
hurtling around the turn and the aisle. He kicked his
knapsack to one side, spreading his feet wide with an

(02:12):
instinctive motion. Until that instant, he had intended to fight.
Now he swiftly reassessed the odds. There were five of them.
He saw he should be able to incapacitate two or
three and break out, but the fact that they had
been expecting him meant that others would very probably be
waiting outside. His best course now was to sham ignorance.

(02:35):
He relaxed. He offered no resistance as they reached him,
they were not gentle men. A tall, ruffian copper, brown
face damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by
the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. As
he shifted his weight to keep his footing, some one

(02:56):
drove a fist into his face. He started to raise
his hands at a hard, flat object crashed against the
side of his skull. The starch went out of his legs.
Do you make anything out of it? The psychoanalyst, Milton
Bergstrom asked, John Zarwell shook his head. Did I talk

(03:18):
while I was under? Oh? Yes, you are supposed to
that way? I followed pretty well. What you're reenacting? How
does it tie in with what I told you before?
Bergstrom's neat boned, fair skinned face betrayed no emotion other
than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. I

(03:41):
see no connection, he decided, his words once again precise
and meticulous. We don't have enough to go on. Do
you feel able to try another comanalysis this afternoon? Yet?
I don't see why not. Tsarwell opened the collar of
his shirt. The day was hot and the room had

(04:01):
no air conditioning. Still a rare luxury on Saint Martin's.
The office window was open, but it let him no freshness,
only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet's
habitable areas. Good, Bergstrom rose, the serum is quite harmless, John.
He maintained a professional, diversionary chatter as he administered the drug,

(04:26):
a scopolamine derivative that's been well tested. The floor beneath
Zariwel's feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent consistency of a
damp sponge. It rose in a foot high wave and
rolled gently toward the far wall. Bergstrom continued talking with
practiced urbanity, when psychiatry was a less exact science. His

(04:51):
voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance.
A doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months, or years
interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could
sort the relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We
are able, now, with the help of the serum, to
confine our discourses to matters cogent to the patient's trouble.

(05:15):
The floor continued its transmutation, and Tsarwel sank deep into
viscous depths. Lie back and relax. Don't the words tumbled
down from above. They faded, were gone. Tsarwel found himself
standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above

(05:36):
and no horizon in the distance. He was in a
place without space or dimension. There was nothing here except
himself and the gun that he held in his hand,
a weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity. He should know
all about the instrument, its purpose and workings, but he
could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead

(05:59):
creased with his mental effort. Abruptly, the unreality about him
shifted perspective. He was approaching, not walking, but merely shortening
the space between them. The man who held the gun,
the man who was himself, the other himself, drifted nearer, also,

(06:20):
as though drawn by a mutual attraction. The man with
the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger. With
the action, the perspective shifted again. He was watching the
face of the man he shot jerk and twitch, expand
and contract. The face was unharmed, yet it was no
longer the same, no longer his own features. The stranger

(06:44):
face smiled approvingly at him. Odd Bergstrom said. He brought
his hands up and joined the tips of his fingers
against his chest. But it's another piece in the jigsaw.
In time it will fit into place. He paused. It
means no more to you than the first I suppose no,

(07:05):
Tsaruel answered, he was not a talking man. Bergstrom reflected,
it was more than reticence. However, the man had a
hard granite core, only partially concealed by his present perplexity.
He was a man who could handle himself well in
an emergency. Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing his strayed thoughts. I expected

(07:31):
as much a quite normal first phase of treatment. He
straightened a paper on his desk. I think that will
be enough for to day. Twice in one sitting is
about all we ever try. Otherwise some particular episode might
cause undue mental stress and set up a block. He
glanced down at his appointment pad tomorrow too. Then Tsaruel grunted,

(07:57):
acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that
his shirt clung dimply to his body. The sun was
still high when Tsarwel left the analyst's office. The white
marble of the city's buildings shimmered in the afternoon heat.
Squat and austere as giant tree trunks pock marked and

(08:20):
gray modeled with windows. Tsarwel was careful not to rest
his hand on the flesh searing surface of the stone.
The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the
flats on the way to his apartment. The streets of
the old section were near deserted. The only sounds he
heard as he passed were the occasional cry of a

(08:42):
baby chronically uncomfortable in the day's heat, and the lowing
of imported cattle waiting in a nearby shed to be
shipped to the country. All Saint Martin's has a distinctive smell,
as of an arid, dried out swamp with a faint
taint of fish. But in the flats the odor changes.

(09:03):
Here is the smell of factories, warehouses and trading marts,
the smell of stale cooking drifting from the homes of
the laborers and lower class techmen who lived there. Tsaruwel
passed a group of smaller children playing a desultory game
of lic lic for pieces of candy and cigarettes. Slowly

(09:26):
he climbed the stairs of a stone flat. He prepared
to supper for himself and ate it without either enjoyment
or distaste. He lay down, fully clothed on his bed.
The visit to the analyst had done nothing to dispel
his unwui. The next morning, when Tsaruwel awoke, he lay

(09:47):
for a moment unmoving. The feeling was there again, like
a scene waiting only to be gazed at, directly to
be perceived. It was as though a great wisdom lay
at the edge of understanding. If he rested quietly, it
would all come to him. Yet always, when his mind
lost its sleep induced lethargy, the moment of near understanding

(10:10):
slipped away. This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did
not pass with full wakefulness. He achieved no understanding, but
the strangeness did not leave. As he sat up, he
gazed about him. The room did not seem to be
his own. The furnishings and the clothing he observed in

(10:30):
a closet might have belonged to a stranger. He pulled
himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical reaction.
The slippers into which he put his feet were larger
than he had expected them to be. He walked about
the small apartment. The place was familiar, but only as
it would have been if he had studied it from blueprints,

(10:52):
not as though he lived there. The feeling was still
with him when he returned to the Psychoanalyst. The scene
this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal. A village was
being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets. Tsarwel

(11:13):
moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes,
yet a moving force in the conflict. The background changed.
He understood that he was on a different world. Here,
a city burned, its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell
was riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding

(11:33):
these stricken metropolis. He moved in and joined a party
of short bearded men, directing them as they battered at
the wall with a huge log mounted on a many
whale truck. The log broke a breach in the concrete,
and the prosiegures charged through, carrying back the defenders, who
sought vainly to plug the gap. Soon there would be

(11:56):
riding in the streets again, plundering and killing. Tsarwel was
not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure
in the rebellion, but he had played a leading part
in the planning of the strategy that led to the
city's fall. The job had been well done. Time passed
without visible break, and the panorama now Zarwel was fleeing,

(12:20):
pursued by the same bearded men who had been his
comrades before. Still, he moved with the same firm purpose, vigilant, resourceful,
and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. He
made his escape without difficulty. He alighted from a spaceship
on still another world. Another shift in time, and the

(12:41):
atmosphere of conflict engulfed him. Weary but resigned, he accepted
it and did what he had to do. Bergstrom was
regarding him with speculative scrutiny. You've had quite a past, apparently,
he observed. Tsaruwel smiled with mild an embarrassment. At least
in my dreams dreams. Bergstrom's eyes widened in surprise. Oh,

(13:08):
I beg your pardon. I must have forgotten to explain.
This work is so routine to me that sometimes I
forget it's all new to a patient. Actually, what you
experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections
of real episodes from your past. Zarwell's expression became wary.
He watched Bergstrom closely. After a minute, however, he seemed satisfied,

(13:33):
and he let himself settle back against the cushion of
his chair. I remember nothing of what I saw, he observed.
That's why you're here, you know, Bergstrom answered, to help
you remember. But everything under the drug is so haphazard.
That's true. The recall episodes are always purely random, with

(13:57):
no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them
in proper order later, or some particular scene may trigger
a complete memory return. It is my considered opinion. Bergstrom
went on that your lost memory will turn out to
be no ordinary amnesia. I believe we will find that

(14:20):
your mind has been tampered with. Nothing I've seen under
the drug fits into the past. I do remember. That's
what makes me so certain, Bergstrom said, Confidently, you don't
remember what we have shown to be true. Conversely, then
what you think you remember must be false. It must

(14:40):
have been implanted there. But we can go into that later.
For to day, I think we have done enough. This
episode was quite prolonged. I won't have any time off
again until next weekend. Zarwell reminded, him, that's right, Bergstrom
thought for a moment, we shouldn't let this hang too long.

(15:02):
Could you come here after work tomorrow? I suppose I could, fine,
Bergham said with satisfaction. I'll admit I'm considerably more than
casually interested in your case by this time. A work
truck picked zarwel up the next morning, and he rode
with a tech crew to the edge of the reclam

(15:22):
area beside the belt, bringing ocean muck from the converter
plant at the seashore. His bulldozer was waiting. He took
his place behind the drive wheel and began working dirt
down between wind breakers anchored in the rock along a
makeshift road into the bad lands. Trucks brought crushed lime

(15:43):
and phosphorus to supplement the ocean sediment. The progress of
life from the sea to the land was a mechanical
process of this growing world. Nearly two hundred years ago,
when Earth established a colony on Saint Martins, the land
surface of the planet had been barren, only its seas

(16:05):
thrived with animal and vegetable life. The necessary machinery and
technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle
began to fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell
arrived six months before, the vitalized area already extended three
hundred miles along the coast and sixty miles inland, and

(16:26):
every day the progress continued. A large percentage of the
energy and resources of the world were devoted to that
essential expansion. The reclam crews filled and sodded the sterile rock,
planted binding grasses, grain and trees, and diverted rivers to

(16:48):
keep it fertile. When there were no rivers to divert,
they blasted out springs and lakes in the foothills to
make their own. Biologists developed the necessary germ and ends
life from what they found in the sea. Where that felled,
they imported microorganisms from Earth. Three rubber tracked crawlers picked

(17:10):
their way down from the mountains until they joined the
road passing the belt. They were loaded with ore that
would be smelted into metal for depleted Earth or for
other colonies short of minerals. It was Saint Martin's only
export thus far. Zarwel pulled his sun helmet lower to

(17:31):
better guard his hot, dry features. The wind blew continuously
on Saint Martin's but it furnished small relief from the
heat after its three thousand mile journey across scorched sterile rock.
It sucked the moisture from a man's body, bringing a
membrane shrinking dryness to the nostrils as it was breathed in.

(17:54):
With it came also the cloying taste of limestone in
a worker's mouth. Tsaruwel gazed idly about at the other laborers.
Fully to three quarters of them were beara rabza ridden.
A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been found.
The men's faces and hands were scabbed and red. The

(18:16):
colony had grown to near self sufficiency, would soon have
a moderate prosperity, yet they still lacked adequate medical and
research facilities. Not all the world's citizens were content. Bergstrom
was waiting in his office when Zarwel arrived that evening.
He was lying motionless on a hard cot, with his

(18:37):
eyes closed, yet with his every sense sharply quickened. Tentatively,
he tightened small muscles in his arms and legs, across
his wrists and thighs. He felt straps binding him to
the cot. So that's our big bad man. A coarse
voice above him observed caustically. He doesn't look so tough, now,

(18:59):
does he. It might have been better to kill him
right away. A second, less confident boyce said, it's supposed
to be impossible to hold him. Don't be stupid. We
just do what we're told. We'll hold him. What do
you think they'll do with him, execute him? I suppose,
the harsh voice said, matter of factly, they're probably just

(19:22):
curious to see what he looks like. First. They'll be disappointed.
Zaruel opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings.
It was a mistake. He's out of it, the first
speaker said, and Tarwel allowed his eyes to open fully.
The voice he saw belonged to the big man who

(19:42):
had bruised him against the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly,
he wondered how he knew now that it had been
as spaceport. His captor's broad face jeered down at Zarawel.
Have a good sleep, he asked, with mock solicitude. Tsarawi
did not deign to acknowledge that he had heard. The

(20:03):
big man turned. You can tell the chief he's awake,
he said. Tsaruwel followed his gaze to where a younger
man with a blond lock of hair on his forehead
stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out, while
the other pulled a chair up to the side of
Zarwel's cot. While their attention was away from him, Tsaruel

(20:26):
had unobtrusively loosened his bonds as much as possible with
arm leverage. As the big man drew his chair nearer,
he made the hand farthest from him tight and compact,
and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited.
The big man belched, You're supposed to be great stuff
in a situation like this, he said, his smoke tanned

(20:48):
face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth.
How about giving me a sample. You're a yellow livered bastard,
t sorrowl told him. The grin faded from the oily face.
As the man stood up. He leaned over the cot,
and Zarwel's left hand shot up and locked about his throat,
joined almost immediately by the right. The man's mouth opened

(21:11):
and he tried to yell as he threw himself frantically backward.
He clawed the hands about his neck. When that failed
to break the grip. He suddenly reversed his weight and
drove his fist at Zarwel's head. Zaruwel pulled the struggling
body down against his chest and held it there until
all agitated movement ceased. He sat up, then, letting the

(21:34):
body slide to the floor. The straps about his thighs
came loose with little effort. The annalist dabbed at his
upper lip with a handkerchief. The episodes are beginning to
tie together, he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. The
next couple should do it. Zaruel did not answer. His

(21:55):
memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he
sat quietly hope. However, nothing more came, and he returned
his attention to his more immediate problem. Opening a button
on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic
cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small,
flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand.

(22:18):
He knew now why he always carried it. Bergstrom had
his bad moment. You're not going to he began. At
the sight of the gun. He tried again, you must
be joking. I have very little sense of humor. Zarwell corrected, him,
you'd be foolish. Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was

(22:40):
to death, Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed
little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft,
too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige
to meet danger. Calmly, curiosity restrained his trigger finger. Why
would I be foolish? He asked, your manager oath of

(23:02):
inviolable confidence. Bergstrom shook his head. I know it's been
broken before, but you need me. You're not through. You
know if you killed me, you'd still have to trust
some other analyst. Is that the best you can do? No,

(23:23):
Bergstrom was angry now, but use that logical mind. You're
supposed to have. Scenes before this have shown what kind
of man you are. Just because this last happened here
on Saint Martin's makes little difference. If I was going
to turn you into the police, I'd have done it
before this. Zaruwel debated with himself the truth of what

(23:44):
the other had said. Why didn't you turn me in,
he asked, because you're no mad dog killer. Not that
the crisis seemed to be passed, Bergstrom spoke more calmly,
even allowed himself to relax you're still pretty much in
the fog about yourself. I read more in those comanalysis

(24:06):
than you did. I even know who you are. Zaruwel's
eyebrows raised. Who am I? He asked, very interested? Now
without attention, he put his pistol away in her trouser pocket.
Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. Your name
makes little difference. You've used many, but you are an idealist.

(24:33):
Your killings were necessary to bring justice to the places
you've visited. By now you're almost a legend among the
human worlds. I'd like to talk more with you on
that later, well, Tsarwil considered. Bergstrom pressed his advantage. One
more scene might do it, he said, Should we try again?

(24:53):
If you trust me, that is? Tsaruwel made his decision quickly.
Go ahead, he answered. All Zarwell's attention seemed on the
cigar he lit as he rode down the escalator, but
he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his hand.
He spied no suspicious loungers behind the escalator. He groped

(25:15):
along the floor beneath the lockers until he found his key.
The briefcase was under his arm. A minute later, in
the basement lap. He put a coin in the paislot
of a private compartment and went in. As he zipped
open the briefcase, he surveyed his features in the mirror.
A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically.

(25:38):
One cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty six hours
under the paralysis was longer than advisable. The muscles should
be rested at least every twenty hours. Fortunately, his natural
features would serve as an adequate disguise. Now, he adjusted

(25:58):
the rings setting on the pistol shipped instrument that he
took from his case, and carefully rayed several small areas
of his face, loosening muscles that had been tight too long.
He sighed gratefully when he finished, massaging his cheeks and
forehead with considerable pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied
him with the changes that had been made. He turned

(26:20):
to his briefcase again and exchanged the gun for a
small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket and
a single edged razor blade. Removing his fibercloth jacket, he
slashed it into strips with the razor blade and flushed
it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his
blouse rolled up, he had the appearance of a typical

(26:42):
workman as he strolled from the compartment. Back at the locker,
he replaced the briefcase and with a wad of gum,
glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame.
One step more, taking the syringe from his pocket, he
plunged the needle into his forearm and tossed the instrument
down a waste chute. He took three more steps and

(27:04):
paused uncertainly. When he looked about him, it was with
the expression of a man waking from a vivid dream.
Quite ingenious, Graves murmured admiringly, you had your mind already
precondition for this shot. But why would you deliberately give
yourself amnesia? What better disguise than to believe the part

(27:27):
you're playing. A good man must have done that job
on your mind, Bergstrom commented, I'd have hesitated to try
it myself. It must have taken a lot of trust
on your part, trust and money. Zarwel said dryly, Your
memory's back, then, Zarwell nodded, I'm glad to hear that.

(27:50):
Bergstrom assured him. Now that you're well again, I'd like
to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson this world.
Zarwell stop with an upraised hand, Good god, man, can't
you see the reason for all this? I'm tired. I'm
trying to quit. Quit. Bergstrom did not quite follow him.

(28:12):
It started on my home colony, Zarwell explained listlessly. A
gang of hoods had taken over the government. I helped
organize a movement to get them out. There was some bloodshed,
but it went quite well. Several months later, an unofficial
envoy from another world asked several of us to give
them a hand on the same kind of job. The

(28:34):
political conditions there were rotten. We went with him again.
We were successful. It seems I have a kind of
genius for that sort of thing. He stretched out his
legs and regarded them thoughtfully. I learned then the truth
of Russell's saying, when the oppressed, when their freedom, they
are as oppressive as their former masters when they went bad.

(28:57):
I opposed them. This time I fell, but I escaped again.
I have quite a talent for that. Also, I'm not
a professional do gooder Tsarwell's tone appealed to Bergstrom for understanding.
I have only a normal man's indignation at injustice, and
now I've done my share. Yet wherever I go, the

(29:19):
word eventually gets out, and I'm right back in a
fight again. It's like the proverbial monkey on my back.
I can't get rid of it. He rose that disguise
and memory planting were supposed to get me out of it.
I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time
I'm not going to be drawn back in. You and

(29:40):
your Vernon Johnson can do your own revolting. I'm through.
Bergstrom did not argue as he left. Restlessness drove Tsarwell
from his flat. The next day, a legal holiday on
Saint Martin's, at a railed off lot, he stopped and
Lloyd in the shadow of an adjacent building, watching workmen

(30:03):
drilling an excavation for a new structure. When a man
strolled to his side and stood watching the workman, he
was not surprised. He waited for the other to speak.
I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare
a few minutes, the stranger said. Zarwel turned and studied
the man without answering. He was a medium tall with

(30:24):
the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond
the age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy.
You're Johnson, he asked. The man nodded. Zarwell tried to
feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it
would not come. We have nothing to talk about was

(30:44):
the best he could manage. Then, will you just listen after?
I'll leave if you tell me to. Against his will,
he found himself liking the man and wanting at least
to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a kerb
waistbox with a flat top. Should we sit? Johnson smiled agreeably,

(31:07):
and they walked over to the box and sat down.
When this colony was first founded, Johnson began without preamble.
The administrative body was a governor and a council of twelve.
Their successors were to be elected by enny la At
first they were. Then things changed. We haven't had an

(31:28):
election now in the last twenty three years, Saint Martin's
is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving the
benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day.
They are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They zarwell
found himself not listening as Johnson's voice went on. The

(31:49):
story was always the same. But why did they always
try to drag him into their troubles? Why hadn't he
chosen some other world on which to hide? The last
question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen
Saint Martin's Was it only a coincidence, or had he
subconsciously at least picked this particular world. He had always

(32:13):
considered himself the unwilling subject of glib persuaders, But might
in some inner compulsion of his own have put the
monkey on his back? And we need your help. Johnson
had finished his speech. Tsaruwel gazed up at the bright sky.
He pulled in a long breath and let it out

(32:34):
in a sigh. What are your plans so far? He
asked wearily. End of Monkey on His Back by Charles B.
D Vett