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  * * *

  Bidwell grunted in annoyance. "Weems, if you can't think up anything better than that, Amalgamated is going to need a new chief attorney. It's been ten weeks since you lost the injunction, and that little wart is coining money hand over fist. Meantime, every insurance firm in the country's going broke. Hoskins, what's our loss ratio?"

  "It's hard to say, Mr. Bidwell. It gets worse every day. We've paid off thirteen big policies this week; all of them taken out since Pinero started operations."

  A spare little man spoke up. "I say, Bidwell, we aren't accepting any new applicants for United, until we have time to check and be sure that they have not consulted Pinero. Can't we afford to wait until the scientists show him up?"

  Bidwell snorted. "You blasted optimist! They won't show him up. Aldrich, can't you face a fact? The fat little pest has something; how, I don't know. This is a fight to the finish. If we wait, we're licked." He threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and bit savagely into a fresh one. "Clear out of here, all of you! I'll handle this my way. You, too, Aldrich. United may wait, but Amalgamated won't."

  Weems cleared his throat apprehensively. "Mr. Bidwell, I trust you will consult me before embarking on any major change in policy?"

  Bidwell grunted. They filed out. When they were all gone and the door closed, Bidwell snapped the switch of the interoffice announcer. "O.K.; send him in."

  The outer door opened. A slight, dapper figure stood for a moment at the threshold. His small, dark eyes glanced quickly about the room before he entered, then he moved up to Bidwell with a quick, soft tread. He spoke to Bidwell in a flat, emotionless voice. His face remained impassive except for the live, animal eyes. "You wanted to talk to me?"

  "Yes."

  "What's the proposition?"

  "Sit down, and we'll talk."

  * * *

  Pinero met the young couple at the door of his inner office.

  "Come in, my dears, come in. Sit down. Make yourselves at home. Now tell me, what do you want of Pinero? Surely such young people are not anxious about the final roll call?"

  The boy's pleasant young face showed slight confusion. "Well, you see, Dr. Pinero, I'm Ed Hartley and this is my wife, Betty. We're going to have . . . that is, Betty is expecting a baby and, well—"

  Pinero smiled benignly. "I understand. You want to know how long you will live in order to make the best possible provision for the youngster. Quite wise. Do you both want readings, or just yourself?"

  The girl answered, "Both of us, we think."

  Pinero beamed at her. "Quite so. I agree. Your reading presents certain technical difficulties at this time, but I can give you some information now. Now come into my laboratory, my dears, and we'll commence."

  He rang for their case histories, then showed them into his workshop. "Mrs. Hartley first, please. If you will go behind that screen and remove your shoes and your outer clothing, please."

  He turned away and made some minor adjustments of his apparatus. Ed nodded to his wife, who slipped behind the screen and reappeared almost at once, dressed in a slip. Pinero glanced up.

  "This way, my dear. First we must weigh you. There. Now take your place on the stand. This electrode in your mouth. No, Ed, you mustn't touch her while she is in the circuit. It won't take a minute. Remain quiet."

  He dove under the machine's hood and the dials sprang into life. Very shortly he came out, with a perturbed look on his face. "Ed, did you touch her?"

  "No, doctor." Pinero ducked back again and remained a little longer. When he came out this time, he told the girl to get down and dress. He turned to her husband.

  "Ed, make yourself ready."

  "What's Betty's reading, doctor?"

  "There is a little difficulty. I want to test you first."

  When he came out from taking the youth's reading, his face was more troubled than ever. Ed inquired as to his trouble. Pinero shrugged his shoulders and brought a smile to his lips.

  "Nothing to concern you, my boy. A little mechanical misadjustment, I think. But I shan't be able to give you two your readings today. I shall need to overhaul my machine. Can you come back tomorrow?"

  "Why, I think so. Say, I'm sorry about your machine. I hope it isn't serious."

  "It isn't, I'm sure. Will you come back into my office and visit for a bit?"

  "Thank you, doctor. You are very kind."

  "But, Ed, I've got to meet Ellen."

  Pinero turned the full force of his personality on her. "Won't you grant me a few moments, my dear young lady? I am old, and like the sparkle of young folks' company. I get very little of it. Please." He nudged them gently into his office and seated them. Then he ordered lemonade and cookies sent in, offered them cigarettes and lit a cigar.

  Forty minutes later Ed listened entranced, while Betty was quite evidently acutely nervous and anxious to leave, as the doctor spun out a story concerning his adventures as a young man in Tierra del Fuego. When the doctor stopped to relight his cigar, she stood up.

  "Doctor, we really must leave. Couldn't we hear the rest tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow? There will not be time tomorrow."

  "But you haven't time today, either. Your secretary has rung five times."

  "Couldn't you spare me just a few more minutes?"

  "I really can't today, doctor. I have an appointment. There is someone waiting for me."

  "There is no way to induce you?"

  "I'm afraid not. Come, Ed."

  After they had gone, the doctor stepped to the window and stared out over the city. Presently he picked out two tiny figures as they left the office building. He watched them hurry to the corner, wait for the lights to change, then start across the street. When they were part way across, there came the scream of a siren. The two little figures hesitated, started back, stopped and turned. Then a car was upon them. As the car slammed to a stop, they showed up from beneath it, no longer two figures, but simply a limp, unorganized heap of clothing.

  Presently the doctor turned away from the window. Then he picked up his phone and spoke to his secretary.

  "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. . . . No. . . . No one. . . . I don't care; cancel them."

  Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long after dark he held it, still unlighted.

  * * *

  Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet's luncheon spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.

  Somewhat later he let a few drops of Fiori D'Alpini roll down his throat. The heavy, fragrant syrup warmed his mouth and reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed. It had been a good meal, an exquisite meal, and had justified the exotic liqueur.

  His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hall and the dining-room door was pushed open.

  "Madonna mia! Non si puo' entrare! The master is eating!"

  "Never mind, Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You may go."

  Pinero faced the surly-faced spokesman of the intruders. "You have business with me; yes?"

  "You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense."

  "And so?"

  The caller did not answer at once. A smaller, dapper individual moved out from behind him and faced Pinero.

  * * *

  "We might as well begin." The chairman of the committee placed a key in the lock box and opened it. "Wenzell, will you help me pick out today's envelopes?" He was interrupted by a touch on his arm.

  "Dr. Baird, you are wanted on the telephone."

  "Very well. Bring the instrument here."

  When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello. . . . Yes; speaking. . . . What? . . . No, we have heard nothing. . . . Destroyed the machine, you say. . . . Dead! How? . . . No! No statement. N
one at all. . . . Call me later."

  He slammed the instrument down and pushed it from him.

  "What's up?"

  "Who's dead now?"

  Baird held up one hand. "Quiet, gentlemen, please! Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home."

  "Murdered!"

  "That isn't all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed his apparatus."

  No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.

  Finally one spoke up. "Get it out."

  "Get what out?"

  "Pinero's envelope. It's in there, too. I've seen it."

  Baird located it, and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of paper and scanned it.

  "Well? Out with it!"

  "One thirteen P.M. . . . today."

  They took this in silence.

  Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching for the lock box. Baird interposed a hand.

  "What do you want?"

  "My prediction. It's in there—we're all in there."

  "Yes, yes."

  "We're all in there."

  "Let's have them."

  Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him, but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His hands shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.

  "You're right, of course," he said.

  "Bring me that wastebasket." Baird's voice was low and strained, but steady.

  He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When Baird was through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down and spoke.

  "I'm afraid I've ruined this table top."

  SUCCESSFUL OPERATION

  FOREWORD

  For any wordsmith the most valuable word in the English language is that short, ugly, Anglo-Saxon monosyllable: No!!! It is one of the peculiarities in the attitude of the public toward the writing profession that a person who would never expect a free ride from a taxi driver, or free groceries from a market, or free gilkwoks from a gilkwok dealer, will without the slightest embarrassment ask a professional writer for free gifts of his stock in trade.

  This chutzpah is endemic in science fiction fans, acute in organized SF fans, and at its virulent worst in organized fans-who-publish-fan-magazines.

  The following story came into existence shortly after I sold my first story—and resulted from my having not yet learned to say No!

  "Anyone who considers protocol unimportant has never dealt with a cat" —L. Long

  "How dare you make such a suggestion!"

  The State Physician doggedly stuck by his position. "I would not make it, sire, if your life were not at stake. There is no other surgeon in the Fatherland who can transplant a pituitary gland but Doctor Lans."

  "You will operate!"

  The medico shook his head. "You would die, Leader. My skill is not adequate."

  The Leader stormed about the apartment. He seemed about to give way to one of the girlish bursts of anger that even the inner state clique feared so much. Surprisingly he capitulated.

  "Bring him here!" he ordered.

  * * *

  Doctor Lans faced the Leader with inherent dignity, a dignity and presence that three years of "protective custody" had been unable to shake. The pallor and gauntness of the concentration camp lay upon him, but his race was used to oppression. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see . . . I can perform that operation. What are your terms?"

  "Terms?" The Leader was aghast. "Terms, you filthy swine? You are being given a chance to redeem in part the sins of your race!"

  The surgeon raised his brows. "Do you not think that I know that you would not have sent for me had there been any other course available to you? Obviously, my services have become valuable."

  "You'll do as you are told! You and your kind are lucky to be alive."

  "Nevertheless I shall not operate without my fee."

  "I said you are lucky to be alive—" The tone was an open threat.

  Lans spread his hands, did not answer.

  "Well—I am informed that you have a family . . ."

  The surgeon moistened his lips. His Emma—they would hurt his Emma . . . and his little Rose. But he must be brave, as Emma would have him be. He was playing for high stakes—for all of them. "They cannot be worse off dead," he answered firmly, "than they are now."

  * * *

  It was many hours before the Leader was convinced that Lans could not be budged. He should have known—the surgeon had learned fortitude at his mother's breast.

  "What is your fee?"

  "A passport for myself and my family."

  "Good riddance!"

  "My personal fortune restored to me—"

  "Very well."

  "—to be paid in gold before I operate!"

  The Leader started to object automatically, then checked himself. Let the presumptuous fool think so! It could be corrected after the operation.

  "And the operation to take place in a hospital on foreign soil."

  "Preposterous!"

  "I must insist."

  "You do not trust me?"

  Lans stared straight back into his eyes without replying. The Leader struck him, hard, across the mouth. The surgeon made no effort to avoid the blow, but took it, with no change of expression. . . .

  "You are willing to go through with it, Samuel?" The younger man looked at Doctor Lans without fear as he answered,

  "Certainly, Doctor."

  "I can not guarantee that you will recover. The Leader's pituitary gland is diseased; your younger body may or may not be able to stand up under it—that is the chance you take."

  "I know it—but I am out of the concentration camp!"

  "Yes. Yes, that is true. And if you do recover, you are free. And I will attend you myself, until you are well enough to travel."

  Samuel smiled. "It will be a positive joy to be sick in a country where there are no concentration camps!"

  "Very well, then. Let us commence."

  They returned to the silent, nervous group at the other end of the room. Grimly, the money was counted out, every penny that the famous surgeon had laid claim to before the Leader had decided that men of his religion had no need for money. Lans placed half of the gold in a money belt and strapped it around his waist. His wife concealed the other half somewhere about her ample person.

  * * *

  It was an hour and twenty minutes later that Lans put down the last instrument, nodded to the surgeons assisting him, and commenced to strip off operating gloves. He took one last look at his two patients before he left the room. They were anonymous under the sterile gowns and dressings. Had he not known, he could not have told dictator from oppressed. Come to think about it, with the exchange of those two tiny glands there was something of the dictator in his victim, and something of the victim in the dictator.

  * * *

  Doctor Lans returned to the hospital later in the day, after seeing his wife and daughter settled in a first class hotel. It was an extravagance, in view of his uncertain prospects as a refugee, but they had enjoyed no luxuries for years back there—he did not think of it as his home country—and it was justified this once.

  He enquired at the office of the hospital for his second patient. The clerk looked puzzled. "But he is not here."

  "Not here?"

  "Why, no. He was moved at the same time as His Excellency—back to your country."

  Lans did not argue. The trick was obvious; it was too late to do anything for poor Samuel. He thanked his God that he had had the foresight to place himself and his family beyond t
he reach of such brutal injustice before operating. He thanked the clerk and left.

  * * *

  The Leader recovered consciousness at last. His brain was confused—then he recalled the events before he had gone to sleep. The operation!—it must be over! And he was alive! He had never admitted to anyone how terribly frightened he had been at the prospect. But he had lived—he had lived!

  He groped around for the bell cord, and, failing to find it, gradually forced his eyes to focus on the room. What outrageous nonsense was this? This was no sort of a room for the Leader to convalesce in. He took in the dirty white-washed ceiling, and the bare wooden floor with distaste. And the bed! It was no more than a cot!

  He shouted. Someone came in, a man wearing the uniform of a trooper in his favorite corps. He started to give him the tongue-lashing of his life, before having him arrested. But he was cut short.

  "Cut out that racket, you unholy pig!"

  At first he was too astounded to answer, then he shrieked, "Stand at attention when you address your Leader! Salute!"

  The man looked dumbfounded, then guffawed. "Like this, maybe?" He stepped to the side of the cot, struck a pose with his right arm raised in salute. He carried a rubber truncheon in it. "Hail to the Leader!" he shouted, and brought his arm down smartly. The truncheon crashed into the Leader's cheekbone.

  Another trooper came in to see what the noise was while the first was still laughing at his witticism. "What's up, Jon? Say, you'd better not handle that monkey too rough—he's still carried on the hospital list." He glanced casually at the Leader's bloody face.