The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty

leaned in closer to Kane, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
    “Sir, I’ve noticed an exotic odor in here, and being as you’re a colonel, sir, it’s got to be Major—”
    Groper moved in to him menacingly and Cutshaw leaped behind Kane, shouting, “Don’t let him touch me! I’m crazy!”
    “Sure you’re crazy!” Groper moved on Cutshaw again.
    “Groper!” Kane said firmly.
    Groper halted. “Yes, sir!”
    Cutshaw bent over in the posture of a hunchback and croaked in a coarsened, Slavic voice, “Hah! Dey try to kill Igor! But Igor still live and now dey dead!” The astronaut swayed a bit.
    Groper advanced again.
    “Major Groper!”
    “Yes, sir!” Groper stopped. He was quivering visibly. His eyes were scarlet streaks.
    “Have you been drinking?” Kane asked quietly.
    Groper shouted, “Yes!” He was hysterical.
    “Try to control yourself, Major.”
    “But my God, you should have seen those broads! Ugly! Ugly! Jesus Christ!”
    Kane stood up. “Major Groper—”
    The room trembled with the vibration of a hammer blow and Groper turned pale. “Where did he get it?” he yipped. He turned fiery eyes on Cutshaw. “You! You got it for him!” Groper saw the look in Kane’s eyes, the force. He quivered with helplessness and frustration, then verged on tears. “He can keep it!” he quavered, backing out of the room. “You hear? He can keep the fucking thing! He can keep it!” Groper fled from the office.
    Cutshaw stared after him, eyebrows furrowed. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said softly. He turned, hearing Kane on the phone with Fell.
    “Do what you can with him,” Kane was saying. He was sitting down. “A sedative, perhaps. But watch him.” He paused, then said, “No-not an ice pack.” He hung up the phone.
    Cutshaw prowled over to the desk. “Are you Gregory Peck?” he demanded.
    “What’s the story?”
    Kane did not answer.
    Cutshaw’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Proud ox, we will teach you the error of false pride.” He whipped a document out of his pocket and pressed it flat on the desk in front of Kane, and demanded: “Here, sign this confession, Hud! Or Greg! Or Tab! Or whoever you are!”
    Kane looked at the paper and remarked, “This is blank.”
    “Of course it’s blank,” growled Cutshaw. “I’m still not certain who you are. Look, I’m doing this for Reno,” he explained. “Just sign and we’ll fill it in later. Go ahead,” he advised. “Plead the mercy of the court. Kangaroos can be kind. Kangaroos are not all bad. Just sign it so we can show it to Reno and then maybe we can all get a little bit of peace.”
    “If I sign it, will you make a confession too?”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Why won’t you go to—”
    Before he could finish the question, Cutshaw roared, “Silence when you’re speaking to me!” Then he took a step back and looked portentous. “I know who you are,” he warned.
    “Who am I?”
    “You’re an unfrocked priest.” Cutshaw flung himself onto the couch and sprawled on his back. He said, “I want you to hear my confession, Father No-Face.”
    Kane said softly, “I’m not a priest.”
    “Then who the hell are you?”
    For a moment Kane stared like a man recollecting something unexpected.
    He touched his collar lightly.
    “I’m Colonel Kane.”
    “You’re Gregory Peck, you dumb ass; don’t let anyone talk you out of it! See, if you’re captured they’ll try to do that brainwashing crap and make you think that you’re Adolphe Menjou or maybe even Warren Beatty. Now me, I would love to be Warren Beatty!”
    “I don’t see why,” said Kane.
    “Of course you don’t see why! You’re Gregory Peck!”
    “I see.”
    “Like hell. You patronizing snot.” Abruptly, Cutshaw sat up on the couch. “You aren’t Gregory Peck at all; you’re an unfrocked priest,” he accused with contempt. “Incidentally, old padre, I’ve got some rather disquieting news for you: I can prove that there’s a Foot…. Would you