The Puppet Masters by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

really think so; I had a deep-down hunch that anyone who had been ridden by one of those things was spoiled, permanently. I guess I had a superstitious notion that they “ate souls” whatever that means.
    The Old Man waved us back. “Forget about Jarvis!”
    “But—”
    “Stow it! If he can be saved, a bit longer won’t matter. In any case—” He shut up and so did I. I knew what he meant; the principle which declared that the individual was all important now called for canceling Jarvis out as a factor, i.e., we were expendable; the people of the United States were not.
    Pardon the speech. I liked Jarvis.
    The Old Man, gun drawn and wary, continued to watch the unconscious agent and the thing on his back. He said to Mary, “Get the President on the screen. Special code zero zero zero seven.”
    Mary went to his desk and did so. I heard her talking into the muffler, but my own attention was on the parasite. It made no move to leave its host, but pulsed slowly while iridescent ripples spread across it.
    Presently Mary reported, “I can’t get him, sir. One of his assistants is on the screen.”
    “Which one?”
    “Mr. McDonough.”
    The Old Man winced and so did I. McDonough was an intelligent, likeable man who hadn’t changed his mind on anything since he was housebroken. The President used him as a buffer.
    The Old Man bellowed, not bothering with the muffler.
    No, the President was not available. No, he could not be reached with a message. No, Mr. McDonough was not exceeding his authority; the President had been explicit and the Old Man was not on the list of exceptions—if there was such a list, which Mr. McDonough did not concede. Yes, he would be happy to make an appointment; he would squeeze the Old Man in somehow and that was a promise. How would next Friday do? Today? Quite out of the question. Tomorrow? Equally impossible.
    The Old Man switched off and I thought he was going to have a stroke. But after a moment he took two deep breaths, his features relaxed, and he slumped back to us, saying, “Dave, slip down the hall and ask Doc Graves to step in. The rest of you keep your distance and your eyes peeled.”
    The head of the biological lab came in shortly, wiping his hands as he came. “Doc,” said the Old Man, “there is one that isn’t dead.”
    Graves looked at Jarvis, then more closely at Jarvis’s back. “Interesting,” he said. “Unique, possibly.” He dropped to one knee.
    “Stand back!”
    Graves looked up. “But I must have an opportunity—” he said reasonably.
    “You and my half-wit aunt! Listen—I want you to study it, yes, but that purpose has low priority. First, you’ve got to keep it alive. Second, you’ve got to keep it from escaping. Third, you’ve got to protect yourself.”
    Graves smiled. “I’m not afraid of it. I—”
    “Be afraid of it! That’s an order.”
    “I was about to say that I think I must rig up an incubator to care for it after we remove it from the host. The dead specimen you gave me did not afford much opportunity for studying its chemistry, but it is evident that these things need oxygen. You smothered the other one. Don’t misunderstand me, not free oxygen, but oxygen from its host. Perhaps a large dog would suffice.”
    “No,” snapped the Old Man. “Leave it right where it is.”
    “Eh?” Graves looked surprised. “Is this man a volunteer?”
    The Old Man did not answer. Graves went on, “Human laboratory subjects must be volunteers. Professional ethics, you know.”
    These scientific laddies never do get broken to harness; I think they keep their bags packed. The Old Man calmed himself and said quietly, “Doctor Graves, every agent in this Section is a volunteer for whatever I find necessary. That is what they sign up for. Please carry out my orders. Get a stretcher in here and take Jarvis out. Use care.”
    The Old Man dismissed us after they had carted Jarvis away, and Davidson and Mary and I went to the lounge for a drink or