me.''
``Sorry, yes. I'm afraid you'll have to start thinking of your life in a new way,
Clyde. As . . . well . . . a pair of shoes,
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
let's say. You're stepping out and I'm stepping in. And once I've got the laces tied,
I'm going to walk away.''
Of course. Of course he was. And I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . the only thing
I could do.
Get rid of him.
I let a big smile spread across my face. A tell-me-more smile. At the same time I
coiled my legs under me, getting
them ready to launch me across the desk at him. Only one of us could leave this
office, that much was clear. I intended
to be the one.
`Òh, really?'' I said. ``How fascinating. And what happens to me, Sammy? What happens
to the shoeless private eye?
What happens to Clyde--''
Umney, the last word was supposed to be my last name, the last word this interloping,
invading thief would ever hear in
his life. The minute it was out of my mouth I intended to leap. The trouble was, that
telepathy business seemed to work
both ways. I saw an expression of alarm dawn in his eyes, and then they slipped shut
and his mouth tightened with
concentration. He didn't bother with the Buck Rogers machine; I suppose he knew there
was no time for it.
`` `His revelations hit me like some kind of debilitating drug,' '' he said, speaking
in the low but carrying tone of one
who recites rather than simply speaking. `` Àll the strength went out of my muscles,
my legs felt like a couple of
strands of al dente spaghetti, and all I could do was flop back in my chair and look
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
at him.' ''
I flopped back in my chair, my legs uncoiling beneath me, unable to do anything but
look at him.
``Not very good,'' he said apologetically, ``but rapid composition has never been a
strong point of mine.''
``You bastard,'' I rasped weakly. ``You son of a bitch.''
``Yes,'' he agreed. `Ì suppose I am.''
``Why are you doing this? Why are you stealing my life?''
His eyes flickered with anger at that. ``Your life? You know better than that, Clyde,
even if you don't want to admit it.
It isn't your life at all. I made you up, starting on one rainy day in January of 1977
and continuing right up to the
present time. I gave you your life, and it's mine to take away.''
``Very noble,'' I sneered, ``but if God came down here right now and started yanking
your life apart like bad stitches in
a scarf, you might find it a little easier to appreciate my point of view.''
`Àll right,'' he said, `Ì suppose you've got a point. But why argue it? Arguing with
one's self is like playing solitaire
chess--a fair game results in a stalemate every time. Let's just say I'm doing it
because I can.''
I felt a little calmer, all of a sudden. I had been down this street before. When they
got the drop on you, you had to get
them talking and keep them talking. It had worked with Mavis Weld and it would work
here. They said stuff like Well,
I suppose it won't hurt you to know now or What harm can it do?
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Mavis's version had been downright elegant: I want you to know, Umney--I want you to
take the truth to hell with you.
You can pass it on to the devil over cake and coffee. It really didn't matter what
they said, but if they were talking, they
weren't shooting.
Always keep em talking, that was the thing. Keep em talking and just hope the cavalry
would show up from
somewhere.
``The question is, why do you want to?'' I asked. `Ìt's hardly the usual thing, is
it? I mean, aren't you writer types
usually content to cash the checks when they come, and go about your business?''
``You're trying to keep me talking, Clyde. Aren't you?''
That hit me like a sucker-punch to the gut, but playing it down to the last card was
the only choice I had. I grinned
``Sorry, yes. I'm afraid you'll have to start thinking of your life in a new way,
Clyde. As . . . well . . . a pair of shoes,
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
let's say. You're stepping out and I'm stepping in. And once I've got the laces tied,
I'm going to walk away.''
Of course. Of course he was. And I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . the only thing
I could do.
Get rid of him.
I let a big smile spread across my face. A tell-me-more smile. At the same time I
coiled my legs under me, getting
them ready to launch me across the desk at him. Only one of us could leave this
office, that much was clear. I intended
to be the one.
`Òh, really?'' I said. ``How fascinating. And what happens to me, Sammy? What happens
to the shoeless private eye?
What happens to Clyde--''
Umney, the last word was supposed to be my last name, the last word this interloping,
invading thief would ever hear in
his life. The minute it was out of my mouth I intended to leap. The trouble was, that
telepathy business seemed to work
both ways. I saw an expression of alarm dawn in his eyes, and then they slipped shut
and his mouth tightened with
concentration. He didn't bother with the Buck Rogers machine; I suppose he knew there
was no time for it.
`` `His revelations hit me like some kind of debilitating drug,' '' he said, speaking
in the low but carrying tone of one
who recites rather than simply speaking. `` Àll the strength went out of my muscles,
my legs felt like a couple of
strands of al dente spaghetti, and all I could do was flop back in my chair and look
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
at him.' ''
I flopped back in my chair, my legs uncoiling beneath me, unable to do anything but
look at him.
``Not very good,'' he said apologetically, ``but rapid composition has never been a
strong point of mine.''
``You bastard,'' I rasped weakly. ``You son of a bitch.''
``Yes,'' he agreed. `Ì suppose I am.''
``Why are you doing this? Why are you stealing my life?''
His eyes flickered with anger at that. ``Your life? You know better than that, Clyde,
even if you don't want to admit it.
It isn't your life at all. I made you up, starting on one rainy day in January of 1977
and continuing right up to the
present time. I gave you your life, and it's mine to take away.''
``Very noble,'' I sneered, ``but if God came down here right now and started yanking
your life apart like bad stitches in
a scarf, you might find it a little easier to appreciate my point of view.''
`Àll right,'' he said, `Ì suppose you've got a point. But why argue it? Arguing with
one's self is like playing solitaire
chess--a fair game results in a stalemate every time. Let's just say I'm doing it
because I can.''
I felt a little calmer, all of a sudden. I had been down this street before. When they
got the drop on you, you had to get
them talking and keep them talking. It had worked with Mavis Weld and it would work
here. They said stuff like Well,
I suppose it won't hurt you to know now or What harm can it do?
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Mavis's version had been downright elegant: I want you to know, Umney--I want you to
take the truth to hell with you.
You can pass it on to the devil over cake and coffee. It really didn't matter what
they said, but if they were talking, they
weren't shooting.
Always keep em talking, that was the thing. Keep em talking and just hope the cavalry
would show up from
somewhere.
``The question is, why do you want to?'' I asked. `Ìt's hardly the usual thing, is
it? I mean, aren't you writer types
usually content to cash the checks when they come, and go about your business?''
``You're trying to keep me talking, Clyde. Aren't you?''
That hit me like a sucker-punch to the gut, but playing it down to the last card was
the only choice I had. I grinned
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