The Creature from Cleveland Depths | Page 9

thoughtfully. "You know, Daze," he said, "I got a
feeling Fay's in the hospital, all narcotized up and being fed
intravenously. The way he was jumping around last time, that tickler
was going to cootch him to pieces in a week."
* * * * *
As if to refute this intuition, Fay turned up that very evening. The lights
were dim. Something had gone wrong with the building's old
transformer and, pending repairs, the two remaining occupied

apartments were making do with batteries, which turned bright globes
to mysterious amber candles and made Gusterson's ancient typewriter
operate sluggishly.
Fay's manner was subdued or at least closely controlled and for a
moment Gusterson thought he'd shed his tickler. Then the little man
came out of the shadows and Gusterson saw the large bulge on his right
shoulder.
[Illustration]
"Yes, we had to up it a bit sizewise," Fay explained in clipped tones.
"Additional super-features. While brilliantly successful on the whole,
the subliminal euphorics were a shade too effective. Several hundred
users went hoppity manic. We gentled the cootch and qualified the
subliminals--you know, 'Day by day in every way I'm getting sharper
and more serene'--but a stabilizing influence was still needed, so after a
top-level conference we decided to combine Tickler with
Moodmaster."
"My God," Gusterson interjected, "do they have a machine now that
does that?"
"Of course. They've been using them on ex-mental patients for years."
"I just don't keep up with progress," Gusterson said, shaking his head
bleakly. "I'm falling behind on all fronts."
"You ought to have your tickler remind you to read Science Service
releases," Fay told him. "Or simply instruct it to scan the releases
and--no, that's still in research." He looked at Gusterson's shoulder and
his eyes widened. "You're not wearing the new-model tickler I sent
you," he said accusingly.
"I never got it," Gusterson assured him. "Postmen deliver topside mail
and parcels by throwing them on the high-speed garbage boosts and
hoping a tornado will blow them to the right addresses." Then he added
helpfully, "Maybe the Russians stole it while it was riding the

whirlwinds."
"That's not a suitable topic for jesting," Fay frowned. "We're hoping
that Tickler will mobilize the full potential of the Free World for the
first time in history. Gusterson, you are going to have to wear a
ticky-tick. It's becoming impossible for a man to get through modern
life without one."
"Maybe I will," Gusterson said appeasingly, "but right now tell me
about Moodmaster. I want to put it in my new insanity novel."
Fay shook his head. "Your readers will just think you're behind the
times. If you use it, underplay it. But anyhow, Moodmaster is a simple
physiotherapy engine that monitors bloodstream chemicals and body
electricity. It ties directly into the bloodstream, keeping blood, sugar, et
cetera, at optimum levels and injecting euphrin or depressin as
necessary--and occasionally a touch of extra adrenaline, as during work
emergencies."
"Is it painful?" Daisy called from the bedroom.
"Excruciating," Gusterson called back. "Excuse it, please," he grinned
at Fay. "Hey, didn't I suggest cocaine injections last time I saw you?"
"So you did," Fay agreed flatly. "Oh by the way, Gussy, here's that
check for a yard I promised you. Micro doesn't muzzle the ox."
"Hooray!" Daisy cheered faintly.
* * * * *
"I thought you said it was going to be for two." Gusterson complained.
"Budgeting always forces a last-minute compromise," Fay shrugged.
"You have to learn to accept those things."
"I love accepting money and I'm glad any time for three feet," Daisy
called agreeably. "Six feet might make me wonder if I weren't an insect,
but getting a yard just makes me feel like a gangster's moll."

"Want to come out and gloat over the yard paper, Toots, and stuff it in
your diamond-embroidered net stocking top?" Gusterson called back.
"No, I'm doing something to that portion of me just now. But hang onto
the yard, Gusterson."
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," he assured her. Then, turning back to Fay, "So
you've taken the Dr. Coué repeating out of the tickler?"
"Oh, no. Just balanced it off with depressin. The subliminals are still a
prime sales-point. All the tickler features are cumulative, Gussy. You're
still underestimating the scope of the device."
"I guess I am. What's this 'work-emergencies' business? If you're using
the tickler to inject drugs into workers to keep them going, that's really
just my cocaine suggestion modernized and I'm putting in for another
thou. Hundreds of years ago the South American Indians chewed coca
leaves to kill fatigue sensations."
"That so? Interesting--and it proves priority for the Indians, doesn't it?
I'll make a try for you, Gussy, but don't expect anything." He cleared
his throat, his eyes grew distant and, turning his head a little to the