The Man With the Golden Eyes

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy August 1956 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat. There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on his rag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and wavered before his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over:

You're through, Hayden--all washed up--this is the bottom--you can't go any lower--Lee Hayden--boy genius--all washed up--you made the trip in a hurry, son--right down from the top to the bottom in nothing flat--why don't you give up, why don't you kite off, you gutless wonder of the ages--too weak to live--too yellow to die--

On and on the tape played while along the street, came the fastidious to step daintily around the wreck in the gutter; the callous to grin and sneer; the timid to hurry by without looking.

Then a voice: "Can I help you?"

"Go 'way."

A hand on his shoulder. The voice brisk, cheerful. "Come now--the gutter is no place for a man of your caliber."

Lee grunted and rolled over. Someone who knew him evidently; someone echoing the myth of his "brilliance". "I said get the hell--" He opened an eye. If this was an old friend, the man had gone out of memory. Plump, cheerful, rosy-faced, well-cut clothes. A man with an air of confidence.

And something more.

It was the something more that stopped Lee from swinging at the man's plump chin after allowing himself to be lifted to his feet. The man looked critically into Lee's face as the latter swayed. He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped filth from Lee's face in the manner of one wiping the face of a child. "I think you need a drink, young fellow."

Lee grinned crookedly. "Now you're talkin'."

The plump man steered Lee down the street, around a corner, under a glittering marquee. An immaculate doorman glared with frosty eyes. His look of disgust partially sobered Lee. "Now wait a minute," Lee mumbled. After all, a man never lost all his pride.

He was drawing away, instinctively seeking shadows, when the doorman's eyes shifted to the plump man. They cleared instantly. He saluted, bowed, said "Good evening, Mr. Clifford."

"Good evening, John. We need a snifter or two of your excellent scotch."

"Certainly, sir." The doorman opened the portal as though the Secretary of State were honoring the Lotus Room with his presence.

Lee was busy marveling as they crossed the hotel lobby, brushing close to hastily drawn-back mink coats and formal clothes. It was certainly time for the bouncer to appear. But the hostess at the door of the Lotus Room--a blonde dream wearing something that resembled a pink cloud--gave the plump man a look Lee felt should have been reserved only for God.

"Mr. Clifford! What table would you like?"

Mr. Clifford smiled. "Good evening, my dear." He turned to Lee. "Mr. Hayden, this is Daphne--Mr. Lee Hayden, my dear."

Her eyes turned obediently to Lee and he was sober enough to note the complete absence of revulsion; only pity in her friendly, open gaze. He thanked her silently and thought: Even a bum like me still has a little pride and sensitivity left.

But a bum hides it behind grossness. Lee growled, "You got any decent liquor in this snob-joint?"

Snob-joint! Not so long ago he felt entirely at home in such places. Not so long ago? Huh! A thousand years or so.

Mr. Clifford said, "A quiet place, Daphne. Mr. Hayden and I want to talk."

"Hell with that noise. We wanna drink."

As they crossed the room, a man in formal clothes, obviously the manager, stepped aside and bowed deferentially to Mr. Clifford. The latter nodded pleasantly and eased Lee into a chair at a snowy table. The waiter was there instantly. Lee remained silent while Mr. Clifford ordered scotch. Then he could hold it in no longer.

"All right--what the hell is all this?"

Mr. Clifford smiled easily. "You need a drink. Here we are."

"But why here--in this plush joint?"

"Why not. It's open for business. Would you prefer a reeking skid row dive?"

From anyone but Mr. Clifford, Lee thought, that would have been an insult. "I'd be more at home there," he mumbled.

"The greatest spacial flight theorist who ever lived? I think not." Clifford's voice was a trifle sharp and the something stood out again, holding back Lee's retort. At that moment the waiter arrived. He poured the drinks and Mr. Clifford motioned. The waiter set the bottle on the table and left.

Lee knocked off his drink. His belligerence returned. "If you're doing this for laughs, that's okay. I've got it coming. If you want an autograph--no soap. I couldn't hold a pencil."

Mr. Clifford picked up the bottle and poured a second drink for Lee. He had not touched his own. "So you failed," he said, pensively.

"Yes, I failed."

"So have others."

Lee sneered. "You can pass it off with such beautiful casualness. Do you realize eleven men were killed on that ship?"

"I know. And it seems to me they faced their destiny with a lot more courage than you are facing yours."

"If I have to take a lecture with your liquor, I'd rather--"

"Certainly not. Have another."

Mr. Clifford poured and Lee had the grace to feel ashamed. "Look--I'm done--washed up--I'm at the bottom. Why should you--?"

"On the bottom, yes. But sometimes people have to hit the bottom in order to ascend to the top."