Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

that’s what I say. Let’s get to the point. You mean you think it’s possible to make a guy invisible. Nobody could see him, eh?”

“It’s not a matter of thinking,” Ross said sourly. “We’ve done it.”

Crowley stared at him. “Done it? You mean, you, personal? You got invisible?”

“Yes. All three of us. Once each.”

“And you come back all right, eh? So anybody can see you again.”

The doctor said reasonably, “Here we are, quite visible. The effect of the usual dosage lasts for approximately twelve hours.”

They let him assimilate it for a few minutes. Some of the ramifications were coming home to him. Finally he got up and went into the back again for another can of beer. By this time Ross Wooley was wishing he would renew his offer, but the other had forgotten his duties as a host.

He took the can away from his mouth and said, “You want to make me invisible. You want me to, like, kind of experiment on.” His eyes thinned. “Why pick me?”

The doctor said carefully, “Because you’re the common man, the average man, Mr. Crowley. Before we release this development, we would like to have some idea of the scope of the effects.”

The beer went down chuck-a-luck. Crowley put the can aside and licked his bottom lip, then rubbed it with a fingertip. He said slowly, “Now take it easy while I think about this.” He blinked. “Why you could just walk into a bank and.⁠ ⁠…”

The three were watching him, empty-faced.

“Exactly,” Dr. Braun said.

Frederick Braun stared gloomily from the hotel suite’s window at the street below. He peered absently at his thin wrist, looked blank for a moment, then realized all over again that his watch was being cleaned. He stared down at the street once more, his wrinkled face unhappy.

The door opened behind him and Patricia O’Gara came in briskly and said, “No sign of the guinea pig yet, eh?”

“No.”

“Where’s Rossie?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “There was an item on the newscast. A humor bit. It seems that the head waiter of the Gourmet.⁠ ⁠… Have you ever eaten at the Gourmet, Patricia?”

“Do I look like a millionaire?”

“At any rate, a half pound of the best Caspian caviar disappeared, spoonful at a time, right before his eyes.”

Patricia looked at him. “Good heavens.”

“Yes. Well, Ross has gone to pay the tab.”

Patricia looked at her watch. “The effects will be wearing off shortly. Crowley will probably be back at any time. We warned him about returning to visibility in the middle of some street, completely nude.” She sank into a seat and looked up at the doctor. “I suppose you admit I was right.” Her voice was crisp.

The other turned on her. “And just why do you say that?”

“This caviar bit. Our friend, Donald Crowley, has obviously walked into the Gourmet restaurant, having heard it was the most expensive in New York, and ate as much as he could stuff down of the most expensive item on the menu.”

The elderly little doctor pushed his battered horn-rims farther back on his nose. “Tell me, Patricia, when you made the experiment, did you do anything⁠ ⁠… umah⁠ ⁠… anything at all, that saved you some money?”

Uncharacteristically, she suddenly giggled. “I had the time of my life riding on a bus without paying the fare.”

Braun snorted. “Then Donald Crowley, in eating his caviar, did substantially the same thing. It’s probably been a life’s ambition of his to eat in an ultra-swank restaurant and then walk out without paying. To be frank,” the doctor cleared his throat apologetically, “it’s always been one of mine.”

Patricia conceded him a chuckle, but then said impatiently, “It’s one thing my saving fifteen cents on a bus ride, and his eating twenty-five dollars worth of caviar.”

“Merely a matter of degree, my dear.”

Patricia said in irritation, “Why in the world did we have to bring him to New York where he could pull such childish tricks? We could have performed the experiment right there in Far Cry, Nebraska.”

Dr. Braun abruptly ceased the pacing he had begun and found a chair. He absently stuck a hand into a coat pocket, pulled out a crumbled piece of paper, stared at it for a moment, as though he had never seen it before, grunted, and returned it to the pocket. He looked at Patricia O’Gara. “We felt that on completely unknown territory he would feel less constrained, don’t you remember? In his home town, his conscience would be more apt to restrict him.”

Something suddenly came to her. She looked at her older companion suspiciously. “That newscast. Was there anything else on it? Don’t look innocent, you know what I mean.”

“Well, there was one item.”

“Out with it,” she demanded.

“The Hotel Belefonte threatens to sue that French movie star, Brigette whatever-her-name is.”

“Brigette Loren,” Patricia said, staring. “What’s that got to do with Donald Crowley?”

The good doctor was embarrassed. “It seems that she came running out of her suite, umah, semi-dressed and screaming that the hotel was haunted.”

“Good heavens,” Patricia said with sudden vision. “That’s one aspect I hadn’t thought of.”

“Evidently Crowley did.”

Patricia O’Gara said definitely, “My point’s been proven. Our average man is a slob. Give him the opportunity to exercise unlimited freedom without danger of consequence and he becomes an undisciplined and dangerous lout.”

Ross Wooley had come in, scowling, just in time to catch most of that. He tossed his hat onto a table and fished in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. “Nuts, Pat,” he said. “In fact, just the opposite’s been proven. Don’s just on a fun binge. Like a kid in a candy shop. He hasn’t done anything serious. Went into a fancy restaurant and ate some expensive food. Sneaked into the hotel room of the world’s most famous sex-symbol and got a closeup look.” He grinned suddenly. “I wish I had thought of that.”

“Ha!” Patricia snorted. “Our engagement is off, you Peeping Tom.”

“Children, children,” Braun chuckled. “I’ll admit, though, I think Ross is correct. Don’s done little we three didn’t when first given the robe of invisibility. We experimented, largely