One Hundred. Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, Isaac Asimov
time? And I’ve never seen such beautiful pylorospasm!"
"This is my toe?" asked Wheatley, edging toward the doctors. It seemed he had been waiting for a very long time.
"Toe! Oh, no," said the red-headed doctor. "No, that’s the Orthopedic Radiologist’s job. I’m a Gastro-Intestinal man, myself. Upper. Dr. Schultz here is Lower." The red-headed doctor turned back to his consultation with Dr. Schultz. Mr. Wheatley rubbed his toe and waited.
Presently another doctor came by. He looked very grave as he sat down beside Wheatley. "Tell me, Mr. Wheatley, have you had an orthodiagram recently?"
"No."
"An EKG?"
"No."
"Fluoroaortogram?"
"I—don’t think so."
The doctor looked even graver, and walked away, muttering to himself. In a few moments he came back with two more doctors. "—no question in my mind that it’s cardiomegaly," he was saying, "but Haddonfield should know. He’s the best Left Ventricle man in the city. Excellent paper in the AMA Journal last July: ‘The Inadequacies of Modern Orthodiagramatic Techniques in Demonstrating Minimal Left Ventricular Hypertrophy.’ A brilliant study, simply brilliant! Now this patient—" He glanced toward Wheatley, and his voice dropped to a mumble.
Presently two of the men nodded, and one walked over to Wheatley, cautiously, as though afraid he might suddenly vanish. "Now, there’s nothing to be worried about, Mr. Wheatley," he said. "We’re going to have you fixed up in just no time at all. Just a few more studies. Now, if you could see me in Valve Clinic tomorrow afternoon at three—"
Wheatley nodded. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Serious? Oh, no! Dear me, you mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be all right," the doctor said.
"Well—I—that is, my toe is still bothering me some. It’s not nearly as bad, but I wondered if maybe you—"
Dawn broke on the doctor’s face. "Give you something for it? Well now, we aren’t Therapeutic men, you understand. Always best to let the expert handle the problem in his own field." He paused, stroking his chin for a moment. "Tell you what we’ll do. Dr. Epstein is one of the finest Therapeutic men in the city. He could take care of you in a jiffy. We’ll see if we can’t arrange an appointment with him after you’ve seen me tomorrow."
Mr. Wheatley was late to Mitral Valve Clinic the next day because he had gone to Aortic Valve Clinic by mistake, but finally he found the right waiting room. A few hours later he was being thumped, photographed, and listened to. Substances were popped into his right arm, and withdrawn from his left arm as he marveled at the brilliance of modern medical techniques. Before they were finished he had been seen by both the Mitral men and the Aortic men, as well as the Great Arteries man and the Peripheral Capillary Bed man.
The Therapeutic man happened to be in Atlantic City at a convention and the Rheumatologist was on vacation, so Wheatley was sent to Functional Clinic instead. "Always have to rule out these things," the doctors agreed. "Wouldn’t do much good to give you medicine if your trouble isn’t organic, now, would it?" The Psychoneuroticist studied his sex life, while the Psychosociologist examined his social milieu. Then they conferred for a long time.
Three days later he was waiting in the hallway downstairs again. Heads met in a huddle; words and phrases slipped out from time to time as the discussion grew heated.
"—no doubt in my mind that it’s a—"
"But we can’t ignore the endocrine implications, doctor—"
"You’re perfectly right there, of course. Bittenbender at the University might be able to answer the question. No better Pituitary Osmoreceptorologist in the city—"
"—a Tubular Function man should look at those kidneys first. He’s fifty-five, you know."
"—has anyone studied his filtration fraction?"
"—might be a peripheral vascular spasticity factor—"
After a while James Wheatley rose from the bench and slipped out the door, limping slightly as he went.
*
The room was small and dusky, with heavy Turkish drapes obscuring the dark hallway beyond. A suggestion of incense hung in the air.
In due course a gaunt, swarthy man in mustache and turban appeared through the curtains and bowed solemnly. "You come with a problem?" he asked, in a slight accent.
"As a matter of fact, yes," James Wheatley said hesitantly. "You see, I’ve been having a pain in my right little toe..."
Longevity
by Therese Windser
A morality tale—1960 style.
Legend had it, that many thousands of years ago, right after the Great Horror, the whole continent of the west had slowly sunk beneath the West Water, and that once every century it arose during a full moon. Still, Captain Hinrik clung to the hope that the legend would not be borne out by truth. Perhaps the west continent still existed; perhaps, dare he hope, with civilization. The crew of the Semilunis thought him quite mad. After all, hadn’t the east and south continents been completely annihilated from the great sky fires; and wasn’t it said that they had suffered but a fraction of what the west continent had endured?
The Semilunis anchored at the mouth of a great river. The months of fear and doubt were at end. Here, at last, was the west continent. A small party of scouts was sent ashore with many cautions to be alert for luminescent areas which meant certain death for those who remained too long in its vicinity. Armed with bow and arrow, the party made its way slowly up the great river. Nowhere was to be seen the color green, only dull browns and greys. And no sign of life, save for an occasional patch of lichen on a rock.
After several days of rowing, the food and water supply was almost half depleted and still no evidence of either past or present habitation. It was time to turn back, to travel all the weary months across the West Water, the journey all in vain. What a small reward for such an arduous trip ... just proof of the existence of a barren land mass, ugly and useless.
On the second day of the return to the Semilunis, the scouting party decided to stop and investigate a huge opening in the rocky mountainside. How suspiciously regular and even it looked, particularly in comparison to the rest of the countryside which was jagged and chaotic.
They entered the cave apprehensively, torches aflare and weapons in hand. But all was darkness and quiet. Still, the regularity of the cave walls led them on. Some creature, man or otherwise, must have planned and built this ... but to what end? Now the cave divided into three forks. The torches gave only a hint of the immensity of the chambers that lay at the end of each. They selected the center chamber, approaching cautiously, breath caught in awe and excitement. The torches reflected on a dull black surface which was divided into many, many little squares. The sameness of them stretched for uncountable yards in all directions. What were these ungodly looking edifices? The black surface was cold and smooth to the touch and quite regular except for a strange little hole at the bottom of each square and a curious row of pictures along the top.
They would copy these strange pictures. Perhaps back home there would be a scholar who would understand the meaning behind these last remains of the people of the west continent. The leader took out his slate and painstakingly copied:
Safeguard your valuables at
ALLEGHANY MOUNTAIN VAULTS
Box #4544356782
The Ghost of Mohammed Din
by Clark Ashton Smith
"I’ll wager a hundred rupees that you won’t stay there over-night," said Nicholson.
It was late in the afternoon, and we were seated on the veranda of my friend’s bungalow in the Begum suburb at Hyderabad. Our conversation had