The Impossibles

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from the 1963 book publication of the story.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright onthis publication was renewed.

  Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected withoutnote.

  * * * * *

  Since the publication of BRAIN TWISTER (Pyramid Book F-783), Mark(Laurence M. Janifer) Phillips (Randall Philip Garrett) has, or have,undergone several changes. In order to keep the reader posted on thelatest developments regarding this author, or these authors, he, orthey, has, or have, passed on the following details:

  GARRETT is still engaged. He and his charming fiancee plan to run outof excuses during the early Fall of 1994, but this date may be changedat any time by mutual agreement, or the end of the world. He has givenup an interest in river pollution in favor of a new hobby, gradingtype-cleaner. Garrett, who spends an hour each day expanding hisrepertoire, now claims the ability to distinguish year and vineyardfor over one thousand type-cleaners.

  JANIFER is still on the other hand. He has had his eyeglasses cleaned,and is happy to report that he has recently met a woman. The woman,however, seems to have been looking for a man. Janifer's hobbies,humming and blinking, remain constant, but in an effort to add morehealthful activity to his life he has begun training in leaping toconclusions. He states that he can now clear a conclusion of betterthan seven feet, eight and one-half inches from a running start.

  THE IMPOSSIBLES was written in six days. On the seventh day, nothingof any interest whatsoever occurred.

  The Impossibles

  Mark Phillips

  To John J.,

  without whose accident in 1945 this series would not have beenpossible.

  1

  The sidewalk was as soft as a good bed. Malone lay curled on it,thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderfuldream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, abeautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined,with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made theaverage pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white handon his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion andeven adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possiblewhisper of innocence and promise.

  "I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.

  Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Callme Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superblymuscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder andshe wriggled with delight.

  "All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like youbefore. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."

  Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich hisvoice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knewthat it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollarbills.

  But was this a time to think of money?

  No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.She snuggled closer.

  He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end ofthe block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillaccapable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equippedwith fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonicradio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats.It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something evenbetter when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, itwould do.

  He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in underthe wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificentsunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on thedashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty,wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The redCadillac?

  The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realizedthat he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew thatright away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunsethad become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slowregularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.

  The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on itsomehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His headhurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malonewasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure aboutanything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain hewas all there.

  He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had beenreplaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, andsomething had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think ofany questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.

  _What is your name?_

  Kenneth Malone.

  _Where do you live?_

  Washington, D. C.

  _What is your work?_

  I work for the FBI.

  _Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broaddaylight?_

  He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was thered Cadillac.

  And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malonedidn't know about it.

  Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. Hediscovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywoodsunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was severalhours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under aconvenient street lamp.

  He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.

  A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled downfor a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyesclosed.

  He opened the head's eyes once more, and this time he kept them open.For a long time he stared at the post of the street lamp, consideringit, and he finally decided that it looked sturdy enough to support ahundred and sixty-five pounds of FBI man, even with the head added in.He grabbed for the post with both hands and started to pull himselfupright, noticing vaguely that his legs had somehow managed to getunderneath him.

  As soon as he was standing, he wished he'd stayed on the nicehorizontal sidewalk. His head was spinning dizzily, and his mind wasbeing sucked down into the whirlpool. He held on to the post grimlyand tried to stay conscious.

  A long time, possibly two or three seconds, passed. Malone hadn'tmoved at all when the two cops came along.

  One of them was a big man with a brassy voice and a face that lookedas if it had been overbaked in a waffle iron. He came up behind Maloneand tapped him on the shoulder, but Malone barely felt the touch. Thenthe cop bellowed into Malone's ear: "What's the matter, buddy?"

  Malone appreciated the man's sympathy. It was good to know that youhad friends. But he wished, remotely, that the cop and his friend, ashorter and thinner version of the beat patrolman, would go away andleave him in peace. Maybe he could lie down on the sidewalk again andget a couple of hundred years' rest.

  Who could tell? "Mallri," he said.

  "You're all right?" the big cop said. "That's fine. That's great. Sowhy don't you go home and sleep it off?"

  "Sleep?" Malone said. "Home?"

  "Wherever you live, buddy," the big cop said. "Come on. Can't standaround on the sidewalk all night."

  Malone shook his head, and decided at once never to do it again. Hehad some kind
of rare disease, he realized. His brain was loose, andthe inside of his skull was covered with sandpaper. Every time hishead moved, the brain jounced against some of the sandpaper.

  But the policemen thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn'tlet the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the menwould go around telling people that the FBI was always drunk anddisorderly.

  "Not drunk," he said clearly.

  "Sure," the big cop said. "You're fine. Maybe just one too many, huh?"

  "No," Malone said. The effort exhausted him, and he had to catch hisbreath before he could say anything else. But the cops waitedpatiently. At last he said, "Somebody slugged me."

  "Slugged?" the big cop said.

  "Right." Malone remembered just in time not to nod his head.

  "How about a description, buddy?" the big cop said.

  "Didn't see him,"