The Stone That Never Came Down by John Brunner Page A

and over until I know it by heart. Malcolm, something terribly strange has happened to you, hasn’t it? The way you could tell there were four godheads crossing the street–the way you smelled the mackerel I brought even though it was tightly wrapped and my shopping was in the hallway–what you said just now about smelling the Bovril, too, because when I found the jar the lid was screwed well down …” She shook her head, mystified. “Do you think it’s because of the VC?”
    “I suppose it must be.” Malcolm looked alarmed. “But just a moment; let’s take it in order! You didn’t call a doctor because people from the pub were being interviewed by the police, and according to Billy it’s near to where one of the biggest pushers in London lives. So you realised you would have to tell a doctor about my taking the pill, and–”
    Billy interrupted. “For all we knew, it might be a local name for something extremely illegal. I guess it was my–uh–my New York instincts which made me warn Ruth not to call a doctor. Once I did call one to help a friend of mine who had taken an overdose of hash–just hash, nothing worse, but so much that he was getting a hell of a bum trip off it–and the result was I wished a year in jail on the poor guy. I could see you waking up with a cop at your bedside!”
    “And especially since I’d have been among the last people to see Post before he died …” Malcolm gave a nod. “Yes, it could have been like that. I’m very much obliged. But it was a hell of a risk you were running, wasn’t it?”
    “Not half the risk you took by swallowing that VC cap!” Billy retorted. “Do you really have no idea what it was?”
    Malcolm grinned sheepishly. “No. Absolutely none.”
    “Why the hell did you do it, then?”
    “Because I was so depressed I was half-minded to commit suicide!” Malcolm exclaimed. “I wanted to get drunk, or stoned, or something , Just so that I could forget this miserable world for a few hours.” .
    “Have you been into drugs before at all?”
    “Oh, pot was easier to get when I was in college, so I used to smoke now and then. But I never missed it when it sort of faded from the scene. And of course I used amphetamines a few times, to stay up all night studying, but I found they didn’t help much. And once I tried acid. But it was a half-and-half trip, if you know what I mean–so delicately balanced between good and bad I never felt tempted to try again. And that’s the lot. I mean apart from medical drugs, prescribed for me. Tranquillisers.”
    Ruth said, “Billy, you know a lot about drugs, don’t you? Have you ever heard of anything that could have this sort of effect?”
    “This memory thing, you mean? This heightening of the senses? Never. I mean, not except on a very short-term basis. Malcolm, you said you were getting drunk the other evening because of it. Now, apparently, you still have it. Stronger, weaker, about the same?”
    “Stronger,” Malcolm said positively.
    “Does it feel good or bad?”
    “Neither. Strange. Different. It was frightening at first, but … No, I don’t feel afraid of it any more.”
    “Can you describe what it’s like?”
    Malcolm pondered, supping at his drink. At length he said, “I can give a sort of analogy. Imagine you took a floodlight for the first time into the attic of a house you’ve lived in all your life, where you’ve always imagined there was nothing but useless lumber. And you switch on the lamp, and all of a sudden you realise you’re surrounded by priceless heirlooms–Rembrandts and Goyas and heaven knows what else. Well, that’s a very faint shadow of how I’m feeling right now.”
    “By the sound of it you ought to be overjoyed,” Ruth said. “You don’t look it.”
    “No. And there’s good reason. Because there is lumber up here too, of course.” He tapped his temple. “And stupidity. My God, stupidity with knobs and bells on! How could I ever have been such a fool as to