AT THE POST
By H. L. GOLD
Illustrated by VIDMER
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science FictionOctober 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
When Clocker Locke came into the Blue Ribbon, on 49th Street west ofBroadway, he saw that nobody had told Doc Hawkins about his misfortune.Doc, a pub-crawling, non-practicing general practitioner who wrote adaily medical column for a local tabloid, was celebrating his releasefrom the alcoholic ward, but his guests at the rear table of therestaurant weren't in any mood for celebration.
"What's the matter with you—have you suddenly become immune to liquor?"Clocker heard Doc ask irritably, while Clocker was passing the gemmerchants, who, because they needed natural daylight to do business,were traditionally accorded the tables nearest the windows. "I said thedrinks were on me, didn't I?" Doc insisted. "Now let us have some brightlaughter and sparkling wit, or must we wait until Clocker shows upbefore there is levity in the house?"
Seeing the others glance toward the door, Doc turned and looked atClocker. His mouth fell open silently, for the first time in Clocker'smemory.
"Good Lord!" he said after a moment. "Clocker's become a character!"
Clocker felt embarrassed. He still wasn't used to wearing a businesssuit of subdued gray, and black oxfords, instead of his usual brilliantsports jacket, slacks and two-tone suede shoes; a tie with timid littlefigures, whereas he had formerly been an authority on hand-paintedcravats; and a plain wristwatch in place of his spectacular chronograph.
By all Broadway standards, he knew, Doc was correct—he'd become strangeand eccentric, a character.
"It was Zelda's idea," Clocker explained somberly, sitting down andshaking his head at the waiter who ambled over. "She wanted to make agentleman out of me."
"Wanted to?" Doc repeated, bewildered. "You two kids got married justbefore they took my snakes away. Don't tell me you phhtt already!"
Clocker looked appealingly at the others. They became busy with drinksand paper napkins.
Naturally, Doc Hawkins knew the background: That Clocker was a racehandicapper—publisher, if you could call it that, of a tiny tipsheet—for Doc, in need of drinking money, had often consulted himprofessionally. Also that Clocker had married Zelda, the noted 52ndStreet stripteuse, who had social aspirations. What remained to be toldhad occurred during Doc's inevitably temporary cure.
"Isn't anybody going to tell me?" Doc demanded.
"It was right after you tried to take the warts off a fire hydrant andthey came and got you," said Clocker, "that Zelda started hearingvoices. It got real bad."
"How bad?"
"She's at Glendale Center in an upholstered room. I just came back fromvisiting her."
Doc gulped his entire drink, a positive sign that he was upset, orhappy, or not feeling anything in particular. Now, however, he wasnoticeably upset.
"Did the psychiatrists give you a diagnosis?" he asked.
"I got it memorized. Catatonia. Dementia praecox, what they used tocall, one of the brain vets told me, and he said it's hopeless."
"Rough," said Doc. "Very rough. Th