1. The Home-Made Man

Europe is a lot different from Africa and Asia.

For one thing, it's got a lot more Europeans living there. For another, it's got better roads and it's a little more built-up. For a third, having been told by a batch of governments that totally misunderstood my motives that my presence was no longer desired on those first two land masses, I was in some danger of running out of continents while still in the prime of my young manhood.

Therefore, I made up my mind that this time I was going to keep out of trouble and obey all the nuances of the law while seeking to establish my tabernacle and pursue my vocation (which was preaching, no matter what Interpol and some of them other biased institutions said). So when the train that took me out of Asia and all the way through Russia finally came to a stop in Bucharest, I was determined thatthis time I wasn't going to spend my first night on a new continent in the local jail.

Of course, I hadn't really counted on the fact that my Silent Partner was out to test me the way He'd tested Job in times past, and that I'd lose my bankroll in the first twenty minutes of a friendly little game of chance with a pack of Gypsies just outside the railroad station. I was sorely tempted to even the odds by insinuating my own dice into the contest, but they were a swarthy-looking lot who spoke in tongues and carried an awful lot of knives and didn't look like they'd appreciate an effort to bring the laws of statistical probabilities under my more direct control, and so I took my losses like a man and wandered off, looking for some place to hole up for the night.

Well, you'd be surprised how many Romanian hotels wouldn't take an I.O.U. from a man of the cloth, and eventually I wandered out toward the edge of the city, and just after it got dark I found a quiet little park, and figured I'd catch a quick forty or fifty winks there before hitting all the major banking and brokerage houses with a request for donations to my tabernacle.

Well, I was just lying there, snoring kind of gentle-like and minding my own business, when all of a sudden I opened my eyes and looked up and realized that either the stars were moving awful fast across the sky or someone was dragging me along the ground by my feet, and I looked ahead and sure enough this little hunchbacked guy was pulling me across the grass toward a wooden wagon that was attached to an old swaybacked horse.

“Hey!” I said. “What in tarnation is going on here?”

He dropped my feet like they were on fire and turned to look at me.

“You're alive!” he said.

“Of course I'm alive!” I said. “Why kind of country are you running here, anyway? Can't a man take a little nap in a public park without getting hauled off to jail?”

“This isn't a park,” he said. “It's a cemetery.”

“I'm the Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, and if I've busted any laws by camping out here, I'm sure we can work something out.”

“It makes no difference to me,” he answered. “I am Ivor. I serve the Baron Steinmetz.”

“Then if you ain't some kind of night watchman, why were you dragging me off to that there wagon?” I demanded.

“I thought you were dead,” said Ivor.

“The Baron pays you to go around tidying up the cemetery, does he?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” said Ivor. “He sent me here to bring him back a better brain.”

“He ain't pleased with the one he's got?”

Ivor sighed. “It's all very complicated, Doctor Jones.”

“Yeah, it sounds a mite complicated,” I allowed. “I mean, a lot of folks wish they were a little smarter, but this Baron of yours is the first one I ever heard tell of who's actually trying to do something about it.”

“You don't understand, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor. “He doesn't want the brain for himself.”

“He's stealing it for a friend?”

Ivor shook his head. “It's for his work. He has long sought to create a living man. For years he has labored to reanimate dead tissue, putting together spare body parts in the laboratory he has built in the basement of his castle.”

“Seems to me that the standard way of creating new men is cheaper and easier, not to say more fun,” I said.

“He is a brilliant man,” said Ivor. “A great scientist. He is on the verge of a major breakthrough.”

It sounded to me like anyone who wanted to build a man in his basement was more on the verge of a major breakdown, but I just smiled and nodded sagely.

“After more than a decade of trial and error, of experiment after experiment, he had reached the final stage of his work,” continued Ivor. “All he needs now is the proper brain.”

“And he wanted mine?” I said. “Well, I'm flattered, Brother Ivor, but if it's all the same to you, I ain't done using it myself yet.”

“I didn't know you were alive, Doctor Jones,” said Ivor apologetically. “I heard that a major bookseller had died yesterday, and I thought: what a wonderful present that would make for my master—a brain that had spent its entire life immersed in literature. It's his birthday, and the brain would be such a nice surprise for him.”

“Well, it seems to me that if you just stick around long enough, Brother Ivor, they'll bring this here bookman to the cemetery and plant him, and then all you got to do is mark the spot and dig him up at your leisure.”

“It's not that easy,” he said. “They have already arrested me twice for grave-robbing. I can only sneak in here at nights, and by then the day's corpses have already been buried.”

At which point my Silent Partner, who had returned from sabbatical, smote me right betwixt the eyes with another of His great big heavenly revelations.

“That ain't no problem at all, Brother Ivor,” I said.

“It isn't?” he asked.

“For a small retainer, I'd be happy to hang around here til they brung this guy in, and mark the spot where they bury him.”

“Oh, the Baron will be so happy!” said Ivor, clapping his little hands together.

“And for a further consideration, I'll give you a hand digging him up and delivering him to your boss.”

“You have no moral compunctions about digging in hallowed ground?” he asked.

“Who better to dig in it than a man of the cloth?” I said.

“It's a deal, Doctor Jones!” he said excitedly. “I will return every night at midnight until they have brought him here and buried him.”

“Sounds good to me, Brother Ivor,” I said as he took his leave of me, and a couple of minutes later I was sound asleep again.

When I woke up in the morning I took a little stroll around the cemetery and found an apple orchard at the far end of it, which took care of my meals for the rest of the day. I spent the bulk of the morning and afternoon attending maybe half a dozen graveside services, and I was so moved by the sad story of a lovely young milkmaid who died of bloat after drinking her employer's entire wine cellar that I even stepped up and said a few words on her behalf myself.

Then, at about twilight, they lugged in another casket, and I moseyed over to find out the identity of the deceased.

“I don't think anyone knew his real name,” said one of the gravediggers. “His headstone says he's Gustave Book.”

“Where are all the mourners?” I asked.

“He didn't seem to have any friends or family, so we're burying him right now,” was the answer.

“That's kind of tragic, a man devoted to books like poor old Gustave,” I said.

“Well, it's not a profession designed to make you a lot of lasting friends,” said the gravedigger. “A lot of people went broke at old Gustave's place of business.”

I never knew anyone to go broke buying books before, but I figured Gustave must have been a dealer in rare antiquarian stuff and maybe some illuminated manuscripts and the like, and I figured he must have had a very unhappy missus, because with all the money he left her she could at least have bought him a bigger headstone and put his right name on it, but that wasn't none of my business. I just thanked the gravediggers for their information, sat down on a bench and watched ’em plant old Gustave, and then took a little constitutional around the cemetery while waiting for Ivor to show up.

He was there right at midnight, just like he'd promised, with his old swaybacked horse and his wooden cart.

“Did they bury him today, Doctor Jones?” he asked eagerly.

“You're in luck, Brother Ivor,” I said. “He's been resting peaceably for the better part of six hours now.”

“Excellent!” said Ivor. “Where is he?”

I led him over to the grave. “He showed up kind of late, and they barely had time to bury him before dark,” I explained. “Evidently they aim to plant the headstone tomorrow.”

“Let's get busy,” said Ivor, tossing me a shovel.

“What'sthis for?” I asked.

“You're going to help me dig, aren't you?”

“Well, actually, I had in mind something more in the line of offering you encouragement and giving the Baron the benefit of my sage advice and worldly experience,” I said.

“Ten extra American dollars,” said Ivor.

“Fifty,” I said.

“Fifteen,” he countered.

“Tell you what,” I said. “We'll split the difference. Make it an even forty and it's a deal.”

Well, we haggled for another five minutes, and I finally agreed to apprentice at the graverobbing trade for $34.29. It took us the better part of two hours to dig down to old Gustave, and then we found that we weren't strong enough to pull his casket out of the hole, so we unlatched it and I kind of climbed in with him and handed him up to Ivor, who dragged him by the feet over to the cart and loaded him up. Then we spent another hour putting all the dirt back and patting it down nice and neat, and finally we climbed into the cart and the old horse started trotting along the empty streets.

“He sure looks calm and peaceful, lying there staring up at the moon like he is,” I said, turning in my seat to get my first real good look at Gustave.

“I wonder what he died of,” said Ivor. “I hope it wasn't anything catching.”

I opened Gustave's formal jacket and took a quick peek. “Looks like he was shot to death,” I said.

“It sounds painful,” said Ivor with a shudder.

“I don't believe he felt the last twenty or thirty bullets at all,” I said, buttoning his coat back up.

“Why would anyone want to kill a bookseller?” mused Ivor.

“Beats the hell out of me, Brother Ivor,” I admitted. “I know you Europeans are degenerate and sadly lacking in Christian virtues, but that seems an awfully stern punishment for overcharging.”

Well, he didn't say nothing to that, and we rode in silence for about half an hour, til we left the city limits and got out into the suburbs, and pretty soon we came to a rocky hill, and there on top of it was this huge castle.

“The Baron will be so happy to meet you!” said Ivor. “I told him how you had agreed to help us.”

“I'm always happy to help advance the cause of science,” I said modestly.

“Tonight we will witness the culmination of his life's work,” continued Ivor. He leaned over and added confidentially. “He is delighted that you are a man of the cloth. He wants you to baptize his creation.”

“Well, a critter what's made of twenty or thirty other men ain't the easiest thing in the world to baptize,” I said. “I figure we'll have to baptize each part separately, at maybe five dollars a shot, just to be on the safe side. Can't have his left elbow doing evil things when the rest of him is trying to serve the Lord, if you see what I mean.”

“Money is no object to the Baron,” answered Ivor.

“You don't say?” I replied. “I don't suppose he wants his castle blessed too, just to cover all the bases?”

“You'll have to speak to him about it,” said Ivor, as the horse starting climbing a little path in the hill. “We're almost there.”

We reached a huge wrought-iron gate and Ivor got out and rang a bell, and a moment later the gate opened inward just long enough to let us through, and then slammed shut behind us. Ivor guided the horse up to the huge front door, and then we stopped and climbed down off the wagon, and the door opened, and out stepped this real skinny guy with wide staring eyes. He was wearing some kind of a laboratory coat, and he was smoking a Turkish cigarette that was stuck in a long gold holder.

He walked over to the back of the wagon and looked at Gustave.

“Excellent, excellent,” he murmured. “You have done well this night, Ivor.” Then he turned to me. “You are Doctor Jones?”

“The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones, at your service,” I said.

“I am Baron Steinmetz,” he said. “Ivor has told me how you have aided my cause. I wish to thank you.”

“Well, I had in mind something just a tad more substantial than a handshake,” I said.

“I quite understand, and you will not find me ungrateful, Doctor Jones. But first let us bring the body inside and prepare for the final transformation.”

The three of us lifted old Gustave out of the wagon and carried him into the castle, which was huge and cold and kind of damp and made of stone and lit by candles.

“This way,” said the Baron, heading off for a staircase that led down to the basement. We almost lost Gustave a couple of times as the stairs kept curving around corners, but finally we made it to the next level, and found ourselves in a big laboratory, filled with all kinds of gizmos that didn't make no sense to me but were humming and glowing to beat the band.

We laid Gustave on a wood table and then the Baron took me by the arm and led me over to another table, which was covered with a big blanket. He reached down and pulled the blanket off, revealing a huge body lying there. Parts of it didn't seem to quite fit, and there were stitches and electrodes everywhere, and the top of its skull was missing.

“Well, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “What do you think?”

“You wouldn't happen to have something in a blonde of the female persuasion, would you?” I said. “Maybe a size 8?”

“All in good time,” he said. “One day I shall turn out beauty queens galore, but first we must complete the prototype. He lacks only a brain to be a completely functioning human being.”

“That ain't never stopped certain select politicians and constabularies I've known,” I offered.

“This one will be a worthy representative, I assure you,” said the Baron. He turned to Ivor. “Ifyou got the right brain this time.”

“Thistime?” I asked.

“I don't know how it keeps happening, but the first four brains he obtained were abnormal.”

“Just poor luck,” said Ivor.

“It not only held back my moment of triumph, but it played hell with my fire insurance premiums.”

“How can an abnormal brain effect your fire insurance?” I asked.

“The locals keep trying to burn the castle down,” answered the Baron. “They simply cannot comprehend the importance of my work.” He paused. “Of course, I can see their side of it, too. Number Threedid kill seventeen of them and tear down the local church, right after Number Two destroyed the school.”

“Don't forget Number One,” said Ivor.

“He simply lacked empirical knowledge,” said the Baron. “I mean, how washe to know that all those people couldn't survive after he threw them off the belltower? He himself was incapable of feeling pain.”

“I almost hate to ask,” I said, “but what happened to Number Four.”

“I don't care to discuss it,” said the Baron, and walked over to begin work removing Gustave's brain.

“He's kind of sensitive about Number Four,” whispered Ivor.

“How come?” I asked.

“It ran off with his wife,” said Ivor. “Last postcard we got from them, they were living it up on the Riviera.” He paused. “But this time will be different. This time we've got the brain of a man who spent his whole life with books, who even took literature itself as part of his name.”

“Done!” announced the Baron after another couple of minutes. “Now we simply transfer the brain to my creation, attach all the ganglia and synapses, and it is accomplished.”

“What do you plan to call this critter?” I asked, as he placed the brain in a metal pan and carried it over.

“I really hadn't considered that,” said the Baron. “I just assumed we'd call him The Monster, just like the other four.”

“Ain't that likely to upset his delicate bookish feelings?” I said.

“You're quite right, Doctor Jones,” said the Baron. “Ivor, what shall we call him?”

“Creature Number Five?” suggested Ivor.

“Why not just call him Gustave?” I said. “After all, that's the name he's responded to all his life.”

“Gustave?” repeated the Baron distastefully. “What a dreadful name!”

“What's wrong with it?” I asked.

“I've only known one Gustave in my life, and if I never see him again, it will be too soon.”

“Why not wait til you bring him back to life and ask him what he wants to be called?” said Ivor.

“A capital suggestion!” said the Baron. He turned to me. “I'll be at least half an hour transplanting and connecting the brain, Doctor Jones.”

“That long, huh?”

“Well, itis delicate surgery,” he said. “Why don't you freshen up and have Ivor get you some food in the meantime?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Ivor, where's the kitchen?”

“Right above us,” said Ivor. “I hope you like apples.”

“Why?”

“The Baron is a vegetarian. That's all we have in the house.”

“Maybe I'll just settle for a quick shave and shower,” I said.

“Well, that poses another problem,” said Ivor apologetically. “This is anold castle. We don't have any running water.”

“Perhaps none of that will be necessary,” said the Baron, working away at the top of the monster's head. “If I just takethis shortcut, and bypass these two synapses ... Yes! It's done!”

“You got him all hooked up that fast?” I said.

“Well, he'll be tone-deaf, and I rather suspect he won't be able to play rugby, but except for that, he should function just perfectly.”

“I hope so,” said Ivor. “Remember Number Three? He kept smelling colors and stuffing candy bars into his ear.”

“We learn from our mistakes,” said the Baron, starting to connect a bunch of wires to all these metal bits and pieces that were sticking out of the monster. “That is how we avoid making them again and again.”

Well, I couldn't see that a batch of brand-new mistakes in a ten-foot-tall monster was all that preferable to the same old ones, but it wasn't none of my business, so I just kept quiet and watched while the Baron finished wiring his creation.

“All is in readiness,” he said after another minute or two, and walked to a big metal switch on the wall. “Ivor, Doctor Jones—stand back please.”

He didn't have to ask me twice, and I backed up against the wall, which had a damp and chilly feel to it, and then he pulled the switch and every gizmo in the place started buzzing and whistling, and just about the time I was sure he was gonna blow every fuse in the castle he pushed the switch back to its starting position.

All three of us walked over to the table, and son of a gun if the monster wasn't breathing. The Baron disconnected all the wires and pulled out a stethoscope and listened to its heart for a while, and the critter's eyelids kind of fluttered a bit and suddenly I was staring into its wide, wondering eyes, one brown and one blue.

“Where am I?” asked the monster.

“You're perfectly safe,” said the Baron. “You are the late Gustave Book, and I am the Baron Theodore von Steinmetz. I have re-animated you here in the lower recesses of my castle.”

“I'm not Gustave Book,” said the monster. “I'm Gustavethe Book.” It paused while the Baron suddenly turned white as a sheet. “Steinmetz, Steinmetz ... “ it muttered, and suddenly it sat up. “Steinmetz, you owe me three hundred pounds sterling!”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Ivor.

“Nobody welches out on a bet with Gustave the Book,” said the monster. “Let's have it.”

Suddenly the Baron turned to Ivor and started hitting him on the top of his head.

“Idiot!” he screamed. “Fool! I ask for a dealer in literature, and you bring me the local bookmaker! Ithought he looked familiar!”

“You,” said Gustave to me. “Tell me what the hell is going on around here! Why is my voice different? Why does everyone look so small? Since when does my left hand have six fingers? What has happened to me?”

“You were dead, and the Baron brung you back to life,” I said.

“Well, a form of pseudo-life, anyway,” corrected the Baron.

“I don't believe it.”

“Maybe we could all sing you a rousing chorus or two of ‘Happy Birthday', to kind of put you in the mood,” I said.

“Just a minute,” said Gustave. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “The last thing I remember was seeing a car go by, and then a tommy-gun was pumping bullets into me, and then everything went blank. How come I'm not dead and buried?”

“Well, actually you were,” I said. “Until we unburied you a couple of hours ago. In fact,” I added, “there's probably them what would say you still are.”

“Buried?”

“Dead,” I said.

“I'm going to need some time to consider all this,” said Gustave.

“You have all of eternity,” said the Baron. “Being dead already, it is impossible for you to age.”

“Don't bet on it,” muttered Gustave. “I think I've aged thirty years in the past three minutes.”

“I must write this up in my journal,” said the Baron. “Ivor, you and Doctor Jones stay with him, and don't let him get excited.”

He left the laboratory, and Gustave turned back to me.

“Do I look as terrible as I think I look?” he asked.

“Well, that all depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On what you think you look like.”

“Like the ugliest living thing on the face of the earth,” he said.

“Worse,” I answered.

“Well, I suppose I haven't got too much to complain about,” he said at last. “I could be back in that grave you dug me out of.”

“That's the spirit, Brother Gustave,” I said. “Look on the bright side. The ladies may not beat a path to your door, but at least you ain't still pushing up daisies.”

“But what am I to do with myself?” he asked.

“Seems to me like you're in prime shape to become a professional rassler,” I said.

“He could be a weightlifter or a basketball player,” suggested Ivor.

“Right,” I said. “You been looking at this through jaundiced eyes, Brother Gustave. There's no end of things you can do when you're ten feet tall and weigh six hundred pounds.”

He shook his head. “I can't let anyone see me looking like this.”

“Actually,” said Ivor, “I believe that the Baron plans to put you on exhibition.”

“I'm not going to play the freak just to satisfy his ego,” answered Gustave. “I'll kill myself first.”

“It's too late for that,” said Ivor sympathetically. “You're already dead.”

“Right,” he said. “I keep forgetting.” He paused. “On the other hand, if I'm already dead, he can't threaten or force me to do anything.”

“Mighty few people of your particular physical attributes get forced to do anything they don't want to do,” I agreed.

“Why did he use so many spare parts?” asked Gustave. “Doesn't he realize how much a new wardrobe will cost me?”

“I don't think that was among his primary concerns,” said Ivor.

“I might have guessed as much from a man who won't pay off his gambling debts,” muttered Gustave. “He walks into my establishment, loses three hundred pounds playing poker, writes an I.O.U., and then refuses to honor it.”

“There was a reason for that,” said a voice from behind us, and we all turned to see that the Baron had reentered the laboratory.

“Let's hear it,” said Gustave. “I could use a good laugh after the day I've had.”

“The game was rigged.”

“I've never run a rigged game in my life!” said Gustave.

“Do you know the odds on someone beating me in a five-man game with the hand I held?” said the Baron.

“Yeah,” said Gustave. “32,457 to one.”

“How did you know that?” asked the Baron.

“Numbers are my business.”

“Really? I'm terrible with them myself.”

“I can tell,” said Gustave, holding his arms out in front of him. One was a good six inches longer than the other.

“Quick,” said the Baron. “How much is 358 times 409?”

“146,422,” said Gustave.

“How are you at calculus?” asked the Baron.

“I've done my fair share of it in school.”

“Have you studied any other higher mathematics?”

“Oh, not really,” said Gustave modestly. “I helped Einstein a bit when he passed through here. And Shwarzchild wanted to call it the Gustave Radius, but I told him that he had done most of the initial work and it should really be the Shwarzchild Radius.” He sighed. “I never could help Schroedinger understand those damned cats, though.”

“My God, man!” said the Baron, his eyes wide. “Why have you been hiding in a bookie joint?”

“I haven't been hiding,” answered Gustave. “it's just deadbeats like you who can't find me.”

“But why aren't you a scientist?”

“I had to loan Albert rent money last month,” said Gustave. “Does that answer your question?”

“But think of the inestimable service you could be to humanity!” said the Baron.

“That didn't interest me even when I was human,” said Gustave. “So why should I care now?”

“Don't you understand?” said the Baron. “I want you to work with me! I'll make you a full partner!”

“You mean you'll give me half of a run-down castle?” said Gustave. “Don't make me laugh.”

“What do you want to come to work with me?”

“First,” said Gustave, “I want to start my business up again. We'll run it out of Castle Steinmetz.”

“What else?”

“I want my three hundred pounds.”

“Done.”

“One more thing,” said Gustave. “The next thing we work on is a wife for me.”

“Certainly,” said the Baron. “With your input, I should be able to create an exact replica of Mary Pickford.”

“I'll settle for Mabel Normand,” said Gustave.

“Here,” said the Baron. “Go over my notes while I get your money.”

He tossed a stack of papers onto the table next to Gustave and raced from the room. Gustave started going over them, making little corrections here and there and muttering to himself. The Baron returned a minute later and handed him three hundred pounds.

“Well?” said the Baron eagerly. “What do you think?”

“We have a lot of work to do,” said Gustave.

“Oh?”

Gustave pointed to a line on the paper. “Either 5 times 7 equals 38, or Mary Pickford is going to have feathers.”

“But if you change this notationhere ,” said the Baron, pointing to another of Gustave's scribblings, “she not only won't have feathers, she'll be bald as an egg.”

“It's only fitting,” said Gustave, “sincethis equation will eliminate her arms and legs.”

Ivor kind of signaled to me, and I walked over to him.

“I know better than to interrupt the master when he's like this,” he said, “so I will pay you what we owe you.” He slipped me a wad of bills. “Thank you for your help, Doctor Jones.”

“Any time, Brother Ivor,” I said, counting the money and then putting it away in my pocket.

“Will you be staying in Bucharest?” he asked.

“No, I don't think so,” I said. “From what I can see, the Baron's got the god biz pretty well under control without no help from me, so I'd best be off to seek fame and fortune elsewhere.”

I followed him to the stairs, and was just starting to climb up out of the laboratory when I heard the Baron say, “So what'swrong with giving her three of them?”

And then Gustave paused for a moment and said, “Not a damned thing, now that I come to think of it.”

I left the two of them plotting out the shape of things to come, and that was the last I ever saw of Baron Steinmetz and his home-made man ... but I guess they got along pretty well together, because I did hear a couple of years later of a Romanian burlesque dancer who had three of what most women generally settle for two of.