Tom Purdom wishes to teach us a few lessons in phylogenetics: Change is not always for the better. Progress does not always bring joy. These are harsh and iconoclastic rules, but Purdom has the evidence to prove them; he presents it in this story for the strong-stomached-

THE HOLY GRAIL

by Tom Purdom

Morgan Valentine had a wife. She lay on the floor with blood running from her mouth.

“You should see a psycher, Morgan.”

“You talk too much.”

Flesh bruises beautifully, he thought. And, sick with himself, he turned his back on her. All the way home from his coffee house he had watched the women on the street and his hands had sweated and squeezed the handles of his cycle. The sensual delight of revenge.

“Teresa, you tell anybody else I have a second job and I never will get to a psycher. This time you only got what you deserve.”

Her skirt rustled. In his mind he saw her curl against the wall. She was dark-eyed and frail.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He kept his back to her, afraid of the little thrill the sight of her blood would give him. He covered his face with his hands.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this to you. You know I try not to do it to you.”

“I understand. You’d better go to work, Morgan. It’s getting late.”

“You’re so good.”

“Please go, Morgan.”

He threw his poncho over his head. At the door he stopped. “I’ll bring you something home. Is there anything special you’d like?”

“You don’t have to bring me anything.”

“I want to.”

“Then you pick it out yourself.”

He always felt calm after beating her. Soon he would feel guilty but now he didn’t have any emotions. He twisted two dials on the service panel and the elevator door opened. In the basement of the residential tower a selector picked out his cycle and put it in another elevator. When he got to the main door his cycle was waiting for him.

“Good evening,” the door said. “Have a pleasant evening.”

He got on his cycle and pedalled slowly through the Philadelphia streets. He hardly noticed the traffic. He wanted to be someplace where he wasn’t.

I’m halfway there, he thought. In another two years I’ll have enough money saved to bribe a psycher’s assistant. If I don’t lose this job. If I don’t kill somebody first. I’m glad I have Teresa. She’s a saint. If it weren’t for her I would be attacking strange women. She’s kept me out of jail.

He passed Teresa’s favorite coffee house, a big, noisy place that catered to the arty crowd. Teresa still thought she would have been a great painter if she hadn’t married him. He wouldn’t let her spend his money on art lessons. Well, she still wrote poetry and that seemed to satisfy her.

The streets were full of cycles and people in colorful, eccentric clothes. People talking, people running here and there, people driven by deep, powerful forces of which they were aware but which they could not resist.

Would there ever be enough psychers? His case was urgent and yet he couldn’t even get it diagnosed. After he killed someone they might get him a psycher, but he would probably spend twenty years in prison first.

Oh, they graduated two hundred psychers every year. Every young man who liked money wanted to be a psycher. But it was a difficult profession, only a small minority had the latent talent and every cure took years. And there were two hundred million people in the country, every one hungry for psychic wholeness.

Every psycher was the center of a ruthless competition. His services went to those who acquired power. To those who had money and influence.

He cycled through the Carnival section and parked beside the Huxley Heaven. The early evening man looked bored and ready to leave.

“How was your shift?” Morgan asked.

“Dull. A lot of repeaters and casuals. No kills. I wish I had your shift. You’ve got a good two hours.”

“I haven’t been doing too well lately, myself.”

“It’s these Humanists and Aesthetes. And the religious people. Everybody’s down on us.”

“Except the customers. It’s still a good living.”

“I can’t complain. Enjoy yourself, Morgan.”

“Pleasure.”

He stood in the pastel booth. Happiness, the sign above him flickered. Happiness. In the center of the Carnival the giant Pinwheel flamed and soared. Crowds wandered from amusement to amusement while flashing lights and taped voices serenaded their subconscious minds. It was the age of leisure, the era of the four-hour working day. The crowds had come every night for seven years.

He was a plump young man whose glasses made his eyes look metallic. He waited for his victims.

A girl stopped at the booth.

“Pleasure, Morgan.”

“Pleasure, Laura.”

She was small and full bodied and her skin was a lovely chocolate brown. And she lived only for the huxley. She came here three times a week at least. One of his first kills.

She leaned against the booth and stared at the sky.

“It’s a hot night. I’d like the huxley tonight.”

“We have an empty room. It’s still early.”

“I’ve run through my week’s pay.”

“That’s too bad. When’s your next payday?”

“On Thursday. Could you lend me the payment? I’ll pay you back on Thursday.”

He thought. She had to come back again. She couldn’t stay away. And all the salesmen cooperated on debtors, so she couldn’t avoid paying by coming back during someone else’s shift. Except maybe Wilson’s. Wilson had seemed vaguely unfriendly lately.

“I’ll lend it to you for a little interest.”

She wiggled nervously. “You’re married, Morgan.”

He whipped her with his eyes. She had once used expensive perfume but now she smelled of plain soap. The process of destruction had begun. Soon he and the huxley would own her.

“I like variety,” he said. “Every healthy man likes variety.”

“I’ve never done it for money or to get favors. That’s all wrong. I’ve only done it for fun.”

“Don’t you think I’d be fun?”

“Sure. But you understand me. You should do it just for fun.”

He wouldn’t have to hurt her. The act itself would torture her.

“I like you, Laura. I would enjoy you very much.”

“I could give you extra money.”

“I don’t need money. I need a nice healthy girl.”

She stared at the sky.

“Happiness,” he said. “Huxley happiness.”

“Let me use the huxley? It’s been two days. This night makes my skin tingle.”

“I’ll see you by the Pinwheel when I get off work.”

“All right.”

He led her inside and gave her the tranquilizing pill. She put the headset on herself. He twisted the dials on the wall. Her eyes closed. Electric impulses began to play directly on the pleasure centers of her brain. He watched her face relax into a smile. What was she seeing? Visions? Dreams? Or was she just experiencing the pure happiness the advertising promised?

He had never tried the huxley himself. He didn’t dare. If he ever experienced that pure joy, that total release from all conflict, he would probably cease to pursue the vision he had of himself. The temptation had to be resisted. Every night the huxley crouched at his back, a huge, tiger-eating flower baited with the sweetness of joy.

He left the brown plastic room and went back to the booth. A few minutes later a swagger boy leaned on the counter. He was tall and thin and he wore the standard uniform, an old fashioned tweed jacket and baggy slacks.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.”

After two years in the booth, he knew the different types. Some were casuals. They could put on the huxley, enjoy it once and never come back. Others, like Laura, betrayed their deep anxieties and he knew from their first conversation that they would come back until they had no happiness but the huxley. Swagger boys were hard to judge. Sometimes their sleepy, superior manner concealed what he was hunting for; usually they just annoyed him and left.

“Like to try some real living?” Morgan asked.

The swagger boy yawned. “That’s what every salesman says. Really now. I don’t even own a music tape.”

“What do you do with your leisure?”

“Nothing. Nothing is worth doing.”

He decided the boy had picked him out as a handy person to pose for.

“The huxley is even better than a woman,” Morgan said. “Try it and you’ll give up women.”

“I’ve had enough women. I gave them up last year.”

“I know how you feel. Nothing is worth the effort. You’re right. Why not grab some happiness while you hang around and wait to die?”

“My dear fellow, happiness is the pursuit of the vulgar.”

The boy laughed in his face and swaggered off.

Morgan smiled. He had one or two swagger boys on his list of regulars. No matter what you offered them, they declared it inferior. But they were vain. They needed an audience and therefore had to expose themselves to seduction. This one might come back again. Even he might some day grovel at the gates of Huxley’s Heaven.

It was a bad shift. Only two or three regulars showed up and two casuals, a couple on a date. He wanted a kill. Every time he added a regular to the huxley’s books twenty percent of the future take went to him. There had been no obvious potential addicts for three days.

He spotted the girl when she was many yards away. She was a tall, thin brunette. Her clothes were obviously assertive but only emphasized her tired face and nervous eyes. She walked with a little stoop and maneuvered slowly and awkwardly through the crowd.

His hands tensed on the surface of the counter. He smiled. “A pleasant evening.”

“Pleasant evening,” she said.

“I’m Morgan Valentine. Would you like to buy some happiness?”

“I just came here out of curiosity. I’ve never been here before.”

“I see.” He explained what the huxley did and how it worked. He described colorful beauties, excitement, an awakening and transcendence of the self.

“It sounds exciting but dangerous. Has anyone ever been electrocuted?”

He laughed pleasantly. “No, it’s safer than a cycle ride. Did you ever walk through the park on a summer night?”

“Often.”

“It’s as safe and beautiful as that.”

“You talk like a poet. As if you like your job.”

“I do. I come here every night and sell happiness to people. I love my work.”

“I wish I had a job like yours.”

She wanted to talk. His body tensed. Let her run on. A kill! O, Lordy, a kill! Take your time, take your time. She’ll run away afraid if you hurry.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I run a copyer. If I had to work a five hour day I’d go insane.”

“I know. I’m very lucky. Most people don’t have jobs they like. But I go home at night feeling very good when I think of all the people with monotonous jobs I’ve helped make happy.”

All the time he talked his eyes flattered her. He knew the type. She had probably gone from love to love, always hungry for something permanent, always used and then left by her lovers. How old was she? Twenty-nine? Thirty? Young enough to hope for marriage, certainly, but also old enough to be desperate.

“How much does it cost to try it once, Mr. Valentine?”

“Call me Morgan, please. Everyone who comes here does. I’m their friend.” He told her the price, raising it a little so he would have bargaining room.

“It’s pretty expensive. I didn’t think it would cost so much.”

“It’s a complicated device. It’s probably the greatest thing ever invented. When you get done you’ll think anything would be an undercharge. In all the centuries of human life, nobody ever experienced happiness like this.”

“That’s my whole entertainment budget for the week.”

“The memory will last a month.”

He watched her face and her dark, nervous hands.

“Listen, I’ll knock ten per cent off the fee. Just for you. Because I want to make you happy.”

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

“It’s all right. We can afford it.”

She frowned. “I’ll come back later.”

And let Wilson get her? No thanks.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I want to think about it.”

He laughed. “It’s not that big a decision, is it? It’s not like—getting married, say.”

She put her hands underneath her cape. “Is it habit forming?”

“We couldn’t have the booth here if it was. Narcotics are illegal.”

“My last boy friend used to say it was.”

“He probably misunderstood it. Many people misunderstand.”

“He said it was wrong. He used to say people shouldn’t get happiness from machines. That it isn’t real happiness.”

He studied her face. His expression and his tone were very sympathetic. “It didn’t turn out well, did it? Your love, I mean?”

“No. He told me we didn’t seem to be made for each other. He was probably right. I’m so young and ignorant. I’m going to love school now. That’s one reason why I have to watch my money.”

Morgan hated love school. It was for the people with the minor problems, the ills that could be cured without deep psyching. They went there with their mental backaches and when they left they were whole and vital and free to feed and be fed. He hated them because they were lucky.

“I know how you feel. My wife and I just had a big fight.”

“You should go to love school.”

“I tried it once. It didn’t seem to do any good. The only thing that makes my life worthwhile is being able to sell happiness.”

“Do you ever use the huxley yourself?”

“Now and then,” he lied. “You can’t spend all your time giving.”

“I’ve tried being nothing but a giver. It doesn’t work. At love school they’re trying to teach me how to take.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. That’s what the puritans haven’t learned yet. They’re afraid to take what little happiness there is in the world. They always think you have to earn it. As if we don’t all earn it every minute just by being here.”

The girl looked at the sign and then at the door that led to the huxley.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m hesitating. I’m afraid to take. I feel guilty.”

“A lot of people feel that way. Of course, I’m not your psycher so I can’t tell you that’s what’s stopping you.”

He felt what he often felt as a kill neared its climax. If this girl, with her anxieties, tried the huxley, she would never be the person she wanted to be. And he understood that pathetic hunger to be whole and pitied her.

It’s her or me, he thought. It’s her or me. If I didn’t do this to her, someone else would. The weak perish and the strong survive.

“Let’s try it out,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you use the huxley free.”

She stepped back. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

He shook his head. “It’s all right. I can use it free all I want. I’ll let you use it in my place.”

“It’s not that. I mean I was worried about you, I don’t want to take your money, but—” Her voice drained off. She stared at the door. The light flashed happiness, happiness.

“Show them you can be a taker,” he said. “Overcome your fears and inhibitions. They’ll be proud of you at love school.”

“All right. That’s what it is. I’ll show them.”

“Good girl. Come with me. Right through the door here.”

He led her to an empty room and showed her how to use the huxley. She hesitated when he handed her the tranquilizer and then threw it down her throat. He adjusted the headset.

“Sit back,” he said. “Relax.”

He turned to the control panel and twisted the dials. Her eyes closed. Her body went limp. She smiled and then chuckled like a sleeping baby. Morgan laughed, too, a bitter, triumphant laugh.

He stopped laughing and held his head in his hands. Forgive me. Please forgive me. He didn’t know to whom the words were mumbled.

When he got to the booth Wilson was there. It was nearly quitting time.

“I just made a kill,” Morgan said.

Wilson was a tall, long chested man with sad eyes. “Congratulations. You were due for one.”

“Thanks.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes left. I may as well leave.”

“Morgan, I’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

“I’d like to talk to you alone.”

“Will it take long?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“I guess we can leave the booth alone.”

They stepped into their private office. Wilson slowly lit a pipe.

“What’s on your mind?” Morgan said.

“This is a hard thing to say. I’ve thought it over for weeks.”

Morgan began to feel impatient. “What is it?”

“You’re violating the Fair Employment Law. I can prove you have two jobs. If you don’t give me twenty-five percent of your take, I’ll tell the inspector.”

“You snake. How dare you make that accusation!”

“You know it’s true, Morgan. Please don’t fight me. You work as an electrician in the morning. If I turn you in they’ll confiscate your earnings and I’ll get a big chunk as a reward.”

The tiger snarled in his belly.

“I’ll kill you.”

“Morgan, please don’t fight. I hate doing this. I’ve put it off for weeks. But I need the money. I know you need it too and so I’d rather not make you lose this job. Don’t make me turn you in.”

“You mean you’ll make more money sucking out twenty-five percent. You bloodsucker! You informer!”

Wilson’s brow twisted. “Please try to understand me, Morgan.”

“I need every cent I make. I’ve got to get a psycher.”

“You’re torturing me. Will you stop? Don’t you understand? You’re only twenty-five. You’ve got time. I’m thirty-two and I’ve never had a woman. If I don’t get a psycher soon, I never will. Please understand me.”

“I understand you.”

Wilson was a brooding mass of pity. But he had made as many kills as Morgan. To get money for a psycher, even his own pain would not keep Wilson from being ruthless. Morgan understood him all too well.

“You’ve got me under your thumb,” Morgan said.

He took a step forward. Then he charged. Wilson stepped out of the way. Morgan swung and his pudgy fist rammed into stomach muscle. Wilson grunted and hit him in the face. Morgan had rage but Wilson had reach and seemed to have training.

He never got near Wilson. All he saw was a shower of big fists and a face contorted with grief.

When he came to Wilson was gone.

You can’t kill him, his nauseated brain said. Kill him and they’ll send you to prison. Think of Teresa’s soft flesh and Laura’s humiliation. Take it out on them.

He rose to his knees and dragged himself erect. When he opened the door Wilson was alone in the booth.

“I’ll get back at you,” he whispered. “I’ll fix you so you’ll never know the smell of a woman.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “You can give me my first cut tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

He staggered through the crowds to the Pinwheel. How many years would this set him back? The murder lust only needed time. Give it enough time and it would conquer him.

He looked at the clean stars and saw his vision. The bright dream. The Holy Grail. Himself renewed. From sickness and corruption would arise a whole and splendid man. Morgan Valentine, aglow with the diamond brilliance of the cured.