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That Low

By

THEODORE STURGEON



There was a "psychic" operating on Vince Street. Fowler went to see her. Not that he had any faith in mumbo jumbo: far from it. He had been told that this Mrs. Hallowell worked along strictly logical lines. That's why he went. He liked the sound of that, being what he was. He went to her and asked her about killing himself. She said he couldn't do it. Not "You won't" or "shouldn't". She said, "You can't."
This Fowler was a failure specialist, in the sense that a man is a carburetor specialist or a drainage specialist or a nerve specialist. You don't get to be that kind of specialist without spending a lot of time with carburetors or sewers or nerves. You don't stay nice and objective about it either. You get in it up to the elbows, up to the eyeballs. Fowler was a man who knew all that one man could know about failure. He knew all of the techniques, from the small social failure of letting his language forget what room of the house his mouth was in, through his declaration of war on the clock and the calendar (in all but style he was the latest), to the crowning stupidity of regarding his opinions as right

THAT Low by Theodore Sturgeon, Copyright 1948 by Popular Publications, Inc., (Famous Fantastic Mysteries, October 1948)

purely because they were his opinions. So be had fallen and floundered through life, never following through, jumping when he should have crept, and lying down at sprintingtime. He could have written a book on the subject of failure, except for the fact that if be bad, it might have been a success . . . and be bated failure. Well, you don't have to love your specialty to be a specialist. You just have to live with it.
It was understandable, therefore, that he should be impressed by Mrs. Hallowell's reputation for clarity and logic, for be truly believed that here was a kindred spirit. He brought his large features and his flaccid handshake to her and her office, which were cool. The office was Swedish modem and blond. Mrs. Hallowell was dark-, and said, "Sit down. Your name?"
"Maxwell Fowler."
"Occupation?"
"Engineer."
She glanced up. She had aluminum eyes. "Not a graduate engineer." It was not a question.
"I would of been," said Fowler, "except for a penny-ante political situation in the school. There was a fellow-"
"Yes," she said. "Married?"
"I was. You know, the kind that'll kick a man when he's down. She was a--"
"Now, Mr. Fowler. What was it you wanted here?"
"I hear you can foretell the future."
"I'm not interested in gossip," she said, and it was the only cautionary thing she said in the entire interview. "I know about people, that's all."
He said, "Ever since I could walk and talk, people have been against me. I can whip one or two or sometimes half a

dozen or more, but by and large I'm outnumbered. I'm tired. Sometimes I think I'll check out."
"Are you going to ask me if you should?"
"No. If I will. You see, I think about it all the time. Sometimes I---"
"All right," she said. "As long as you understand that I don't give advice. I just tell about what's going to happen."
"What's going to happen?"
"Give me a check."
"What?"

"Give me a check. No-don't write on it. just give it to me.pp
"But-"

"YOU wouldn't pay me afterward."
"Now look, my word's as good as--" and then he looked into the eyes. He got out his checkbook. She took a pen and wrote on the check.
She gave it back to him and he looked at it and said, "That's foolish."
"You have it, though."
"Yes, I have, but--"
"Sign it then," she said casually, "or go away."
He signed it. "Well?"
She hesitated. There was something-
"Well?" be rapped again. "What'll I do? I'm tired of all this persecution."
"I take it you're asking me what you shall do-not what you should or will do."
"Lawyer's talk, huh."
"Laws," she said. "Yes." She wet her lips. "You shall live a long and unhappy life." Then she put away the check.