Bradbury, Ray - Unterderseaboat Doktor

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Unterderseaboat Doktor

The incredible event occurred during my third visit to Gustav Von Seyfertitz, my foreign

psychoanalyst.

I should have guessed at the strange explosion before it came.

After all, my alienist, truly alien, had the coincidental name, Von Seyfertitz, of the tall, lean,

aquiline, menacing, and therefore beautiful actor who played the high priest in the 1935 film She.

In She, the wondrous villain waved his skeleton fingers, hurled insults, summoned sulfured flames,

destroyed slaves, and knocked the world into earthquakes.

After that, "At Liberty," he could be seen riding the Hollywood Boulevard trolley cars as calm as

a mummy, as quiet as an unwired telephone pole.

Where was I? Ah, yes!

It was my third visit to my psychiatrist. He h~' called that day and cried, "Douglas, you stupid

goddamn son of a bitch, it's time for beddy-bye!

2 Ray Bradbury

Beddy-bye was, of course, his couch of pain and humiliation where I lay writhing in agonies of

assumed Jewish guilt and Northern Baptist stress as he from time to time muttered, "A fruitcake

remark!" or "Dumb!" or "If you ever do that again, I'll kill you!"

As you can see, Gustav Von Seyfertitz was a most unusual mine specialist. Mine? Yes. Our problems

are land mines in our heads. Step on them! Shock-troop therapy, he once called it, searching for

words. "Blitzkrieg?" I offered.

"Ja!" He grinned his shark grin. "That's it!"

Again, this was my third visit to his strange, metallic-looking room with a most odd series of

locks on a roundish door. Suddenly, as I was maundering and treading dark waters, I heard his

spine stiffen behind me. He gasped a great death rattle, sucked air, and blew it out in a yell

that curled and bleached my hair:

"Dive! Dive!"

I dove.

Thinking that the room might be struck by a titanic iceberg, I fell, to scuttle beneath the lion-

claw-footed couch.

"Dive!" cried the old man.

"Dive?" I whispered, and looked up.

To see a submarine periscope, all polished brass, slide up to vanish in the ceiling.

Gustav Von Seyfertitz stood pretending not to notice me, the sweat-oiled leather couch, or the

vanished brass machine. Very calmly, in the fashion of Conrad Veidt in Casablanca, or Erich Von

4 Ray Bradbury

like Jack Nicklaus hits a ball? Bamm. A hand grenade!

That was the sound my Germanic friend's boots

made as he knocked them together in a salute Crrrack!

"Gustav Mannerheim Auschlitz Von Seyfertitz Baron Woldstein, at your service!" He lowered his

voice. "Unterderseaboat-"

I thought he might say "Doktor." But:

"Unterderseaboat Captain!"

I scrambled off the floor.

Another crrrack and-The periscope slid calmly down out of the

ceiling, the most beautiful Freudian cigar I had ever seen.

"No!" I gasped.

"Have I ever lied to you?" "Many times!"

"But' '-he shrugged-' 'little white ones." He stepped to the periscope, slapped two

handles in place, slammed one eye shut, and crammed the other angrily against the view piece,

turning the periscope in a slow roundabout of the room, the couch, and me.

"Fire one," he ordered.

I almost heard the torpedo leave its tube. "Fire two!" he said.

And a second soundless and invisible bomb

motored on its way to infinity. Struck midships, I sank to the couch.

"You, you!" I said mindlessly. "It!" I pointed

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