Theodore Sturgeon - That Low

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That Low

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

(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

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Theodore Sturgeon - That Low

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