The Eye of Wilbur Mook Part 2

"I might be," the old man said cagily.

He stared down at Wilbur, and for the first time Wilbur noticed the old man had eyes as black and mysterious as a pool on a dark night. Those eyes regarded Wilbur, noting his size, weight and general construction.

"Bah," the old man snorted. "You won't do. Not timid enough."

"Yes, sir," Wilbur chattered. He started backward down the stairs and almost fell.

"Wait a minute," the creaky voice ordered.

Wilbur halted in mid-step. The black eyes regarded him. A hand tipped by long, curving fingernails stroked the wisp of a beard.

"On the other hand," the old man said, "you might be more timid than you look. Come on in."

Wilbur trailed after him down a long dark hallway that was musty with age. At the end of the hall was an equally musty room, spa.r.s.ely furnished with sagging and broken odds and ends. It was not the furniture which engaged Wilbur's attention, but the other features of the place.

On an ancient stand a sun-dial reposed, and next to it a large and milk-white gla.s.s ball. Near the stand a tripod stood over a sheet of metal on which a small fire blazed, and from the tripod a kettle was suspended. Something bubbled in the kettle, something that gave off a strange and noxious odor.

Around the room jugs were scattered, and as Wilbur caught sight of the labels a chill ran up his back. There were such unusual items as _Essence of Dried Toad_, _Basilisk Oil_, _Chimera's Breath-Distilled_.

"Sit down," A. J. Merlin said suddenly. Wilbur sat down with such abruptness that he almost went through an ancient sofa to the floor.

Merlin's eyes lit up.

"You really are timid," he said.

"Yes, sir," Wilbur agreed hastily. "Do you think you can help me?"

"Depends. It isn't my regular line. I came here looking for a special kind of person. If you're that person you can help me. In return I'll do the same for you. All depends on how cowardly you are."

"I've never been brave about anything in my life," Wilbur said truthfully.

He went on in detail. In a short history of his life he made it clear that he was a complete and abject coward. He was afraid of anything that walked or swam or flew, no matter how small. He was afraid of dark rooms. A dirty look made him tremble.

"Perfect," Merlin breathed. He rubbed his taloned hands together. "Not a shred of courage in you."

"Is that good?" Wilbur gasped.

Merlin smiled, and with his smile his eyebrows slanted more than ever.

His ears were suddenly elongated.

"Ordinarily not," he said. Wilbur had a hunch that this time there would be nothing extraordinary to alter the case.

"I've tried everything," he told Merlin. "I've gone to psychologists, read books, even tried Yoga. Nothing helps."

"Naturally," Merlin said. "I'll tell you why: Everyone is a mixture of traits handed down from his ancestors. Somewhere in every man's ancestry is a brave person. Even if that bravery is hidden, it's still there, and it can be brought out."

"What happened to me?" Wilbur wanted to know.

"You got cheated," Merlin said as though he were immensely pleased. "You got only half the traits, and they were the cowardly ones. That's why you couldn't be cured. There was no bravery in you to be brought out."

"Oh," Wilbur gulped. "I guess I'd better be going." He started to rise.

"Sit down," Merlin said. Wilbur plunked back into the sofa. He watched Merlin walk to the stand and lift the gla.s.s ball. The old man peered into the ball and its color changed to rose, then purple. Something was going on inside it but Wilbur couldn't see what.

"Who's this fellow Pete Bellows?" Merlin wanted to know.

Wilbur was astonished. He hadn't mentioned Pete's name. When he told the old man who Pete was Merlin chuckled.

"Thinks he's quite a man with the ladies, doesn't he? I'll fix him."

Merlin made a pa.s.s over the gla.s.s ball and muttered a few words which Wilbur didn't catch. There was a sudden thump, clearly audible to Wilbur, and Merlin chuckled gleefully.

"What happened?" Wilbur asked.

"The door opened just as he was going by and he walked into the edge of it. He's got a black eye."

"Good-bye," Wilbur said. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end as he moved toward the door of the room.

"Come back here," Merlin commanded. "You want me to make you brave, don't you?"

Wilbur's mind whirled. He had fallen into the hands of this old madman and now he didn't know how to get away. Who knew what might happen to him? He had to think of something.

"What do you charge?" he asked. No matter what Merlin said Wilbur was prepared to say he didn't have that much. In no way was he prepared for Merlin's words.

"Your right eye."

A cold sweat formed on Wilbur Mook's brow. His teeth chattered. Down at his little toe a tremor started and worked its way up along his spine.

The roof of his mouth turned dry as dust and his throat was parched.

"I haven't got it," he choked. Because he had been ready to say that he had said it automatically. Too late he realized it was the wrong answer.

"Don't be a fool," Merlin told him sternly. "Wouldn't you rather be a one-eyed hero than a two-eyed coward?"

"No," Wilbur said.

Merlin glared at him balefully and Wilbur quailed and cringed. What sort of nightmare had he wandered into? He would gladly have given everything he owned to be back in the office. Even Pete Bellows was better than this maniac!

"Could I please go, Mr. Merlin?" Wilbur begged. "I'll be late if I don't. Pete will be sore."

"Tell you what I'll do," Merlin said, in a manner of one offering an added incentive. "You let me have your right eye and I'll see to it that Bellows falls down the stairs and breaks his neck."

He picked up the gla.s.s ball again and Wilbur felt himself grow faint.

Now he was certain that this old man was not only a maniac but a _homicidal_ maniac!

"Wouldn't anything but my right eye do?" he asked plaintively.