B
E N E D I C T ' S 9
a creative
collaboration
. P A R T . O N E .
Ladies and gentlemen... friends...
The
man woke up that morning with a wince, recalling how his old roomie at
Great Lakes used to work out on the big bag in the corner of the gym,
and convinced that a repeat of that drill was currently taking place between
his temples. "Jeez..." he uttered aloud, swung out of bed (and immediately
wished he hadn't), and moved on wobbly legs toward the nearest doorway.
. . . . . A medicine chest with a mirror
front reflected the half-asleep man's disgruntled expression as he entered
his hotel bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear
the pain from his skull; a wavering image of the room was all that registered
for several moments, then things began to swim into focus, and 32-year-old
Howard "Mo" Mosby remembered hazily the little celebration of the night
before. "What a night," he mumbled to himself, and glanced at his watch
out of habit. He took little note of the fact that it was 9:35. He made
a noise that could have been a laugh, then returned to the bed, still
fully clothed, and fell into it face-first.
. . . . . After a few minutes the pain in
his head had subsided to a degree, and at last he was able to think clearly.
Rarely had he gotten as loaded as he had the previous night, but he'd
probably enjoyed himself, and besides, he'd never completed such an unusual
or profitable assignment. It sounded like something out of a cheap detective
novel. Who'd believe he'd have free rein to travel around the country,
tracking down a list of 19 people—all expenses paid, and 200 bucks
a day to boot! It was hardly the kind of thing he'd spent the last two
years doing. Since ending a six-year stint in the Navy, he'd opened a
one-man private investigating agency that kept him glued to a cocktail
lounge stool, often seven nights a week, helping increase the divorce
rate by watching his fellow man cheat on his wife. Then came this guy,
Freeman Benedict, sounding like the mad scientist out of a cheap sci-fi
novel with all his talk of mutations, men who don't sleep, radioactive
rats... It really did sound far-fetched, but the way Benedict treated
money as if it were sawdust had allayed most of Mo's suspicions. He was
almost disappointed he'd completed the case, with all but one of the people
on the list located and brought to Chicago to meet Benedict. It was odd,
though, that even with the case closed and the balance of his fee paid
the day before, Benedict had requested his presence at the meeting. Perhaps
another assignment...
. . . . . It hit him like a sledgehammer.
The meeting! He sprang from his bed with an oath, and a glance at his
watch told him that it was now 9:50. He struggled out of his wrinkled
clothes, cursing himself mentally for forgetting the "10:00 sharp"
meeting in Benedict's suite. Now he'd end up at the meeting late, unshaven,
and with eyes bloodshot, thus ruining any chance of being kept on by Benedict
as an employee. He hastily pulled on a pair of pants as his headache returned
to its full intensity...
* * * * * * * * *
Approximately
ten blocks away, a headache of equal potency pounded within the brain
of Freeman Benedict. Its cause was far different than that of the detective's,
however, since while Mo had spent the previous evening on a drinking spree,
Benedict had been poring over his copious notes and preparing this morning's
presentation. Now, just minutes before 10 am, his entire head and neck
were taut with tension and anxiety over the coming meeting. He crumpled
his most recent outline and tossed it off the desk, adding it to the pile
of paper wads which overflowed the wicker wastebasket. At this point,
playing it by ear seemed the only plausible solution—indeed, the
only one left. He splashed cold water into his face and gave his salt-and-peppery
hair a quick comb with his fingers; then the bell rang at the outer door
of his suite, and the first of his guests had arrived. During the next
ten minutes, Benedict was busied with hasty greetings, puzzled or irritated
looks, and arrangements for room service to send coffee and pastries up
to his room. By seven minutes past the hour, eighteen people crowded the
room, a cross section of ages, professions, and backgrounds. Benedict
surveyed the motley crew as he finished his cheese danish—two men
in the west corner seemed to know each other... that teenage girl couldn't
be more than seventeen... Lord, was that obese character going to start
his fourth roll? His eyes scanned for the detective he'd asked to attend
the meeting, but Mosby was nowhere to be seen. Instinct told him that
Mo was someone he could confide in with his concerns about keeping the
whole affair quiet, which was why Benedict had hired the relatively cheap
detective. Ah, well, perhaps the hunch had been wrong this time...
. . . . . A no-show for Mo. Heh heh. Well,
here goes...
. . . . . He clinked his spoon lightly against
his coffee cup.
. . . . . "Ladies and gentlemen... friends...
please make yourselves comfortable." More inquiring looks were directed
his way as a few people sat in the empty folding chairs; a few smokers
lit up.
. . . . . "It is my purpose to get right
to the point. I realize that most of you consider me an eccentric fool,
a harmless lunatic, or both. What I plan to do during the next several
minutes is to convince you that I am neither, though what I am about to
tell you is bizarre enough to be invented by either." A murmur from the
crowd, a few nudges, a quiet snicker.
. . . . . "Naturally you wonder who else
would give you a mysterious, all-expenses-paid trip to Chicago without
revealing his reasons, yet being so insistent on your coming. I must admit
that my associate, Mr. Mosby, was most persuasive in getting you all here,
and I realize the consternation that many of you feel, but I assure you
that every life in this room depends on what I am about to say."
. . . . . "Well, for Chrissakes, get on with
it then!" A lean, mustachioed man in the back of the room scowled as he
spat out the oath.
. . . . . "Certainly." Benedict nodded calmly.
"Fifteen years ago on this date, every person in this room was present
at a so-called 'Youth Fair' in Dayton, Ohio. The purpose of the fair was,
as you may recall, to bring together and display various projects, examples
of research, and shows of talent done by teenagers. Areas of interest
ran the gamut from economics to science, from agriculture to the arts.
The fair was financed by a foundation which was trying to publicize the
'good side' of that age group. If you remember, those years were fairly
hectic ones for the young people in our country." In his mind's eye, Benedict
saw pictures of his friends and acquaintances marching, vandalizing, demonstrating,
and being carted away by the vanloads. The movement had been squelched,
but the memories of it remained, etched in the minds of those who had
experienced it. Most of those in the room had been in high school then.
. . . . . "However, that is not the only
thing you have in common—on that day, each of you was bitten by a
rat that escaped from my adjoining lab. You were examined, inoculated,
and released by a nearby hospital; it was by a record of these examinations
that I was able to locate you. When questioned about my experiments, I
had explained that I was researching a cure for rabies. The truth was
that my experiments had nothing to do with that disease. I had been doing
radioactive research with the rats, research involving the effect of high-frequency
waves and resonant energy on biological specimens—things few people
understand now, and even fewer then. "Since my source materials were illegally
obtained, however, I contrived the rabies story in order to preserve funding
from a zealous humanitarian. The point, my friends, is that the bite those
'radioactive rats' gave you is changing your lives in ways you never imagined.
I can tell you this with assurance, since I was also bitten and now recognize
the evolution I am undergoing. It is a mutation, ladies and gentlemen.
We are all to become mutants of the human race."
