Hold Onto Your Body! — Story, Setting & Ideas

That was the last time I saw Pasquamine. Except at the funeral, of course. He made a lovely corpse--considering everything.

It was the day following the funeral when there came a gentle tapping at my office door.

"Come in," I said, tossing the half-finished bottle of gin back into the lower drawer.

They didn't bother about opening the door; they just crawled under it. A moment later, they had slithered across the floor, had wiggled their way up to the top on my desk, and had flattened out upon its polished surface in complete pseudopod relaxation. Gyf and Gyl. My two very good friends.

"Sorry, boys," I said, after we had exchanged the usual amenities, "that I had to get rid of your symbiotics in such a messy fashion. But business is business, you know; and I felt that the time was right...."

Gyf shrugged gelatinously. "I was getting tired of occupying Fidwell, anyway," he vibrated. "Regular old pussyfoot. Never had no fun."

Gyl burped resoundingly in the middle. "I hope the next body I get doesn't turn out to be another wine-guzzling, garlic eater." A tremor ran through him. "It upsets me frightfully."

"Time and the rising tide of accidents will tell," I soothed.

"I'm cold," trembled Gyf, "since I ain't got no body to keep me warm."

"You might try my secretary," I offered, playfully. "There's a body for you!"

"You know I can't," he vibrated. "She ain't even dead yet!"

"Nearest thing to it," I commented, "this side of the precinct morgue."

That brought a shake of mirth from Gyl who really has a truly remarkable sense of humor.

Gyf, ignoring the levity, slid over to the little intercom box at one side of the desk, crawled in through one of the slits, curled up, and promptly went to sleep. It seems that Fidwell, along with his other faults, had also been a sufferer of insomnia.

"I suppose," I said to Gyl, conversationally, "you'll be wanting a new body now...."

"Not necessarily. Not right away." He edged away from the blotter my desk fan was blowing in his direction. "Want to wait--" A burp nearly flipped him again. "--until these garlic fumes effervesce more completely from my system."

"It worked out wonderfully well, though," I said, "even though you did have to put up with the garlic for awhile." I brought out the gin bottle from the lower drawer. "It was certainly fortunate that Gyf was on hand to occupy Fidwell just after his wife murdered him." I unstoppered the bottle and raised it to my lips. "To Fidwell, departed partner and erstwhile owner of the Remey Company!"

"And the joke was on Mrs. Fidwell," sparkled Gyl's sense of humor. "Just imagine: seeing her husband up walking around, hale and hearty, just a half hour after she had throttled the life out of him with her own two hands!"

"No wonder she had to be locked up," I chuckled, pouring a few drops of gin on the polished glass near my companion.

"My getting the body of Pasquamine, owner of the floating stock, wasn't so bad either," he reminded me, isolating a drop of gin and flowing around it.

"He nearly crushed me, too, when he tumbled," Gyl reminded. "I'd been following him two weeks, waiting for his fat heart to do a flopperoo."

We both laughed. I took another drink, and Gyl osmosed a nip.

Finally, I leaned across the desk. "Listen, Gyl," I said, coldly serious. "Now that this little deal is over, how would you like to get in on something else? Something really _big_?"

He instantly became all ears. (Naturally, only a pseudopod can do it.)

"After I sell out Remey," I continued, "we'll have ample funds. So-o, if we moved over to Washington, D. C.... If you and Gyf could get in touch with a couple tottering congressmen who are about ready to depart from this vale of tears...."

Gyl caught on immediately. "T. J.," he complimented, "you've _got_ something!"

He fell silent, and I knew he was letting the gin and the thought trickle through him, savoring both from various angles. Then he vibrated, dreamily, "I've always wanted to be a congressman. Or--or a cabinet member. Or--" His vibration dropped to little more than a whisper, "--or a _president_!"

"Sorry," I said, "but I believe he is already possessed."

Gyl flowed around another drop of gin. "Oh, well," he said dismissing the ambition, "guess he doesn't have much to say about things, anyway." Then he brightened. "But there are some mighty fine bureaus and departments there. We could wiggle our way into one of those. A few million dollars here and there wouldn't be missed."