You Can't Have Them All

Upon entering the hotel room and glancing at its occupant, Doctor Lenardi assumed that hearty, cheerful manner which is characteristic of all physicians once they have abandoned hope. His eyes flicked over the luxurious appointments -- the thick-piled rug, the hearth, the high fidelity phonograph -- and across the towel-wrapped ice bucket, from which extruded a magnum of champagne, and the single guttering candle: then he smiled. He rubbed his hands together, professionally. "Well, now," he said, "and what seems to be the trouble here?"

The man in bed moaned, softly. "Women," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Women," the man repeated, in a faint, almost inaudible whisper.

Doctor Lenardi sighed. He had come out of the rainswept streets like an angry raven, cursing, muttering; yet now he was ashamed. For he could not recall a time in his existence when he had been so instantaneously moved to pity. Why? The patina of weariness, of ineffable exhaustion, perhaps; the absolute incapacity that shone dully from the fellow's eyes ... Poor devil! he thought.

Forgetting entirely the difficulty with his wife, an almost omnipresent burden on his mind these days, forgetting his own unhappy state, he walked briskly to the bed and began to unsnap his bag. "Can you understand me?" he asked gently.

The man nodded.

"Good. Then I want you to tell me this. Are you in any pain? Dizzy? Nauseated?"

"No." The man trembled. "That is, not exactly."

"I see." Doctor Lenardi uncoiled a stethoscope and applied it. He said, "Hmmm," and took from the bag a number of vari-sized articles with which he proceeded to peer, thump, prod, and listen.

Some minutes later he put everything away and sat for a time stroking his nose. Not even in Nairobi, during the plague, had he encountered a human being whose thread with life seemed quite so frayed, whose élan vital and resistance had sunk to such abysmal depths. "Tell me," he said spontaneously, "if you can--how in the world did you manage to get yourself into this wretched condition, Mister-- --"

"Simms," the man said. "Edward Simms." He surrendered to a rather violent shudder, which sent his dressing gown to rippling like a troubled scarlet sea. His face was seamed and wasted; obviously once striking, the features had fallen into a mandarin desiccation. It was an old man's face, sure enough. "Well, you know, that's quite a question; yes. I called room service around seven, I think it was, and that's when the, the weakness came over me. A terrible weakness, in all my bones ..."

Doctor Lenardi glanced at the two empty wine glasses on the coffee table. "Yes. Go on."

"That's all there is. I think that I just sort of blacked out, then. Must have knocked the phone off its hook." The man swallowed: it bobbled the knot of his white silk scarf. "Am I ... all right?" he murmured.

"That," Doctor Lenardi said, making no effort whatever to conceal his astonishment, "is a moot question. There does not appear to be anything the matter with you, in particular-- --"

"Thank Heaven!"

"On the other hand, Mister Simms, I would say -- and the opinion is based upon some twenty-five years of intensive practice -- that you are, in general, the most singularly run-down human I've ever dealt with. There may be nothing wrong with you, but I give you my word that there is nothing right. May I ask your age?"

"Certainly," Edward Simms said. "I am twenty-eight."

"Please be serious."

"Twenty-eight is my exact age, I tell you. Here, look at my driver's license!"

Doctor Lenardi emitted a gust of wind. With difficulty he restrained himself from remarking that the patient looked closer to forty-eight. "Then," he said, "you are tremendously over-worked."

The man called Simms smiled strangely. "Perhaps." He glanced at his watch and made a futile effort to rise. "Doctor," he said, with considerable urgency, "I apologize for having detained you this long. I am perfectly all right now. If you will only give me a slight stimulant, something to get me ticking again, that is, I'll be much obliged."

"My dear chap, what you need is precisely the reverse. A sedative-- --"

"No, no!" Simms was looking at his watch again, and shaking his head. "You don't understand. It's absolutely vital that I get a stimulant. Doctor-- --" His voice grew meaningful, edged with innuendo. "If I were to tell you that I am expecting a young lady, would that change your mind?"

Doctor Lenardi sat down abruptly. He gazed at the thin young man who did not appear to have the strength to pull himself off the bed, and tried to assimilate what he'd heard. He looked at the champagne. At the man's dressing gown ...

"You're joking, Simms."

"Not a bit of it. See here now, I happen to be a man of science, too, and I know perfectly well what I need. I'm willing, if necessary, to buy what I ask. Name your price. Ten dollars? Fifty? A hundred?" Edward Simms reached out and grasped the other's lapels. "Please," he said desperately; there was the fire of delirium in his eyes. The eyes searched for agreement, then hardened. "I'll -- I'll tell you exactly why I need your help in this. Will you listen?"

Doctor Lenardi was about to answer in the negative, but he paused. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this man was familiar. In a peculiar, elusive way, familiar ...

Well, let the fellow rave, let the poor wretch rave on, perhaps it would put him to sleep. "Very well, Mister Simms. But I will have to administer a sedative afterwards in any case."

"No; you'll see." The young man fell back against the pillows like a crumbling tower. "I've kept it to myself so long," he whispered, in a voice already distant; "So terribly long. It's good to be able to tell someone, at last, now that it's almost finished ..."

Doctor Lenardi pulled his chair closer to the bed.

He removed his glasses.

"Go on, Mister Simms. I'm listening."

• • •

Beautiful women (the young man began, in muted tones) are my sickness; I know that now, but I did not always know it. Years ago, when I was terribly young and very naive, when life was hopscotch and marbles and jam sandwiches, and I had no glimpse of the adult world, I realized one thing: that boys and girls were different. And the difference disturbed me, though for what reason I could scarcely guess. I was one thing and girls were another, you see. But what? How were we different, in what way?

I used to wander about, turning the problem over in my mind. And it seemed to make no sense. But then I would catch sight of a particularly striking six-year-old with golden pigtails, and I knew that I must be right.

It was a thorny problem, but one which did not, apparently, concern my friends, or disturb them, so I tried earnestly to dismiss it. But I was not successful in this.

I found that while I went about my boyhood in a normal fashion, playing football and baseball and the like, my mind was ever ready to stray. I would be in the act of executing a forward pass, or bunting for a one base run, when my eyes would fall upon the smiling face of a beautiful girl, and I would be lost, lost.

Of course, later, in the private schools my parents sent me to, I learned that my earlier suspicions had been correct -- there was indeed a difference between boys and girls -- and the vaguely disturbed feeling became one of intense curiosity. But a priori knowledge was insufficient to quell my interest: you cannot appreciate the bouquet of a rare wine if it is forever sealed in the bottle. So I was more than pleased when a young coed named Bobbi indicated a fondness for me. She was an entrancing creature, 34-24-36, as attractive as she was cooperative, and we saw the stars up close. And that, I felt sure, was the end of my obsession. The bottle, so to speak, had been unsealed.

Time passed. I'd buried myself in my hobbies, which were science, mathematics and chemistry--with an occasional belt at electronics--as, I suppose, compensation for my obsessive curiosity: now I returned to them with vigor. All was well.

Then, on a day no different than any other, the terrible trouble began.

I'd set out for the parts house to purchase a coil of light wire, part of a perpetual motion experiment. I was crossing the street, with no other thought in my head, when, utterly without warning, I saw her walking toward me--a tall, slender yet fulsome female, regal as a goddess, with skin the color of white marble and hair the exotic tint of burnished copper; 35-24-36.

The old feeling had returned! I couldn't understand it. I had thought all my problems were solved. With Bobbi's sweet help, that feeling had been routed -- for good, I had thought. But now! ...

I was deeply disturbed. That did not, however, prevent me from acting.

With what amounted to ferocity, I wheeled, overtook the girl, and, before I knew what was happening, made my overtures. They were rebuffed, needless to say, but I persisted, and (to spare you the details) it was not long before Clara and I had got to the hand-holding stage.

I think it was my relative inexperience that charmed her. Like a feminine Virgil, to my Dante, she seemed to take a grim delight in her role of guide, and would often laugh at my enthusiastic but hopelessly amateur stumblings. But whatever her shortcomings in matters of finesse, it must be said of Clara that she was thorough. I had entered the Undiscovered Country a stranger; now, thanks to her, I was a pioneer.

It was an enormously pleasant idyll, satisfactory in every sense.

Bobbi had begun my education, Clara had completed it. Surely now, I felt, I would be rid of the Feeling and could devote myself to other, less earthly, pursuits.

But-- --

Some weeks later, a very odd thing happened. On my way to Clara's apartment, I caught a glimpse of a blonde college girl. She was like the rest of them--young; uniformed in dark skirt and white sweater; approximately 36-24-36--but there was a then indefinable something about her that compelled me to stop in my tracks. The sway of her hips, perhaps: the jaunty bounce of her hair--I didn't know. I knew only that the Feeling was back, and in full force.

I started after her until she'd disappeared from view, then continued to Clara's. All evening I tried to analyze what it was that was wrong. Then, at a horribly ironic moment, I discovered the answer.

Clara was wonderful, she gave me all I could possibly ask and I could not have been fonder of her; yet, I wanted this stranger.

It was a crushing discovery and one which caused no little self-examination.

But I could no longer think of anything but that college girl, I tell you! She permeated my dreams. I saw her everywhere. She would not, absolutely would not leave me.

I am here to tell you that locating her was no easy task. But perseverance pays. I found her eventually at a malt shop, in the company of a dozen football players. Well, Eunice and I began to see a bit of each other, as the phrase goes. I think it was my relative experience that charmed her. We traveled to remote picnic grounds, attended fairs and carnivals, and presently the Feeling, and my sadness at parting with Bobbi and Clara, abated.

Until I saw Carmen, 37-25-36 ...

I spent an entire month and a great deal of my parents' money barraging this one with my attentions, and finally, with great reluctance, she granted me a date. We had no more than stepped out of her house, however, when I saw the flashing ankles of a honey blonde in a tight jersey. It all but drove me out of my mind. I could hardly wait to be done with Carmen and go after the blonde!

And so, I am afraid, it went.

A psychiatrist allayed my fears somewhat -- and I had begun to wonder what the devil was the matter with me, anyway--by reporting that there was nothing really unusual in my case. "It is as if you owned an original painting by Rembrandt," he said. "It is beautiful. You love it. No other painting is more satisfying to you. But -- there are other pictures in the gallery; and, because you are exceptionally sensitive to beauty, you cannot ignore them. You pass a Botticelli and your heart stops. You pause by a Van Gogh. Again the frustration. You see a fine Picasso ..."

Shortly afterwards, my father offered similar diagnosis. "My son," he said, placing an affectionate hand upon my shoulder, "I know what you feel, believe me. And it's a terrible, terrible thing. But there's no way around it. You can't have them all."

Which seemed logical enough. At the time.

I waited for the calm acceptance to come, of course; for that moment when, fully matured, I would realize the patent impossibility of what must be my subconscious ambition and, like other men, content myself with a less rewarding arrangement.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

Except that my condition, if we may refer to it as that, worsened. I was disturbed most of the time now, riddled with nameless hungers at the increasingly frequent sights of beautiful women. And whenever I would hear someone say, joshingly, "Well, remember, Simms boy, just remember now -- you can't have 'em all!" I would find myself bristling.

At last, when I was sure that I could not continue to exist in the midst of such intolerable frustration, I sat down and took stock.

They say you cannot have them all, I thought.

And then I thought: Why not?

It was a beginning. In just such a way, I imagine, are most great advances made. One man asking himself: Why not?

The answer did not come exactly in a flash. I thought about it until my mind was all but paralyzed, and things looked very dark, indeed. In the first place, I ruminated, there were countless thousands -- perhaps millions -- of beautiful women on Earth. And even if I could locate them, what guarantee was there I would be uniformly successful? I was handsome enough then, charming enough, rich enough; but there would always be obstinate cases, there had been before. Also, counting time for courting, wooing, and what not, there would--and this was an important point -- be a new crop before I had even made a dent in the first! Mathematically, it was far from (continued on page 16)You can't have them All(continued from page 12) encouraging.

Then, in the very act of loading the pistol that would disperse my woe, I asked myself the question that was to become, so to speak, the opening wedge.

I asked myself what I meant when I said beautiful woman. What did the term imply? Was it really as indefinable as all that?

I remembered the women who had attracted me and thought about them carefully, seeking a connecting link. There had to be one.

And there was.

You've heard the expression, "She may be pretty, but she's just not my type?"

It was this that gave me my greatest lead. Every man is attracted by a particular type of female; and there should be more-or-less consistent characteristics determining these types.

Things started to look up. This information meant that the field was unquestionably narrower than I'd thought. Three more questions remained, however; and they were not unimportant.

Number One: Exactly how many women of my type existed?

Number Two: Where were they?

Number Three: How could I get at them?

There was, you understand, no available method of answering these questions. But I knew that equally complex problems were being solved in the various universities and laboratories by electronic calculators, and -- call it faith, call it desperation, or sheer naiveté -- I was confident that a machine could be constructed to do the work.

However, such a machine would cost a large fortune, and I had but a small fortune, left to me by my parents, God rest them. So I was thrown upon the resources of my imagination. In time the answer came, though, I am proud to say.

At the local university, there was one of the largest and most modern electronic calculators in existence. It was an incredibly complex device, considerably more advanced than its rather primitive predecessors. It could do everything but dance a hornpipe, I was told, and they were working on that. So, in high fettle, and with respect for the instinct which had early turned me to a study of electronics, I immediately set to the problem of building what we may term an "extension" of the machine. Endless weeks passed, and failure after failure confronted me, but at last all that remained was devising a method of attaching the addition to the main body without calling the attention of officials or guards. It was a knotty business, but a way was found.

By now I knew to the last minute detail what sort of women I wanted -- they had to be no younger than eighteen, no older than forty; they had to possess an intellectual potential; etc. -- and had these specifications broken down in code upon a series of tapes. My extension would be fed these data and would then submit them to the giant calculator (which, in a moment of whimsy, I had decided to call Procurer One).

Upon receiving the information, my machine lit up like a grotesque Christmas tree and began to whine. It was almost frightening, the noises it made; but after a few hours, it quieted and was still and presently a scroll dropped into the tray.

I breathed a silent hallelujah.

Procurer One had ingested my data and had ascertained exactly the geographical and climatical, also the generic, conditions likely to produce the type of women I sought.

It gave the number and the locations.

There were five hundred and sixty-three of them. Mostly they were in America -- which was no handy coincidence, for I knew that however exotic and interesting the foreign product might be, it was seldom more than that. There were exceptions, of course, primarily in Sweden and Britain and France; and a number of surprising contradictions -- a Tahitian, for example, was on the list; a total of four in Rangoon; and so on -- but the bulk lay within the boundaries of my own continent.

You can consider my delight.

I attacked the last phase of the project with something akin to frenzy. Knowing the address of Tiffany's, I realized, did not automatically put a diamond necklace about one's throat. One must be able to afford the necklace, or -- one must be an accomplished thief.

In this connection, I eliminated all of the obvious answers and reduced the matter to one incontrovertible equation: Mutual attraction = Success of the plan. There could be no slip-ups, no depending upon circumstances, and certainly no unrealistic faith in my own charm, however devastating. No: there must be, simply, a straightforward method by which I could be absolutely assured of at least acquiescence to my designs -- a problem, as you can see, chockablock with difficulties.

An aphrodisiac, of course, was what I needed. But in what form? Perfume? Perhaps; but there would be imponderable drawbacks -- an unruly wisp of breeze, for instance, might throw everything off balance. One would have to be sure to "hit the target," as it were, yet if the target happened to be in a mixed crowd ...

I decided at length upon a potion. Potions were once very much the vogue, and a careful survey of Medieval literature convinced me that here was the one sure way; it also convinced me that although we take it for granted that the so-called Love Draught is a mythical and non-existent form of wish fulfillment, it is nothing of the kind. As with stained glass, it is merely an art we had lost.

Reviving the art was not an easy matter, you may be sure, but I believe I mentioned that chemistry was one of my childhood loves. You will therefore not be shocked to learn that, in due time, I evolved sort of an herbal tea -- I shan't become tiresome by going into the exact recipe -- and that this brew sufficed for the purpose. One sip of it, in fact, was quite enough to engender rapport in the stoniest female heart, and two sips -- ah well, enough to say that I was satisfied.

So, I must admit, were the first stray recipients of my experimentation.

But there was still work to be done. To go about it haphazardly would spell doom as surely as if nothing had been accomplished; for there was the unalterable fact that scores of girls would be leaping out of their chrysalises, so to say, and becoming women. As I've pointed out, nothing below the age of eighteen would do for me, but consider the sixteen and seventeen-year-olds all crouched, waiting to spring into the fray!

I therefore made up a schedule.

It was, as one might suspect, fantastically demanding. It granted me an absolute maximum of two days per case. Fortunately, there were certain areas where overlapping and doubling-up were feasible; otherwise I'd have been licked. In any event, it could be done. On paper, at least.

My work was now cut out for me.

I girded my loins, as they say, and began at once, enplaning the following morning for Europe. According to Procurer One, a ravishing brunette by the name of Françoise Simon, 37-25-36, lived on the outskirts of Montauban. She was married, without children, and of a generally sunny temperament. The machine, of course, had not been able to supply all of this information -- I'd had to fall back on a number of private detectives -- but I was certain of my facts. About the husbands, or similar ties, I knew nothing; but it didn't matter, particularly, as my system was sufficiently flexible to allow for contingencies.

I went straight to the village, located the cottage, and, making sure that the phial containing the potion was with me, rapped on the door.

It was opened by a young woman in a peasant blouse and full skirt.

Procurer One had not been whistling Dixie! From her frank Norman features there shone a warmth and honesty and fire that sent excitement flashing through me.

I recovered my aplomb and inquired, in French, the way to the nearest bus stop.

She told me that there were not such things as buses in this vicinity, but would I not step inside to take the chill off?

"Is your husband home?" I asked, noncommittally. She shook her head. I stepped inside.

Françoise blushed and made conversation about the weather but I could see that she was thinking of other things. When she leaned over to light my cigarette, I could almost feel the heat of her blood. "Monsieur," she said -- actually it was "Monsieur l'Americain" -- "would you care for a glass of brandy?" I nodded enthusiastically and, when the drinks were poured, managed to add a drop of my herbal tea to hers -- though it did seem piling Scylla on Charybdis, or however that goes.

Upon the first swallow, Françoise lost (continued on page 26)You can't have them All(continued from page 16) even the vestigial reticence she had displayed and, literally, sprang across the room. I was not quite prepared, but I managed to catch her and soon it was raining clothes.

The whole thing was enormously pleasant. But my schedule did not permit of divertissement. I told her that she was exquisite, said "Merci beaucoup" or something like that and beat a hasty exit. From the way she sobbed and clung to my legs, I knew that I would have to cut down on the quantity of the draughts: even a single drop was entirely too powerful!

I seemed to hear her savage cries of woe all the way to my plane.

I proceeded to Boulogne, and there called upon a delightful creature named Laurette, 38-25-37: it was an equally satisfactory interlude. Laurette lived alone, fortunately, and so it did not require more than an hour, all told. Then I was off again, headed for Paris.

Procurer One had come through magnificently! With the foreign entries out of the way, I returned to America and settled down to a program of activity which, owing to its rigorousness, if not to its nature, would have impressed the most earnest toiler. Implacably I kept to the schedule, and there were not, I'm proud to say, more than a dozen occasions when the allotted time was exceeded. These were due to sudden moves, biological upsets over which no man has dominion, slight difficulties with relatives, and what have you.

Of course, there were problems with the philtre, particularly in the case of Mildred C., a teetotaler, but these were circumvented in divers ways. With Mildred, for example, it was necessary to tamper with the morning milk; whereas with Josie F., the hypochondriac, I was forced to modify the contents of her throat spray. Frequently I was thrown for a loss, but never for very long: nothing deflected me seriously from my course then.

Cutting a swathe through California, an unusually rich vein, I began to work my way across the States. Albuquerque, Boise, Snohomish, Portland, Oklahoma City, Chicago, Wheeling, Detroit -- these were the greatest concentrations, though there were hundreds of tiny outposts, some not even listed on the map, which yielded plenty, too. Tall ones, short ones, dark ones, light ones; the intellectual type with glasses and the innocent farm type; redheads, blondes, brunettes -- they fell like wheat under the scythe. I left a wake of memorable evenings, and shattered reputations. True, some were more diverting than others: howbeit, I rolled on, relentless, dauntless, a veritable juggernaut. No power on Earth could stop me!

After a while, however, I must confess that some of the edge had gone out of the project. Not that I was tiring spiritually, you understand; but one is, after all, flesh and blood. Subsequent to number three hundred and seventy-four, I think there was less spontaneous joy than determination in it for me. To be brutally honest, I was becoming physically fagged of the whole thing -- and I shudder now to think of the times when I came so close to throwing in the towel. Although I was in bed most of the while, I slept but little; and when I passed the four hundred mark, I found that my weight was dropping precipitously. From a robust one-ninety-six, I now weighed in at one hundred and fourteen pounds! My eyes had taken on their present glaze. I felt tired all of the time. Everything began to ache.

But Simmses are not quitters. When they start a thing, they finish it.

I went on.

The days melted into the nights. Each conquest became a supreme effort of will. I traveled like a somnambulist, dumbly carrying out my duties; and by the time the number had been whittled down to less than fifty, I was in the position of having to be constantly fortified with drugs, hormones, and other medications. I cannot describe to you the agonies of spirit and body I endured as the end approached. Logically I ought to have collapsed from overwork then; but, somehow, I was able to forge ahead.

Then, one day, as I lay gasping, I discovered a remarkable thing. I was down to ten. Ten more, and the project would be fait accompli!

Despite my haggard look, and the fact that I was weak to the point of total exhaustion, I gathered together every last trace of my strength, and continued.

Isabella R., 39-23-35, number ten -- Indianapolis -- was shocked by my appearance but overwhelmed by my potion. In less than twenty minutes, she succumbed.

A practical nurse in Dubuque, Dorothy S., 40-25-37, offered to look after me, and in a way she did. A day for her.

Sondra the stenographer, Old Lyme, Conn., 41-24-38, was a pushover.

Then there was Ivy, formerly Miss Improved Ball Bearings and in 1953 voted "The Girl We'd Most Like to Retouch" by the Association of Commercial Photographers -- 42-25-37: a two day job.

Gloria the proper Bostonian, at an astounding 42-1/2-24-34, followed; and the genuinely accomplished stripper Emma Samuelson (known professionally as "Peachy" Kean); and Pearl and Sally and Bertha. Then there was Detroit's Natasha, a fiery, mordant pesudo-intellectual with advanced views and retarded intentions .... Procurer One had shrewdly pierced her frosty exterior and added her to the list. I wasted no time.

But their names are unimportant. Important only that I was able to check them off.

It was at this point -- this crucial, critical point, Doctor -- that an accident occurred. An accident that nearly ruined all my plans.

On my way to this city, where the remaining two women resided, the plane encountered foul weather. The pilot made the announcement: an announcement that was merely annoying to the other passengers, but which struck me with unnameable chagrin. He had been advised, by radio, to ground the plane at a small rural airport and wait for clearer weather ...

Weak though I was, the news wrenched me to my feet, tore a cry of frustration and despair from my throat: "Wait!? I cannot wait! I must be there on schedule! Time ... is of the essence ... my plans ... all my plans ..." But the effort had proved too much for my weakened body. I blacked out, and I was soon to find myself marking time--precious, irrevocable time! -- in a cheerless hotel in a cheerless town the name of which I never bothered to learn. Hours. Priceless hours! Do they seem unimportant to you, Doctor? Yes, they do, I am sure. But, you see -- the nearer I drew to the end of my task, the more critical the time element became! One slip -- such as this -- one delay, and the delicate balance of the whole cycle might well be upset! The seventeen-year-olds would attain maturity, become eligible for my conquest, become part of the symbolic All that was now my raison d'etre, my obsession, my curse ...

Do you understand? If this thing happened -- if that immense armada of girls blossomed into womanhood before I completed my task --I would have to begin all over again! All over again: consider that, Doctor! Look at me, think of my condition, and then consider what that would mean. All over again? A wasted, spent, exhausted man, near death? Impossible! I waited six hours, but the weather did not clear. I asked about trains. There were no trains. And buses: I asked about buses. Yes, there was a bus ... if you could call it that. It seems you took it to the adjacent county, where you transferred to another bus which took you to a place where you got a taxi (if you were lucky) which would transport you to the Greyhound station....

I looked once at the overcast sky, and took the bus. If you could call it that.

And, twenty-eight hours later, shaken to jelly, wracked with pain, held together only by tenacity and vitamin pills, I arrived here to make my last two conquests.

The first, a waitress over on Fifth Street, gasped when I entered the restaurant.

"What will you have, sir?" she asked, obviously uncertain whether to give me a glass of water or call an emergency clinic.

"What have you got?" I joshed, being careful not to chuckle. The drugs kept the pain down, and it hurt -- as the gag goes -- only when I laughed.

She leaned forward to place the silverware, and I felt like a tourist at the base of Mount Rushmore. "Poached eggs," I murmured, and when the meal was finished, I tucked half of a hundred dollar bill underneath my napkin, together with a note reading: "For the other half, (continued on page 32)You can't have them All(continued from page 26) meet me after work." A crude maneuver, perhaps, but generally effective.

We met and had cocktails. Then we went to my hotel. Poor creature, I think it was the first time she'd ever tasted good champagne ...

When she left, I tried to sleep, but I could not sleep. How did Edison feel a few hours before he switched on the first electric light? Or Shakespeare, just before he dashed off Hamlet? I could only taste, again and again, the heady draught of Victory. One more, I kept saying, and the everlasting, long-enduring dream of my life would be realized! I'd be satisfied, for in essence I would have had every beautiful woman -- beautiful, to me -- on the list. All that existed when the list was made.

All.

The next morning I saw that in my excitement I had neglected to bring along the proper drugs, and even the vital hormones -- but it didn't trouble me. I would need no artificial aids now. I therefore showered and shaved and dressed in one of my better-padded suits (so that I would not look quite so resurrected) and checked out.

Then, shaking with anticipation, I registered at a hotel hard by the site of Number Five Hundred and Sixty-three -- this very hotel -- and proceeded to the lady's house. It was a brownstone, very old and mellow-mossy. I opened the wicket gate and went to the heavy oak door and knocked.

It was opened presently by the queen of them all, a truly incredible woman. Short curly black hair, a Mona Lisa smile, blue-green burning eyes: 43-25-36, give or take a quarter-inch. She was clad in a dainty flowered house dress.

"What," she asked, in a throaty contralto, "can I do for you?"

I couldn't help smiling at that. "I represent a new firm, Kool-Kola, Inc.," I said, "and I have here a sample of our product. It is a dietetic soda pop, yet it has all the zest and effervescence of sweet drinks. Won't you try a taste?" I opened the bottle of pop and handed it to her.

"Well," she said, "if you'll leave it here, I'll be glad-- --"

"Please," I interrupted: this time I simply could not wait. "It's necessary for me to make a report, and I have a great many more houses to visit. Just a taste, just to tell me your reaction ..."

She cocked her head to one side, and I was afraid I'd gone too far, then she laughed, shrugged, and put the bottle to her lips. She swallowed.

"Very nice," she said; then all but swooned. I'd put in four drops, to be doubly, or quadruply, safe: at this stage of the game, I could take no chances. There was no longer a margin for error. I had to attain this final one that night -- or fail forever in my task.

I caught her and asked if I might come in. She told me no, this was impossible, as her husband was home and, she went on to explain, he was many years older than she and of a violently jealous nature. "I don't dare think of what he'd do ..."

I said, "Very well, then it's up to you to make the necessary arrangements. I shall be waiting at this address."

She kissed me hard on the mouth, nodded and whispered: "I'll be there, tonight. Somehow. I promise!"

I returned to the hotel and spent the day trembling. At five-thirty I changed into my dressing gown. At seven I called room service for the champagne and candle.

Then I collapsed.

You know the rest ...

• • •

Edward Simms was shaking like a blade of grass in a sirocco. He had spoken slowly and carefully, as if each word were a separate achievement; now he lay back, panting.

"So you see," he said, "why it is important for me to regain my strength. If I am the slightest bit tardy in this matter, everything will be thrown off. A new crop will spring up. And -- you do understand?"

Doctor Lenardi, who had a somewhat dazed expression on his face, said, "Yes," in a voice equally dazed. "Yes, indeed."

"Then you'll do it? Now? At once?"

"Do it?" The elderly man shook his head and seemed to claw his way back to reality. "Mister Simms, you know, I think that from now on you're going to be rid of your troubles. Yes, now, I really think that."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Not at all." Doctor Lenardi's face had become a complacent mask. He got up and went to the telephone and mumbled something into the black mouthpiece. Then he returned and withdrew a hypodermic from the black bag. "Your arm, please."

"Doctor, you do believe me, don't you? I realize it's a pretty incredible story, but it's essential that you understand I'm telling the absolute truth."

"Now, now. Your arm."

Simms lifted his right arm. "This is, I presume," he said weakly, "the stimulant-- --"

The physician grunted. He held the needle so that it hovered directly above the large vein. "As it happens, I had to phone down to the drugstore for what we need, but it'll be here in a jiffy. Meanwhile this will keep you calm. But first, you know, I would appreciate one last piece of information regarding your extraordinary adventure. Call it plain old scientific curiosity ..."

"Yes?"

"This woman you're expecting -- the one who'll, ah, round out the experiment ... Do you recall her name?"

Edward Simms furled his brow and fell into a deep concentration; then he snapped his fingers. "Alice," he said. "Alice Lenardi."

"Ah."

The needle descended.

The young man winced. Then he was quiet for many long minutes. "Doctor-- --"

There was a rap at the door. Doctor Lenardi leaped from his chair, crossed the room and returned with a small package in his hands. "Now, then," he said pleasantly, removing a bottle from the cardboard and pouring a quantity of the bottle's contents into a wine glass, "drink this down."

Edward Simms blinked questioningly and gulped the odd fluid.

Once he'd finished, he said: "When will I begin to feel fit again?"

"Oh, I should say in about two weeks."

Simms' eyes widened. "T-two weeks! But-- --"

"You see," Doctor Lenardi said, chuckling, "I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't sure. When you grow old, that's what happens. You're not sure about things. I was in the living room when you called at our house, heard some of your talk, caught a glimpse of you; didn't think much of it at the time."

Now Simms' eyes threatened to leap from their sockets. The gaunt man struggled to rise from the bed and failed.

"I have, of course, known about you and Alice for a long while -- that's why I made a point of returning home this morning unexpectedly. Eh? Oh, she's clever; always was; but ... so am I." The physician chuckled again. "Thing is, I was only fifty when she married me, and for a while it looked as though it might work out; but now I'm sixty-two and she's barely thirty-five. And like all women in their prime, she's getting restless. Tied to an antique, an 'elderly gentleman'. Longing for strong, young arms -- although I really don't quite see how yours qualify." Doctor Lenardi sighed; then he frowned. "I've known about the recondite meetings, Simms. The trips she made into town -- to do the shopping!--and all the shoddy sneaking ruses by which you both hoped to deceive me!"

"It isn't true!" Edward Simms made a strangulated sound. "You've got it all wrong. I never met your wife before this morning."

"Come, come, I'm not as old as all that. Nor am I naive!"

"But -- Good Lord, do you think for a moment that I'd have told you my story if your suspicions were correct? Would I have-- --"

"Don't, please, take me for a fool, Simms. You got a room near to Alice as you could without actually moving in with us. For reasons I'd rather not dwell on, you collapsed; and, since I am the closest doctor in the neighborhood, they naturally called me. Recognizing me, you thought fast and told me this fantastic tale, doubtless in the hope that I would consider you insane and therefore not liable. A low sort of dodge, boy, and an unsuccessful one."

The young man, who looked older than ever, moaned. His eyelids were coming together. "I swear to you," he whispered, "that every word was the (concluded on page 72)Can't have them All(continued from page 32) truth. It was nothing personal; I'd never even laid eyes on your wife. As far as I was concerned, she was just Number Five Hundred and Sixty-three ..."

Doctor Lenardi smiled. "You're a convincing actor," he said. "Really a remarkable talent -- you should have gone on the stage. I don't, of course, believe you. But never let it be said that Leo Lenardi lacked vision. The injection I administered was a sedative, very powerful; the oral medication, on the other hand-- --"

Edward Simms was by this time a definition of terror, a synonym for fright; he stared out from frog eyes. "The oral medication -- -- " he croaked.

"Well," the older man said, "let's just say that it will keep you 'on the bench' for a couple of weeks. By which time, if there is anything to your story, a number of girls -- a considerable number -- will have celebrated their eighteenth birthdays. And then I suppose you'll have to start all over again. Except, you won't be in any condition for that, will you?"

Doctor Lenardi recognized the quick, tentative, feminine knocking at the door. He snapped his bag and rose.

"You see, Mister Simms," he said, "it's true. You can't have them all!"