Caveat Emptor

Brian Herbert and Marie Landis

Shortly before the end of the twentieth century.…

The Toolmaker placed a glass slide under a microscope and examined a tiny object carefully for breaks or leaks. Even with magnification, it seemed no more than a bead, a harmless bit of jewelry that might be added to a necklace or ring. In an odd way its spiked, spheroid shape reminded him of a virus, though he hadn’t intended that result. Still, it was just as deadly as a virulent agent of disease. Perhaps more so.

The old man leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a moment and thought about who its first victim was going to be.

There was always a victim, usually political, sometimes religious. But wasn’t religion just another form of politics? Historically, defamation and murder were as familiar in religious circles as they were in political ones.

During his exceedingly long lifetime, countless eons, Mr. Middlemost had helped numerous clients as they destroyed their fellow men in various ways. Though he felt no ill will toward humanity, death was his business, and he tried to look at his involvement in the same way a doctor might … with total objectivity. He was a pragmatist after all, one who approached problems in a practical manner and tried to see the benefit to all in the actions of his clientele.

His memories were filled with the activities of ancient times, when kings and queens and their unfortunate offspring were skewered by metal spears in the middle of the night, or beheaded with sharp knives in dark forests, or poisoned by disloyal cooks who worked in palace kitchens. He’d designed some of those implements of death himself.

Such methods of mayhem almost ceased when Middlemost took a hand in the development of firearms and atomic weapons. Mammoth wars were fought, and he made them more destructive, more efficient for his purposes. The world was set afire, with millions of lives lost. Though he had helped develop the technology and tactics of war, the Toolmaker was actually startled by the vast destruction of people and property. It had gone well, too well, perhaps, he was beginning to think. He began to rationalize that he was only the creator of the means of destruction, that it was his clients who had actually set these wars in motion.

Peculiar thoughts for him to have, most peculiar.

In fact, as he’d aged and realized that he was not immortal and would surely die this century or the next, he’d begun to mellow. He grew more selective and discreet about his choice of clients and insisted upon meeting them face to face, before he made any decision.

Perhaps it was the beginning of a conscience.

Now, with tweezers he removed the tiny bead from the glass slide and placed it inside a wristwatch. An important client would be picking the unit up shortly.

The Toolmaker sighed with pleasure. Despite his developing concerns, he had to admit that life was good for him, and death furnished him with the money to buy his materials and continue his toolmaking.

O O O

M. Chillingsworth Cartell, the man who had everything, wealth, power, and good looks, set down a heavy canvas bag and rang the Toolmaker’s doorbell. By design, Cartell was shabbily dressed, his face covered with a fake reddish beard. He was camouflaged to hide the person beneath the rags, a tall, lean man with the voice of an angel.

It was an unfortunate arrangement, Cartell thought. A man of his importance, a US Senator who was also running for the Presidency of the United States, shouldn’t have to creep about in the attire of a vagrant. Nevertheless, it was an ignominy he would have to bear. The old Toolmaker had the secret weapon he needed, and insisted upon a personal meeting before releasing it.

So here he was, the eminent M. Cartell in a ridiculous disguise, walking side streets, behaving like a wino so no one would pay attention to him. It was the first time he’d realized that the more wretched one’s appearance or degree of disability, the less other citizens noticed you.

And this house he’d been looking for, this neighborhood, was a disgrace, the depths of degradation. He double-checked the address. It was correct. Then he noticed a corroded metal sign that had fallen on the doorstep. He leaned down and turned it over so that it could be read: Middlemost.

The door creaked open, part way.

Cartell dropped the sign, straightened.

“I didn’t recognize you,” said the Toolmaker as he peered through a narrow crack between the door and the jamb. He opened the door all the way. “Did you have any problem locating me? You’re late.”

“Save your questions and complaints until I get inside,” snapped Cartell. He hefted the bag and stepped into the gloomy hallway that led to the Toolmaker’s living quarters. The hallway held an unpleasant odor, as though some animal had crept beneath the floorboards of the house and died.

“Don’t you ever air this place out?” Cartell asked.

“I’m used to my own aroma,” answered the Toolmaker pleasantly.

“It’s more of a stench!”

“You have a very direct way with words,” said the Toolmaker, without seeming to take offense. “I suppose that explains your popularity with the public. And the reason you have come to see me here, as well. Now tell me, what brings you to my door?”

“I intend to save my country from the Centrists,” said Cartell. “That’s all you need to know.”

“The Moderates?” asked the Toolmaker.

“Moderates! Centrists! Weaklings of the same cloak. They are the people who will bring down our country. Moderate opinions are worthless. Take the issue of war, for example. Centrists are almost Progressive on this issue, and have become hesitant to go to war! Yet, warfare is a fine endeavor which starts up factories, puts people to work, increases productivity and purges excess population. Don’t get me talking about population! Why, just think of all the babies born into families that can’t support them! Centrists have also slipped toward the camp of Progressives on this issue, and want to save the children of deadbeats. I say put the little things out of their misery before they live long enough to become a drain on society. It could be done at birth, in the hospital or home. Have special nurses trained to carry out the edicts.”

The Toolmaker raised a frosty white eyebrow, and his blue eyes glittered like ice crystals. “You have some rather strong opinions, don’t you? I take it that in order to position yourself to win the election and fulfill your objectives, you need to eliminate one of these Centrists?”

“I prefer to think of it as ridding the world of something dangerous,” said Cartell, “like a dangerous virus, keeping it from spreading.”

“Of course.”

“If not for your peculiar demand that I show up in person, I’d have had one of my people get instructions from you as to how to go about uh … eliminating one of those dangerous, wishy-washy Centrists, at least the one who’s running against me. Make this quick. I’m a busy man. Give me coherent instructions on how to operate this so-called wonder killer of yours.”

“You must bear with me,” The Toolmaker said in a relaxed tone, “The passage of time means little to me. I do not rush around and fret over matters of little importance. But I will make an effort on your behalf.” He led the politician inside the house.

They entered a small living room that was stuffed with books, a huge plastic couch and a wooden table and two chairs that appeared to have been ravaged by something with large sharp teeth. The Toolmaker signaled Cartell to seat himself.

“You brought the money?” asked the Toolmaker. He stared at the bag.

“Yes. Two million dollars as you demanded. All in hundred dollar bills.” Cartel threw the great canvas bag on the table. “What does a man like you do with money? You live here like a pig, and you must be a hundred years old.”

“Older than that,” the Toolmaker said and pulled forth the watch. Laying it on a table in front of them, he said, “Just one final adjustment is needed.”

Inserting a tiny cylindrical device into an opening on the side of the watch dial the Toolmaker gave the device an expert spin and said, “There! All done!”

“Good,” Cartell said. “I’m in a hurry.” He reached for the watch.

The Toolmaker withheld it momentarily and said, “Wear this as you would your own timepiece. I call it the Assassinator. It’s a bio-tool that amplifies the electromagnetic thought waves of the wearer. My sweet little unit enhances the bio-electric hate frequencies transmitted by your brain, a process that—”

“I don’t have time for this,” grumbled Cartell. “Just give me the operating instructions.”

“Very well. You’ll be present at political functions with other politicians on numerous occasions during this election season. As usual?”

“Right,” answered Cartell. His expression was wary.

Mr. Middlemost secured the watch to Cartell’s left wrist, asked, “How does that feel?”

“Fine, fine. Now how does it work?”

“All you have to do is—” He narrowed his gaze. “—think sickness for the one whose clock you wish to stop. The watch will program itself and home in on that person like a heat-seeking missile. Each time you see your opponent, reinforce the message. He will sicken and die over a period of days or weeks, depending upon how often you see him.”

“Can you make it work faster?” asked Cartell.

“Do you want to be caught?”

Cartell frowned. “Of course not.”

“Then do it my way. I assure you, my little creation works quite well.”

“Any way to trace it back to me?”

The Toolmaker wrinkled his face into a frown. “Absolutely not.”

“Well you do have an excellent reputation, even if you are a little eccentric,” said Cartell.

“Coin of the realm.”

“Reputation or eccentricity?”

The old man smiled without answering.

Uneasily, Cartell asked, “I don’t have to punch any buttons or say any incantations or anything like that?”

The Toolmaker’s lips turned upward into a wrinkled paper smile, exposing teeth that were flecked with brown. None appeared to be missing and those Cartell could see were as pointed as small daggers.

And the old man said, “Just do as I instruct.”

Hardly able to contain his anticipation, the politician hurried away, his mind filled with the death images of his enemies. His first opportunity would be this evening.

O O O

It was the sort of party that under normal circumstances would be eminently forgettable, with caviar and fancy hors d’oeuvres and ice carvings on the tables. The typical overpriced Washington DC soiree. Mrs. Arial Johnson was the hostess and had invited the usual contingent of mooching sycophants, middle-aged men and women who cooed, oohed and aahed, and nibbled and sipped and agreed with every word the most famous and influential hostess in the city had to say.

Other guests were typical fare as well: US Senators and Congressmen and their wives and mistresses and young staff members, all going through the hackneyed motions, doing what was expected, smiling artificially, selecting their words carefully, knowing what not to mention to certain people or within their hearing range. These were political animals after all, and they understood how to avoid political suicide.

This evening, Cartell had a plan. He’d brought his very secret tool, and his bête noire, Senator Arthur Jardhouse, was present, holding forth in his customary dominant way.

At other parties Cartell might have engaged in repartee with the old windbag, and there had been a number of confrontations between them that had made the newspapers and local television news broadcasts. Jardhouse, a perennial presidential candidate, had the inside track this year. Somehow he had uttered just the right pro-environment statements that were also adequately pro-industry. Jardhouse had followers and contributors who normally might have politically murdered one another, but were now suddenly exchanging endearments. Cartell couldn’t comprehend their chemistry and knew it wouldn’t be good for him if Jardhouse ever got into the Oval Office. It was bad enough that the bastard headed up three key appropriations committees.

“Damned Centrist,” Cartell muttered under his breath.

Yes, he was purportedly doing this for the good of the country and only incidentally for himself. Ha! What a lie! Already, from across the great ballroom of Mrs. Johnson’s mansion, Cartell wished a terrible cancer on Jardhouse. He moved in closer so he could operate the Assassinator at close range, and enjoy the effect more.

To the uninitiated, he thought, this might all sound like black magic or voodoo, sticking pins in a doll. But Cartell knew of the Toolmaker’s unscathed reputation, a man who for a price always provided the customized assassination tool. This wasn’t voodoo at all. The sophisticated device on Cartell’s wrist would send poisonous bile into the thought waves of Jardhouse and from there into the victim’s body. The device undoubtedly had a plausible scientific explanation. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to put it to work, he might have tarried and listened to the Toolmaker’s explanation and asked questions of him.

Well, no time to worry about that.

As he walked across the ballroom toward Jardhouse, Cartell wondered if the watch ever needed adjustments, and if it would keep working after its first assault on someone.

For the huge price he’d paid, he ought to be able to pick off more than one dangerous opponent.

He was only a few feet from the bastard now, his hated opponent. Just out of range of the spittle flying from the mouths of the small audience that surrounded him. They were laughing at one of Jardhouse’s stories about a tryst between a president’s wife and a congressional page.

Die, Cartell thought, staring with all of the intensity he could muster at his adversary. Croak quickly but painfully. The cancers I wish on you will compete to see which can get you first, and after the damage is done they’ll all argue for credit. I’ll start with your mouth … your flapping lips!

Cartell savored the thought of a Centrist thrown off balance by such calamities.

At that moment Jardhouse scratched his upper lip and glanced uneasily at Cartell. “Oh there you are, Millie,” Jardhouse said. He liked to feminize Cartell’s first name, which was actually Millard.

Cartell flushed. Just wait, you bastard!

O O O

On the floor of the US Senate two days later, Senator M. Chillingsworth Cartell sat in his usual place not far from Jardhouse. Before the proceedings began, Cartell gave him his biggest smile and began sending forth bad thoughts immediately.

“My dear fellow,” Jardhouse said, “Have you been ill?”

The smile on Cartell’s face dissolved. “I’m in the best of health!”

“But have you looked in a mirror lately? You ought to see a doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

Jardhouse smiled. “Your skin is bright yellow and appears to be peeling. It might be hepatitis.”

Cartell sent another black directive into Jardhouse’s head, this time for his opponent’s mind to slip into idiocy. Then Cartell excused himself from the chamber, just before the roll call on an important vote. That might cost him some support from his fellow Senators, but he had to find a mirror.

He headed for the men’s room.

The overhead fluorescent lighting in the restroom flickered. One tube was completely out, but when he looked in the mirror he could see that his skin did indeed appear to be yellow. No doubt the lousy lighting made him look this way, and Jardhouse was trying out a new psychological strategy on him. Cartell decided to take a better look at home.

When he reached his apartment he rushed to the bathroom, flipped on bright lights and stared in the mirror at his reflection. He was jaundiced! Yellow tinged with something white that looked like cottage cheese. In addition to this horror, the skin was peeling, as if he had a bad sunburn. It was beginning to hurt too, a lot, so he took a powerful painkiller. Thinking he was coming down with something, he lay down upon his bed.

Soon he fell into a drugged sleep.

Several hours later Cartell arose and took a second look at himself. He recoiled. The cottage cheese rash on his face had widened, and he saw that it was the lumpy under-flesh he was observing! The epidermis of his skin hung in strips from his chin like obscene, ghastly banners.

As he stared at himself in horror in the mirror, a mammoth boil erupted on his upper lip, giving him the appearance of a man with three lips. He swore, using every foul word in his vocabulary. Impulsively he tugged his hair, and great clumps of it fell away from his scalp.

Something was terribly wrong! That tool, that damned watch? Yes! It had to be! Furiously he ripped it from his wrist and hurled it against the wall. Then he picked it up again, dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. “Die!” he screamed as loudly as he could. “Two million bucks for this piece of shit?”

Reflected in the mirror he saw his ears liquefy and drip down the sides of his face.

O O O

Heavily wrapped in a long coat Cartell struggled up the walkway that led to the Toolmaker’s house. He wore a woolen scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face and a knit cap pulled low over his forehead and nose. His eyes, yellow as gold, glittered through the heavy apparel.

He pushed open the Toolmaker’s front door and roared in like a fierce wind. With one gloved hand he removed the broken remains of the watch from his pocket and slammed it on a chair. He yanked off his cap and scarf, revealing the terrible deformities.

The Toolmaker licked his dry lips and asked, calmly, “You want your money back?”

“I want my health back, you son-of-a-bitch! This piece of crap turned against me! I got the diseases, instead of Jardhouse!”

“Uh, oh,” said the Toolmaker, averting his face in revulsion. “Now something nasty is beginning to grow on the end of your nose. It’s quite hideous and seems to be dripping. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Cartell’s voice was hysterical. “Did my opponent get to you first, and pay more than I did?”

Middlemost shook his head, and smiled casually. “Very simple, Mr. Client. You never inquired about my political position and never paid attention to my name.”

“M-Mister Middlemost …” Cartell stammered, weakly. He knew his expression betrayed confusion.

The Toolmaker laughed uproariously and said, “How do you think I’ve lasted so long? We Centrists just keep going and going, rather like good watches, we like to say.”