The Disembodied Man

By Larry Maddock

George remembered riding on the El with the sad girl across from him. Then there was nothing—nothing but blackness, and a voice....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy April 1954 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

This, he thought, is a crazy way to die.

"You're not dying, George. You're just beginning to live."

He started, tried to see her. I didn't say anything!

"Yes you did," she insisted, in that same low voice. "You said, 'This is a crazy way to die.'"

George tried to prop himself up on his elbows—but suddenly he realized that he had no elbows!

"Don't worry, George. Just rest. You'll be all right."

How—where am I?

"Just rest," she repeated, and then she was gone. George thought about her for a long time, before dropping off to sleep.

It was a cold night, and lonely, for George Jameson. He paced the floor of his apartment, back and forth, into the kitchen, into the hall, through the bedroom, back and forth.

"God!" he said, although there was no one there to hear him. "Two years! And where am I?"

Angrily, he reached for his coat. Maybe some fresh air would do him good. He buttoned the coat, fumbled for his overcoat.

Then he walked outdoors.

It was snowing. The clean, white, slippery kind of snow that stays for a while, then quickly turns into Chicago slush. Instinctively, he turned his collar up against the cold, and headed for the El, a sentimental relic of the 20th century just past.

The snow was coming down in big, lazy flakes that caught themselves in the wind and buffeted against his overcoat. Streetlights cast weird shadows across the white. George could hear the faint crunch-crunch his shoes made. Half-turning he looked at his tracks 

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