“I’m not going to hurt you,” the Grabber said. “I’m just going to eat you.”
He walked up to Gregor. Gregor held his ground, smiling, although he wished the Grabber didn’t appear so solid and undreamlike. The Grabber leaned over and bit his arm experimentally.
He jumped back and looked at his arm. There were toothmarks on it. Blood was oozing out—real blood—his blood.
The colonists had been bitten, gashed, torn and ripped.
At that moment, Gregor remembered an exhibition of hypnotism he had once seen. The hypnotist had told the subject he was putting a lighted cigarette on his arm. Then he had touched the spot with a pencil.
Within seconds, an angry red blister had appeared on the subject’s arm, because he believed he had been burned. If your subconscious thinks you’re dead, you’re dead. If it orders the stigmata of toothmarks, they are there.
He didn’t believe in the Grabber.
But his subconscious did. Gregor tried to run for the door. The Grabber cut him off. It seized him in its claws and bent to reach his neck.
The magic word! What was it? Gregor shouted, “Alphoisto?”
“Wrong word,” said the Grabber. “Please don’t squirm.”
“Regnastikio!”
“Nope. Stop wriggling and it’ll be over before you—”
“Vooishpellhappilo!”
The Grabber let out a scream of pain and released him. It bounded high into the air and vanished.
GREGOR collapsed into a chair, That had been close. Too close. It would be a particularly stupid way to die—rent by his own death-desiring subconscious, slashed by his own imagination, killed by his own conviction. It was fortunate he had remembered the word. Now if Arnold would only hurry . . .
He heard a low chuckle of amusement.
It came from the blackness of a half-opened closet door, touching off an almost forgotten memory. He was nine years old again, and the Shadower—his Shadower—was a strange, thin, grisly creature who hid in doorways, slept under beds and attacked only in the dark.
“Turn out the lights,” the Shadower said.
“Not a chance,” Gregor retorted, drawing his blaster. As long as the lights were on, he was safe.
“You’d better turn them off.”
“No!”
“Very well. Egan, Megan, Degan!”
Three little creatures scampered into the room. They raced to the nearest light bulb, flung themselves on it and began to gulp hungrily.
The room was growing darker.
Gregor blasted at them each time they approached a light. Glass shattered, but the nimble creatures darted out of the way.
And then Gregor realized what he had done. The creatures couldn’t actually eat light. Imagination can’t make any impression oh inanimate matter. He had imagined that the room was growing dark and—
He had shot out his light bulbs! His own destructive subconscious had tricked him.
Now the Shadower stepped out. Leaping from shadow to shadow; he came toward Gregor.
The blaster had no effect. Gregor tried frantically to think of the magic word—and terrifiedly remembered that no magic word banished the Shadower.
He backed away, the Shadower advancing, until he was stopped by a packing case. The Shadower towered over him and Gregor shrank to the floor and closed his eyes.
His hand came in contact with something cold. He was leaning against the packing case of toys for the settlers’ children. And he was holding a water pistol.
Gregor brandished it. The Shadower backed away, eying the weapon with apprehension.
Quickly, Gregor ran to the tap and filled the pistol. He directed a deadly stream of water into the creature.
The Shadower howled in agony and vanished.
Gregor smiled tightly and slipped the empty gun into his belt.
A water pistol was the right weapon to use against an imaginary monster.
IT was nearly dawn when the ship landed and Arnold stepped out. Without wasting any time, he set up his tests. By midday, it was done and the element definitely established as Longstead 42. He and Gregor packed up immediately and blasted off.
Once they were in space, Gregor told his partner everything that had happened.
“Pretty rough,” said Arnold softly, but with deep feeling.
Gregor could smile with modest heroism, now that he was safely off Ghost V. “Could have been worse,” he said.
“How?”
“Suppose Jimmy Flynn were here. There was a kid who could really dream up monsters. Remember the Grumbler?”
“All I remember is the nightmares it gave me,” Arnold said.
They were on their way home. Arnold jotted down some notes for an article entitled “The Death Instinct on Ghost V: An Examination of Subconscious Stimulation, Hysteria, and Mass Hallucination in Producing Physical Stigmata.” Then he went to the control room to set the autopilot.
Gregor threw himself on a couch, determined to get his first decent night’s sleep since landing on Ghost V. He had barely dozed off when Arnold hurried in, his face pasty with terror.
“I think there’s something in the control room,” he said.
Gregor sat up. “There can’t be. We’re off the—”
There was a low growl from the control room.
“Oh, my God!” Arnold gasped. He concentrated furiously for a few seconds. “I know. I left the airlocks open when I landed. We’re still breathing Ghost V air!”
And there, framed in the open doorway, was an immense gray creature with red spots on its hide. It had an amazing number of arms, legs, tentacles, claws and teeth, plus two tiny wings on its back. It walked slowly toward them, mumbling and groaning.
They both recognized it as the Grumbler.
GREGOR dashed forward and slammed the door in its face. “We should be safe in here,” he panted. “That door is airtight. But how will we pilot the ship?”
“We won’t,” Arnold said. “We’ll have to trust the robot-pilot—unless we can figure out some way of getting that thing out of there.”
They noticed that a faint smoke was beginning to seep through the sealed edges of the door.
“What’s that?” Arnold asked, with a sharp edge of panic in his voice.
Gregor frowned. “You remember, don’t you? The Grumbler can get into any room. There’s no way of keeping him out.”
“I don’t remember anything about him,” Arnold said. “Does he eat people?”
“No. As I recall, he just mangles them thoroughly.”
The smoke was beginning to solidify into the immense gray shape of the Grumbler. They retreated into the next compartment and sealed the door. Within seconds, the thin smoke was leaking through.
“This is ridiculous,” Arnold said, biting his lip. “To be hunted by an imaginary monster—wait! You’ve still got your water pistol, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Give it to me!”
Arnold hurried over to a water tank and filled the pistol. The Grumbler had taken form again and was lumbering toward them, groaning unhappily. Arnold raked it with a stream of water.
The Grumbler kept on advancing.
“Now it’s all coming back to me,” Gregor said. “A water pistol never could stop the Grumbler.”
They backed into the next room and slammed the door. Behind them was only the bunk-room, with nothing behind that but the deadly vacuum of space.
Gregor asked, “Isn’t there something you can do about the atmosphere?”
Arnold shook his head. “It’s dissipating now. But it takes about twenty hours for the affects of Longstead to wear off.”
“Haven’t you any antidote?”
“No.”
ONCE again the Grumbler was materializing, and neither silently nor pleasantly.
“How can we kill it?” Arnold asked. “There must be a way. Magic words? How about a wooden sword?”
Gregor shook his head. “I remember the Grumbler now,” he said unhappily.
“What kills it?”
“It can’t be destroyed by water pistols, cap guns, firecrackers, slingshots, stink bombs, or any other childhood weapon. The Grumbler is absolutely unkillable.”
“That Flynn and his damned imagination! Why did we have to talk about him? How do you get rid of it then?”
“I told you. You don’t. It just has to go away of its own accord.”
The Grumbler was full size now. Gregor and Arnold hurried into the tiny bunk room and slammed their last door.
“Think, Gregor,” Arnold pleaded. “No kid invents a monster without a defense of some sort. Think!”
“The Grumbler cannot be killed,” Gregor said.
The red-spotted monster was taking shape again. Gregor thought back over all the midnight horrors he had ever known. He must have done something as a child to neutralize the power of the unknown.
And then—almost too late—he remembered.
UNDER auto-pilot controls, the ship flashed Earthward with the Grumbler as complete master. He marched up and down the empty corridors and floated through steel partitions into cabins and cargo compartments, moaning, and groaning and cursing because he could not get at any victim.
The ship reached the Solar System and took up an automatic orbit around the Moon.
Gregor peered out cautiously, ready to duck back if necessary. There was no sinister shuffling, no moaning or groaning, no hungry mist seeping under the door or through the walls.
“All clear,” he called out to Arnold. “The Grumbler’s gone.”
Safe within the ultimate defense against night-horrors—wrapped in blankets that had covered their heads—they climbed out of their bunks.
“I told you the water pistol wouldn’t do any good,” Gregor said.
Arnold gave him a sick grin and put the pistol in his pocket. “I’m hanging onto it. If I ever get married and have a kid, it’s going to be his first present.”
“Not for any of mine,” said Gregor. He patted the bunk affectionately. “You can’t beat blankets over the head for protection.”
THE SLOW SEASON
Mr. Sheckley wryly points out that, even if you are a first-class ladies’ custom tailor, there is such a thing as being too expert at your craft . . . and too eager for business.
IF BUSINESS had not been so slow, Slobold might not have done it. But business was slow. No one seemed to need the services of a ladies’ custom tailor. Last month he. had let his assistant go. Next month, he would have to let himself go.
Slobold was pondering this, surrounded by bolts of cotton, wool and gabardine, dusty pattern books and suited dummies, when the man walked in.
“You’re Slobold?” the man asked.
“That’s right, sir,” Slobold said, jumping to his feet and straightening his vest.
“I’m Mr. Beilis. I suppose Klish has been in touch with you. About making the dresses.”
Slobold thought rapidly, staring at the short, balding, fussily dressed man in front of him. He knew no one named Klish, so Mr. Beilis had the wrong tailor. He opened his mouth to tell him this. But then he remembered that business was very slow.
“Klish,” he mused. “Oh yes, I believe so.”
“I can tell you now,” Mr. Beilis said sternly, “we will pay very well for the dresses. But we’re exacting. Quite exacting.”
“Of course, Mr. Beilis,” Slobold said. He felt a slight tremor of guilt, but ignored it. Actually, he decided, he was doing Beilis a favor, since he was undoubtedly the best tailor named Slobold in the city. Later, if they discovered he was the wrong man, he could explain that he knew someone else named Klish.
“That’s fine,” Mr. Beilis said, stripping off his doeskin gloves. “Klish filled you in on the details, of course?”
Slobold didn’t answer, but by means of a slow smile made it apparent that he knew and was amused.
“I daresay it came as quite a revelation,” Mr. Beilis said.
Slobold shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, you’re a calm one,” Beilis said admiringly. “But I suppose that’s why Klish picked you.”
Slobold busied himself lighting a cigar, since he didn’t know what expression to assume.
“Now down to work,” Mr. Beilis said briskly, slipping a hand into the breast pocket of his gray gabardine suit. “Here is the complete list of measurements for the first dress. There will be no fittings, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Slobold said.
“And we must have the completed article in three days. That is as long as Egrish can wait.”
“Naturally,” Slobold said again.
Mr. Beilis handed him the folded piece of paper. “Klish must have told you about the need for absolute secrecy, but let me repeat it. Nothing can slip out until the branch is well established. And here is your advance.”
Slobold was so completely in control of himself that he didn’t even wince at the sight of five crisp $100 bills.
“Three days,” he said, tucking the money in his pocket.
Mr. Beilis stood for a moment, musing. Then he shrugged his shoulders and hurried out.
As soon as he was gone, Slobold unfolded the measurements. Since no one was watching, he allowed his jaw to gape open.
The dress was going to be like nothing ever before seen. It would fit an eight footer quite nicely, if she conformed to certain bodily modifications. But what modifications!
Reading through the 50 separate measurements and directions, Slobold realized that the wearer would have to have three breasts staggered across her stomach, each of a different size and shape. She would have a number of large bulges on her back. Only eight inches was allowed for her waist, but her four arms—to judge by the armholes—would be the thickness of young oak trees. There was no provision made for buttocks, but a flare was provided for tremendous thighs.
The material specified was cashmere. The color was to be jet black.
Slobold understood why there would be no fittings.
Staring at the directions, he gently tugged at his lower lip. “It’s a costume,” he said aloud, but shook his head. Costume specifications never included 50 separate measurements, and cashmere was not a suitable material.
He read the paper again, frowning deeply. Was it an expensive practical joke? That seemed dubious. Mr. Beilis had been too serious.
This dress, Slobold knew with every tailoring instinct, was being made for a person who fitted its dimensions.
That was a shivery thought. Although it was a bright day, Slobold switched on the overhead fluorescent lights.
He decided, tentatively, that it might be for a wealthy, but terribly deformed woman.
Except, he thought, that no one in the history of the world had ever been deformed like that.
But business was slow, and the price was right. If the price were right, he was willing to make dirndls for elephants and pinafores for hippopotamuses.
Therefore, shortly he retired to his back room, and, turning on every available light, began to draw patterns.
Three days later, Mr. Beilis returned.
“Excellent,” he said, holding the dress in front of him. He pulled a tape measure out of his pocket and began to check off the measurements. “I don’t doubt your work,” he said, “but the garment must be form-fitting.”
“Of course,” Slobold said.
Mr. Beilis finished, and put away the tape. “That’s just fine,” he said. “Egrish will be pleased. The light was bothering her. None of them are used to it, you know.”
“Ah,” Slobold said.
“It’s difficult, after spending all one’s life in darkness. But they’ll get acclimated.”
“I should imagine so,” Slobold said.
“And pretty soon they can begin work,” Mr. Beilis said, with a complacent smile.
Slobold began to wrap the dress, his mind racing, trying to make some sense out of Beilis’ words. After spending one’s life in dartyess, he thought, as he tucked in the tissue paper. Getting
acclimated, he told himself, closing the box.
And Egrish wasn’t the only one. Beilis had spoken of others. For the first time, Slobold considered the possibility that Egrish and the rest weren’t from Earth. Could they be from Mars? No, plenty of light there. But how about the dark side of the moon?
“And here are the measurements for three other dresses,” Mr. Beilis said.
“I can work from the ones you gave me,” Slobold said, still thinking of other planets.
“How can you?” Mr. Beilis asked. “The others can’t wear anything that would fit Egrish.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Slobold said, forcing his attention back. “Would Egrish like some more dresses out of the same pattern?”
“No. What for?”
Slobold closed his mouth tightly. Beilis might get suspicious if he made any more errors.
He looked over the new measurements.
Now he needed all his self-control, for these were as different from Egrish as Egrish had been from the human norm.
“Could you have these ready in a week?” Mr. Beilis asked. “I hate to rush you, but I want to get the branch established as soon as possible.”
“A week? I think so,” Slobold said, looking at the $100 bills that Beilis was fanning across the counter. “Yes, I’m quite sure I can.”
“Fine,” Mr. Beilis said. “The poor things just can’t stand light.”
“Why didn’t they bring their clothes with them?” Slobold asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“What clothes?” Mr. Beilis asked, frowning at Slobold. “They don’t have any clothes. Never had. And in a little while, they never will again.”
“I forgot,” Slobold said, perspiring freely.
“Well, a week then. And that will just about do it.” Mr. Beilis walked to the door. “By the way,” he said, “Klish will be back in a day or two from Darkside.”
And with that he was gone.
Slobold worked feverishly that week. He kept his store lights burning at all hours, and avoided dark corners. Making the dresses told him what their wearers looked like, and that didn’t help him sleep nights. He devoutly wished Beilis hadn’t told him anything, for he knew too much for his peace of mind.
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