Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Then Frank heard a noise behind him. He realized what had happened, and he ran with the speed of desperation, the room looming hugely around him.

  A single blow smashed into him, and he saw a whiskered face with gigantic teeth ready to bite . . . And Frank knew that his hesitation had caused his doom. It was horribly apparent now that his cat had made a wish first—a wish the demon had accepted.

  And naturally enough, his Cat had wished for a mouse.

  THE SWAMP

  TO PLAY SO CLOSE TO QUICKSAND, A BOY HAD TO BE STUPID—OR WORSE.

  Ed Scott took one look at the boy’s terrified white face and knew something was seriously wrong. “What is it, Tommy?” he asked.

  “It’s Paul Barlow,” the boy said. “We were all playing in the east swamp . . . and . . . and . . . and he’s sinking, sir!”

  Scott knew he had no time to waste. Just last year, two men had been lost in the treacherous patches of wilderness. The area was fenced now, and children had been warned. But they played there anyhow. Scott took a long coil of rope from his garage and set off at a run.

  In ten minutes he was deep within the swamp. He saw six boys standing on a grassy fringe of firm land. Twenty feet beyond them, in the middle of a smooth, yellowish gray expanse, was Paul Barlow.

  The boy was waist-deep in the gluey quicksand—and sinking! His arms flailed, and the quicksand crept horribly toward his chest. It looked as if the boy had tried to cross this patch on a dare. Ed Scott uncoiled his rope and wondered what made kids act with such blind, murderous stupidity.

  He threw the rope, and the children watched breathlessly as it soared accurately into Paul’s hands. But the child—with quicksand up to the middle of his chest—didn’t have the strength to hold on.

  With only seconds left, Scott tied an end of the rope to a stump, took a firm grip and waded out after the screaming boy. The sand trembled and gave under his feet. Scott wondered if he’d have the strength to haul himself and Paul out. But the first problem was to reach him in time.

  Scott came to within five feet of the boy, who was buried now up to the neck. Keeping a firm grip on the rope, Scott waded forward another foot, sank to his waist, gritted his teeth, reached for the boy—and felt the rope go slack!

  That stump, he thought, turning, trying to keep himself up as the swamp sucked him down—covering his chest and neck, filling his screaming mouth, and at last concealing the top of his head . . .

  On the wooded fringe, one of the boys closed the pocket knife with which he had cut the rope. Out in the swamp, little Paul Barlow stood up cautiously, supported by the wooden platform which he and the other boys had sunk at the swamp’s edge and carefully tested. Watching his footing, Paul backed out of the sand, circled around the danger spot and joined the others.

  “Very good, Paul,” said Tommy. “You have succeeded in luring an adult to his death, and thereby become a full member of the Destroyers’ Club.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Paul said, and the other children cheered.

  “But just one thing,” Tommy said. “In the future, please watch the overacting. All that screaming was a bit heavy, you know.”

  “I’ll watch it, sir,” Paul said.

  By then it was evening. Paul and the other boys hurried home for supper. Paul’s mother commented on how good his color was; she approved of him playing with his friends in the open air. But like all boys, his poor clothes were a muddy mess, and his hands were dirty . . .

  SHOOTOUT IN THE TOY SHOP

  Ehe meeting took place in the taproom of the Beaux Arts Club of Camden, New Jersey. It was the sort of uptight saloon that Baxter usually avoided—Tiffany lampshades, tables of dark polished wood, discreet lighting. His potential customer, Mr. Arnold Conabee, was in a booth waiting for him. Conabee was a soft-faced, fragile-looking man, and Baxter took care to shake his hand gently. After squeezing his bulk into the red leatherette booth, Baxter asked for a vodka martini, very dry, because that was the sort of thing people ordered in a joint like this. Conabee crossed him up by asking for a margarita straight up.

  It was Baxter’s first job in nearly a month, and he was determined not to blow it. His breath was kissing sweet, and he had powdered his heavy jowls with talcum powder. His glen plaid suit was freshly pressed and concealed his gut pretty well, and his black police shoes gleamed. Looking good, baby. But he had forgotten to clean his fingernails, and now he saw that they were black-rimmed, he wanted to keep his hands in his lap, but then he couldn’t smoke.

  Conabee wasn’t interested in his hands, however. Conabee had a problem, and that was why he had arranged this meeting with Baxter, a private detective who listed himself in the Yellow Pages as the Acme Investigative Service.

  “Somebody is stealing from me,” Conabee was saying, “but I don’t know who.”

  “Just fill me in on the details,” Baxter said. His voice was the best part of him, a deep, manly drawl, exactly the right voice for a private investigator.

  “My shop is over at the South Camden Mall,” Conabee said. “Conabee’s Toys for Children of All Ages. I’m beginning to acquire an international reputation.”

  “Right,” Baxter said, though he had never heard of Conabee’s scam.

  “The trouble started two weeks ago,” Conabee said. “I had just completed an experimental doll, the most advanced of its kind in the world. The prototype utilized a new optical switching circuit and a synthetic protein memory with a thousand times the order of density previously achieved. It was stolen on the first night of its display. Various pieces of equipment and a quantity of precious metals were also taken. Since then, there have been thefts almost every night.”

  “No chance of a break-in?”

  “The locks are never tampered with. And the thief always seems to know when we have anything worth stealing.”

  Baxter grunted and Conabee said, “It seems to be an inside job. But I can’t believe it. I have only four employees. The most recent has been with me six years. I trust them all implicitly.”

  “Then you gotta be hooking the stuff yourself,” Baxter said, winking, “because somebody’s sure carting it off.”

  Conabee stiffened and looked at Baxter oddly, then laughed. “I almost wish it were me,” he said. “My employees are all my friends.”

  “Hell,” Baxter said, “anybody’ll rip off the boss if he thinks he can get away with it.”

  Conabee looked at him oddly again, and Baxter realized that he wasn’t talking genteelly enough and that a sure seventy-five dollars was about to vanish. He forced himself to be cool and to say, in his deep, competent, no-nonsense voice, “I could hide myself in your shop tonight, Mr. Conabee. You could be rid of this annoyance once and for all.”

  “Yes,” Conabee said, “it has been annoying. It’s not so much the loss of income as . . .” He let the thought trail away. “Today we got in a shipment of gold filigree from Germany worth eight hundred dollars. I’ve brought an extra key.”

  Baxter took a bus downtown to Courthouse Square. He had about three hours before he was to stake himself out in Conabee’s shop. He’d been tempted to ask for an advance, but had decided against it. It didn’t pay to look hungry, and this job could be a fresh start for him.

  Down the street he saw Stretch Jones holding up a lamppost on Fountain and Clinton. Stretch was a tall, skinny black man wearing a sharply cut white linen suit, white moccasins, and a tan Stetson. Stretch said, “Hey, baby.”

  “Hi,” Baxter said sourly.

  “You got that bread for my man?”

  “I told Dinny I’d have it Monday.”

  “He told me I should remind you, ‘cause he don’t want you should forget.”

  “I’ll have it Monday,” Baxter said, and walked on. It was a lousy hundred dollars that he owed Dinny Welles, Stretch’s boss. Baxter resented being braced for it, especially by an insolent black bastard in an ice-cream suit. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  At the Clinton Cut-Rate Liquor Store he ord
ered a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch to celebrate his new job, and Terry Turner, the clerk, had the nerve to say, “Uh, Charlie, I can’t do this no more.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?” Baxter demanded.

  “It ain’t me,” Turner said. “You know I just work here. It’s Mrs. Chednik. She said not to give you any more credit.”

  “Take it out of this,” Baxter said, coming across with his last twenty.

  Turner rang up the sale, then said, “But your tab—”

  “I’ll settle it direct with Mrs. Chednik, and you can tell her I said so.”

  “Well, all right, Charlie,” Turner said, giving him the change. “But you’re going to get into a lot of trouble.”

  They looked at each other. Baxter knew that Turner was part owner of the Clinton and that he and Mrs. Chednik had decided to cut him off until he paid up. And Turner knew that he knew this. The bastard!

  The next stop was the furnished efficiency he called home over on River Road Extension. Baxter walked up the stairs to the twilight gloom of his living room. A small black-and-white television glowed faintly in a corner. Betsy was in the bedroom, packing. Her eye had swollen badly.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” Baxter demanded.

  “I’m going to stay with my brother.”

  “Forget it,” Baxter said, “it was only an argument.” She went on packing.

  “You’re staying right here,” Baxter told her. Her pushed her out of the way and looked through her suitcase. He came up with his onyx cufflinks, his tie clasp with the gold nugget, his Series E savings bonds, and damned if she hadn’t also tucked away his Smith & Wesson .38.

  “Now you’re really going to get it,” he told her.

  She looked at him levelly. “Charlie, I warn you, never touch me again if you know what’s good for you.”

  Baxter took a step toward her, bulky and imposing in his newly pressed suit. But suddenly he remembered that her brother Amos worked in the DA’s office. Would Betsy blow the whistle on him? He really couldn’t risk finding out, even though she was bugging him beyond human endurance.

  Just then the doorbell rang sharply, three times—McGorty’s ring—and Baxter had ten dollars with McGorty on today’s number. He opened the door, but it wasn’t McGorty, it was a tiny Chinese woman pitching some religious pamphlet. She wouldn’t shut up and go away, not even when he told her nice; she just kept at him, and Baxter was suddenly filled with the desire to kick her downstairs, along with her knapsack of tracts.

  And then Betsy slipped past him. She had managed to get the suitcase closed, and it all happened so fast that Baxter couldn’t do a thing. He finally got rid of the Chinese lady and poured himself a tumblerful of whiskey. Then he remembered the bonds and looked around, but that damned Betsy had whipped everything away, including his goldnugget tie clasp. His Smith & Wesson was still on the bed, under a fold of blanket, so he put it into his suit pocket and poured another drink.

  He ate the knockwurst special at the Shamrock, had a quick beer and a shot at the White Rose, and got to the South Camden Shopping Mall just before closing. He sat in a luncheonette, had a coffee, and watched Conabee and his employees leave at seven-thirty. He sat for another half hour, then let himself into the shop.

  It was dark inside, and Baxter stood very still, getting the feel of the place. He could hear a lot of clocks going at different rates, and there was a high-pitched sound like crickets, and other sounds he couldn’t identify. He listened for a while, then took out his pocket flashlight and looked around.

  His light picked out curious details; a scale-model Spad biplane with ten-foot wings, hanging from the ceiling and tilted as if to attack; a fat plastic beetle almost underfoot; a model Centurion tank nearly five feet long. He was standing in the dark in the midst of motionless toys, and beyond them he could make out the dim shapes of large dolls, stuffed animals, and, to one side, a silent jungle made of delicate, shiny metal.

  It was an uncanny sort of place, but Baxter was not easily intimidated. He got ready for a long night. He found a pile of cushions, laid them out, found an ashtray, took off his overcoat, and lay down. Then he sat up and took a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich, slightly squashed, from one pocket, a can of beer from the other. He got a cigarette going, lay back, and chewed, drank, and smoked against a background of sounds too faint to be identified. One of the many clocks struck the hour, then the others chimed in, and they kept going for a long time.

  He sat up with a start. He realized that he had dozed off. Everything seemed exactly the same. Nobody could have unlocked the door and slipped in past him, yet there seemed to be more light.

  A dim spotlight had come on, and he could hear spooky organ music, but faintly, faintly, as though from very far away. Baxter rubbed his nose and stood up. Something moved beside his left shoulder, and he turned his flashlight on it. It was a life-size puppet of Long John Silver. Baxter laughed uncertainly.

  More lights came on, and a spotlight picked out a group of three big dolls sitting at a table in a corner of the room. The papa doll was smoking a pipe and letting out clouds of real smoke, the mama doll was crocheting a shawl, and the baby doll was crawling on the floor and gurgling.

  Then a group of doll people danced out in front of him. There were little shoemakers and tiny ballerinas and a miniature lion that roared and shook its mane. The metal jungle came to life, and great mechanical orchids opened and closed. There was a squirrel with blinking golden eyes; it cracked and ate silver walnuts. The organ music swelled up loud and sweet. Fluffy white doves settled on Baxter’s shoulders, and a bright-eyed fawn licked at his fingers. The toys danced around him, and for a moment Baxter found himself in the splendid lost world of childhood.

  Suddenly he heard a woman’s laughter.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  She stepped forward, followed by a silvery spotlight. She was Dorothy of Oz, she was Snow White, she was Gretel, she was Helen of Troy, she was Rapunzel; she was exquisitely formed, almost five feet tall, with crisp blond curls clustered around an elfin face. Her slight figure was set off by a frilly white shift tied around the waist with a red ribbon.

  “You’re that missing doll!” Baxter exclaimed.

  “So you know about me,” she said. “I would have liked a little more time, so that I could have gotten all the toys performing. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Baxter, mouth agape, couldn’t answer. She said, “The night Conabee assembled me, I found that I had the gift of life. I was more than a mere automaton—I lived, I thought, I desired. But I was not complete. So I hid in the ventilator shaft and stole materials in order to become as I am now, and to build this wonderland for my creator. Do you think he will be proud of me?”

  “You’re beautiful,” Baxter said at last.

  “But do you think Mr. Conabee will like me?”

  “Forget about Conabee,” Baxter said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s crazy,” Baxter said, “but I can’t live without you. We’ll get away from here, work it out somehow. I’ll make you happy, babe, I swear it!”

  “Never,” she said. “Conabee created me and I belong to him.”

  “You’re coming with me,” Baxter said.

  He seized her hand and she pulled away from him. He yanked her toward him and her hand came off in his grip. Baxter gaped at it, then threw it from him. “Goddamn you!” he screamed. “Come here!”

  She ran from him. He took out his .38 and followed. The organ music began to wander erratically, and the lights were flickering. He saw her run behind a set of great alphabet blocks. He hurried after her—and then the toys attacked.

  The tank rumbled into action. It came at him slow and heavy. Baxter put two slugs into it, tumbling it across the room. He caught a glimpse of the Spad diving toward him, and he shot it in midair, squashing it against the wall like a giant moth. A squad of little mechanical soldiers discharged their cork bullets at him, and he kicked th
em out of the way. Long John Silver lunged at him, and his cutlass caught Baxter under the ribcage. But it was only a rubber sword; Baxter pushed the pirate aside and had her cornered behind the Punch and Judy.

  She said, “Please don’t hurt me.”

  He said, “Come with me!”

  She shook her head and tried to dodge him. He grabbed her as she went past, catching her by the blond curls. She fell, and he felt her head twist in his hands, twist around in a full, impossible circle, so that her body was turned away from him while her pretty blue eyes still stared into his face.

  “Never!” she said.

  In a spasm of rage and revulsion, Baxter yanked at her head. It came off in his hands. In the neck stump he could see bits of glass winking in a gray matrix.

  The mama and papa and baby dolls stopped in mid-motion. Long John Silver collapsed. The broken doll’s blue eyes blinked three times; then she died.

  The rest of the toys stopped. The organ faded, the spotlights went out, and the last jungle flower clinked to the floor. In the darkness, a weeping fat man knelt beside a busted doll and wondered what he was going to tell Conabee in the morning.

  1982

  MISS MOUSE AND THE FOURTH DIMENSION

  I first met Charles Foster at the Claerston Award dinner at Leadbeater’s Hall in the Strand. It was my second night in London. I had come to England with the hope of signing some new authors for my list. I am Max Seidel, publisher of Manjusri Books. We are a small, esoteric publishing company operating out of Linwood, New Jersey—just me and Miss Thompson, my assistant. My books sell well to the small but faithful portion of the population interested in spiritualism, out-of-body experiences, Atlantis, flying saucers, and New Age technology. Charles Foster was one of the men I had come to meet.

  Pam Devore, our British sales representative, pointed Foster out to me. I saw a tall, good-looking man in his middle thirties, with a great mane of reddish-blond hair, talking animatedly with two dowager types. Sitting beside him, listening intently, was a small woman in her late twenties with neat, plain features and fine chestnut hair.