The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  The fat old man hiccuped loudly, lifted a pewter mug from the table, drained it, and waved negligently to Moore. He said something in a language Moore did not understand. But his gesture, as he pointed to a nearby table, was eloquent enough.

  Moore advanced and took his seat at the table. Most of the others were occupied, he discovered, by a motley assortment. It was difficult to see clearly through the fog, but he thought their clothing, while more plentiful than the old man's, was equally odd. He caught glimpses of high-crowned and pointed hats, white robes, black robes, and similar eccentricities .

  The waiter approached. He seemed normal enough, a cadaverous man rather grimly dressed in a Tuxedo. His sallow face was quite expressionless, and his eyes were peculiarly glazed. In his lapel he wore a lily. Also, he walked with the stiff, mechanical stride of a zombie.

  "Your order, sir?" he asked in a deep, grating voice.

  "Whiskey sour," Moore said. The man departed, returning almost immediately. He set down a pewter mug on the table. Moore paid, and tested the drink. It wasn't a whiskey sour. He was sure of that. But he didn't know just what, it was. It was heady, strong, pungent, and yet curiously sweet. The fumes mounted to his brain swiftly. Potent stuff.

  Now Moore always could carry his liquor, and he certainly couldn't have got tight on one mugful; Yet his head was unquestionably swimming when the belligerent midget with the' fuzzy whiskers arrived.

  -

  AT FIRST GLIMPSE Moore saw only beard, a vast, overwhelming avalanche of curly white hair that floated across the floor like a tumbleweed. The beard mounted the chair opposite Moore's. A small hand emerged from the mess and thumped the table. Two beady, twinkling eyes regarded Moore with a certain sardonic humor in their depths.

  The waiter brought a pair of brimming mugs. The midget began the conversation.

  "Nasty curmudgeon," he said throatily, staring at Moore, who pointedly ignored the remark. But the midget could not be squelched.

  From the depths of his beard he extracted a long, keen knife and thumbed its edge. "I am not in the habit of being snubbed," he observed.

  Moore looked around for the waiter, but could not locate him in the swirling gray smoke. He said, with a certain delicacy, "I beg your pardon. I didn't hear—"

  "Ah," said the midget. "That's better. Better for you. For a copper coin I'd have slit your weasand.

  The horrid little man was either drunk or mad, Moore decided. He looked for the door.

  The midget laughed, and inserted liquor into the depths of the beard. "Drink up," he said menacingly, and Moore obeyed.

  The drink was potent. Remarkably so. Moore felt his terror vanishing. In its place grew indignation. Was he to be bullied by a puppet—a mere bug of a man, whom he could squash with one blow?

  "To hell with you," he said slowly and distinctly, and then wondered at himself. Was he trying to start a barroom brawl? Moore shuddered; he had a rather nice taste in such things, and, moreover, did not favor the idea of becoming embroiled with the beard. The very sight of the thing was loathsome. It was all tangled and woolly, and burs and dead leaves were entangled in it.

  The midget's eyes snapped dangerously. "To hell with me?" he asked.

  Moore nodded.

  "You're not a magician?" the other asked rather doubtfully. "No? Then it's all right. A figure of speech merely. Drink with me, friend."

  More liquor had surprisingly appeared. It was downed. Moore made the odd discovery that his spinal cord had been dissolved; in its place was a column of the fiery drink. It seemed to move up and down like the mercury in a thermometer. But the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Smoke blew in his eyes; he coughed and stared across at the fat man with the narghile.

  "Funny place," he said in an undertone.

  The midget looked surprised. "What did you expect on Midsummer Eve?" he asked, and Moore couldn't quite figure out what he meant. It seemed to mean something, but—

  The fat old man arose and went toward the back. He passed close to Moore's table, and, glancing aside, said in a kindly voice, "All is Maya—illusion." He hiccupped, drew himself up in a dignified manner, and hastily continued his journey into the smoke.

  The midget nodded. "How true," he observed. "Oh, how true: All is illusion."

  Moore felt in an argumentative mood. He lowered the pewter mug from his lips, smacked them slightly, and said, "Boloney."

  "By that," the midget said, "I am inclined to believe that you are skeptical: But how can you be? I am a noted authority on such matters and I assure you that all is illusion."

  Moore refuted the contention with a sneer. "Prove it," he snapped.

  "But it's obvious, isn't it? Things are only what they seem. That's why magic is possible."

  "You're drunk," Moore said insultingly.

  "I'm drunk? By Father Poseidon and Kronos! Not for thou—not for years have I been accused of that. If you weren't drunk yourself—"

  "Prove it;" Moore said again; pressing home his advantage.

  -

  THE BEARD twitched indignantly. A small, gnarled brown hand emerged and pointed at Moore's pewter mug. "You think, that's liquor, eh?"

  Moore was rather doubtful, but he nodded anyway. The midget gleamed with satisfaction. "Then it isn't. It's water; Taste it and see."

  Moore tasted. Unfortunately he was in no condition to realize whether he was drinking liquor or benzine. It did taste rather watery, but Moore wouldn't have admitted it for the world. He said it wasn't water.

  "And you're a crackpot," he continued, remembering the knife and angry that he had once been afraid of the midget. "Go away before I step on you. All is illusion—ha!" He made impolite sounds.

  "You believe the evidence of your senses?" the beard inquired. "Do you really think the moon is round?"

  "Oh, gosh," said Moore, and drank again.

  "It looks round to you," said the midget, "but does round have the same significance to everybody else? What you call round may be square to another man. How do you know how the moon looks to me?"

  "If you're so interested in the moon, go away and look at it," Moore said. But the midget was persistent.

  "How do you know how I look to somebody else? How do you know how you look to me? The five senses aren't arbitrarily fixed. They are illusory. All is illusion."

  "Listen," said—Moore, losing his temper and getting a headache, "your beard's an illusion. My hand's an illusion. I'm pulling your beard."

  He did so, vigorously. "That's illusion, too. Laugh that off."

  There was tumult. The midget yelled and screamed and fought. Presently Moore fell back in his chair, clutching a tuft of curly whiskers.

  "Now by Kronos and Nid!" said the midget in a soft, deadly voice. "You're going to catch hell for this, my fine fellow. If you think—nrgh!" The beard bristled terrifyingly. "I'll show you whether all is illusion or not!" He found a slender, short rod of polished dark wood and pointed it at Moore. "I lay on you the curse of illusion," he continued. "The blight of the five senses! I put upon you the veil of Proteus!"

  Moore knocked away the wand with a wavering blow. He felt suddenly sobered. Why, he couldn't tell. But abruptly he was filled with an ardent desire to leave this smoky, insane dive. Without another word he rose and unsteadily made for the door.

  The malicious laughter of the bearded midget followed him. It continued as he walked across the street, and died as he stepped upon the opposite curb. Moore turned.

  The tavern was gone. Only the empty lot remained.

  -

  FOR A BRIEF second Moore felt unwell. Then he realized what had happened. He was more drunk than he thought; obviously the tavern must lie several blocks away, and he had walked the distance without realizing it. Grunting, he looked at his watch.

  Just eight twenty. Time for a cup of coffee before Corinne's train got in. Moore entered the depot, made his way toward the restaurant, and then, struck by a sudden thought, turned instead to the drugstore, where he purchased caffeine citrate
and downed several tablets rapidly. That done, he returned to the restaurant and drank coffee. He sobered rapidly.

  He sat at the counter, lost in introspection. Thus at first he did not realize that curious and amused glances were being cast at him. Presently he heard an audible sniff.

  Moore looked up. The man at his left, a hulking bronzed gentleman, suppressed a grin and stared hastily down at his feet.

  That was only the beginning. Moore at length realized that he was the cynosure of all eyes. Apprehensive, he furtively examined his clothing. O. K. He looked at his face in a nearby mirror, and was rather pleased than otherwise. A distinctive sort of face. Not handsome, but strong. Like Gary Cooper's. Perceiving that his thoughts were beginning to veer, Moore drank more coffee.

  A loud-speaker said that the train was in. Moore paid for his potation, and, avoiding various glances, went out to the runway and waited for Corinne. He saw her at last amid the crowd, a brittle blonde with inquisitive eyes and a firm chin. She hadn't changed much. A competent, businesslike, but rather sardonic young woman. There were short, sharp cries and awkward embraces. Corinne sniffed and drew back.

  "Who spilled perfume on you?" she demanded.

  "Perfume?"

  Corinne looked at him steadily. "I detect a strong aroma of violets about your person. Offensively strong."

  "Funny," Moore said, blinking. "I don't smell it."

  "Then your nose is stultified," Corinne remarked. "I could smell it on the train. Bert, I'll have to take you in hand. A little motherly guidance is what you need. A dash of perfume, perhaps, if you insist— but not violets. It is not done. You must have taken a bath in. the stuff."

  "Well," said Moore, rather at a loss, "I'm glad to see you. Want a drink?"

  "Yes," Corinne told him, "very much. But not enough to accompany you into a cocktail bar. People might think that offensive odor emanated from me."

  Touched to the quick, the man led his sister outside and superintended the extrication and disposal of baggage. Presently he was driving his sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, Corinne at his side. The girl had opened the window and stuck out her head. Moore grimly kept his eyes straight ahead: Corinne had changed for the worse, he decided.

  -

  CORINNE'S head re-entered the car. She touched Moore's arm.

  "What's wrong with your car, Bert?" she inquired.

  "Eh?" Moore depressed the accelerator and let the steering wheel play loosely. "Nothing. Why?"

  "That noise,"

  The man listened intently. "That's the engine."

  "It isn't the engine. There's a whistle—"

  "Sh-h," said Moore, and, after a. pause, "no, it's in your ears. Must be."

  Corinne eyed him steadily. Suddenly she collapsed in his lap. Moore jammed on the brake before he realized that his sister had bent forward in order to apply her ear to his chest. She straightened and eyed the man speculatively.

  "That whistle," she said, "is coming, out of you. You're making it. A noise like a ... a—"

  "A what?"

  "A policeman. His whistle, I mean. Why don't you stop it? It doesn't amuse me."

  "I'm not whistling," Moore snapped.

  "You mean you can't help it?"

  "I mean I'm not doing it."

  "Maybe you swallowed something," Corinne said, and sighed. People acted less unexpectedly in New York. There one could foresee things. A whiff of violets blew on the girl, and she shut her eyes.

  Just then a motorcycle officer appeared and motioned Moore to the curb. The man dismounted and put one foot on the running board. His mouth opened, and abruptly, closed. He stared hard at the driver, his nostrils twitching slightly.

  "What's the matter?" Moore asked. "I wasn't speeding."

  The officer didn't answer. He peered into the car, scrutinized Corinne, and looked into the back. Finally he said, "Who's doing that whistling?"

  Before Moore could speak, Corinne broke in swiftly, "It's the motor, officer. The overhead gasket valve sprang a leak. We're going now to get it fixed."

  "The—overhead-gasket valve?"

  "Yes," Corinne said with great firmness. "The gasket valve. The overhead one, you know."

  There, was a brief pause. Finally the officer scratched his head and remarked, "If I were you, I'd get it fixed as soon as you can. You're disturbing the peace."

  The girl smiled sweetly. "Thank you;" she returned. "We'll get it fixed. Right away. You know how those gasket-valves are."

  "Yeah," said the officer, and watched the car speed away. Then he thoughtfully climbed on his .motorcycle. Under his breath he inquired plaintively, "Just what in hell is an overhead-gasket valve, anyway?"

  -

  CORINNE was slightly nervous by the time they arrived home. Moore owned a two-story house in a suburb. It was surrounded by a small lawn, a tree or two, and a dog. The dog was named Banjo. He was not a small dog, and this seemed to be something he could never quite realize. Banjo had once seen a Pekingese, and ever since labored under the delusion that he, too, was a lap dog. Inasmuch as part of his sinister ancestry was collie, he was exceptionally hairy, and he had managed to attain the unique distinction of being able to shed all the year round. This vast and behemothic creature came galloping around the corner of the house, saw the car, and came to an immediate decision.

  Banjo had theories about automobiles. They moved; ergo, they were alive. And his master was now obviously a captive of one of these eerie beings. With courage worthy of a greater cause, Banjo charged forward and sank his teeth in a tire.

  The tire retaliated by hissing at Banjo in a threatening manner. This completely unnerved the beast, who promptly lost his courage and fled trembling under the house, where he cowered, moaning softly.

  Moore emerged from the car, cursing in a low, vicious monotone. He left the vehicle parked at the curb and conveyed Corinne and her luggage to the front door. This was opened by a skeleton who had somewhere got hold of a supply of parchment and drawn it about his crumbling bones in a rather haphazard fashion. The skeleton's surname was Peters. His Christian name, if, indeed, he had ever possessed one, was lost in the mists of decades. He was the general factotum of the Moore household, and for the last forty years had concentrated on the single purpose of growing old ungracefully. For at least twenty years he had been cheating the undertaker. Moore had a well-founded suspicion that on Peter's days off the man would make the rounds of various mortuaries and tauntingly cackle at the proprietors.

  "Ha," said Peters in a rather gloating fashion, "a flat tire, hey?"

  Corinne eyed the fellow intently, but he was apparently not referring to her.

  Moore said, "Yeah. A flat tire. That fool dog bit it."

  "I shall fix it," Peters stated, and looked at the girl. Quite suddenly the man seemed to go mad. His toothless, shrunken jaws quivered, his face, with a faint crackling, broke into a horrid grin, and he began to cackle like a hen. "Well, well," he shrilled. "Miss Corinne, as I live and breathe. What a surprise."

  "How do you mean, surprise?" Moore asked coldly. "You knew she was coming."

  Peters ignored this brutal attempt to throw cold water on his enthusiasm. His skeletal frame jiggled and shook with senile amusement. "Ha," he said, "it's been a long time. A long time. You've changed, Miss Corinne."

  Corinne returned. "You haven't changed a bit."

  The humor of this remark almost finished Peters. He commenced a bizarre dance among the luggage, wheezing and flailing his arms in mad amusement. Leaving the old fellow to his octogenarian whims, Moore escorted Corinne into an adjoining room.

  -

  SUSAN, Moore's wife, was playing solitaire in a distracted fashion. She was small, plumpish, and still pretty, though inclined to hysteria. Patterns, she contended, puzzled her. Practically everything comprised a pattern. Preparing food was one pattern she had mastered, but such abstruse confusion as the vacuum cleaner, the radio, and solitaire left her utterly baffled. However, she rose to the occasion and greeted Corinne with a
hospitable smile.

  Not until the welcome was over did Susan sniff. "Oh," she exclaimed, pleased. "Violets. For me?"

  Corinne said, "Susan, I want to ask you a question. Do you hear a ... a peculiar noise?"

  Susan shook her head. "Why, no. Nothing peculiar. Why?"

  "Not even a ... a whistle?"

  "Oh, of course," said Susan, beaming. "But that isn't peculiar. It's just a whistle."

  Corinne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Finally she was able to ask, "Do you know where it's coming from?"

  "No. Do you?"

  Moore was annoyed at the turn the conversation had been taking. He whirled as fingers snapped, with a repugnant popping noise, behind him. Peters stood beckoning on the threshold.

  "Must you make that noise?" Moore asked irritably, coming over to the man. "It sounds like firecrackers."

  Peters contemplated his knotted knuckles with satisfaction. "Sure does," he agreed. "I've filled the tub for you."

  For a second Moore was puzzled. What tub? Then light dawned. "Oh," he said vaguely. "But I didn't ask you to fill the tub."

  "I put in bath salts," Peters said enticingly. "Lots of bath salts."

  "Why in Heaven's name should I take a bath now?" Moore asked.

  "Because you smell," said Peters, clinching the argument.

  -

  There was company for dinner. This was due to Susan's efforts. She had always been worried about Corinne's unmarried state, and took the opportunity of inviting Steve Watson, an eligible young man, to call that night. Moore cared little for Steve, who was a fine upstanding, specimen of young American manhood, with a hearty booming laugh and a penchant for mirrors.

  Somebody had let Banjo into the house. When Moore came downstairs, shaved and cleansed, he was greeted by the mastodonic dog, who went into a frenzy of mad delight. The beast flung himself upon his master, nearly precipitating the startled man to the floor.