Bug-Eyed Monsters

by Bill Pronzini

  Donald A. Wollheim, publisher and editor-in-chief of DAW Books, a major science-fiction paperback imprint, is probably one of the five most influential figures in the history of modern science fiction. As writer, editor, and publisher, Wollheim (b. 1914) has shaped the course of the field significantly: he edited the first s-f anthology, The Pocket Book of Science Fiction, in 1943; during his tenure as editor and then editor-in-chief at Ace Books in the 1950s, 1960s, and early 1970s he published virtually every major s-f writer and discovered almost half of them; and he has published fifteen novels, one scholarly nonfiction study of the field, The Universe Makers (1970), and at least eighty short stories, of which “Mimic” is one of the very best.

  Mimic

  Donald A. Wollheim

  It is less than five hundred years since an entire half of the world was discovered. It is less than two hundred years since the discovery of the last continent. The sciences of chemistry and physics go back scarcely one century. The science of aviation goes back forty years. The science of atomics is being born.

  And yet we think we know a lot.

  We know little or nothing. Some of the most startling things are unknown to us. When they are discovered, they may shock us to the bone.

  We search for secrets in the far islands of the Pacific and among the ice fields of the frozen North, while under our very noses, rubbing shoulders with us every day, there may walk the undiscovered. It is a curious fact of nature that that which is in plain view is oft best hidden.

  I have always known of the man in the black cloak. Since I was a child he has always lived on my street, and his eccentricities are so familiar that they go unmentioned except among the casual visitor. Here, in the heart of the largest city in the world, in swarming New York, the eccentric and the odd may flourish unhindered.

  As children we had hilarious fun jeering at the man in black when he displayed his fear of women. We watched, in our evil, childish way, for those moments, we tried to get him to show anger. But he ignored us completely and soon we paid him no further heed, even as our parents did.

  We saw him only twice a day. Once in the early morning, when we would see his six-foot figure come out of the grimy dark hallway of the tenement at the end of the street and stride down toward the elevated to work—again when he came back at night. He was always dressed in a long, black cloak that came to his ankles, and he wore a wide-brimmed black hat down far over his face. He was a sight from some weird story out of the old lands. But he harmed nobody, and paid attention to nobody.

  Nobody—except perhaps women.

  When a woman crossed his path, he would stop in his stride and come to a dead halt. We could see that he closed his eyes until she had passed. Then he would snap those wide, watery blue eyes open and march on as if nothing had happened.

  He was never known to speak to a woman. He would buy some groceries, maybe once a week, at Antonio’s—but only when there were no other patrons there. Antonio said once that he never talked, he just pointed at things he wanted and paid for them in bills that he pulled out of a pocket somewhere under his cloak. Antonio did not like him, but he never had any trouble from him either.

  Now that I think of it, nobody ever did have any trouble with him.

  We got used to him. We grew up on the street; we saw him occasionally when he came home and went back into the dark hallway of the house he lived in.

  He never had visitors, he never spoke to anyone. And he had once built something in his room out of metal.

  He had once, years ago, hauled up some long flat metal sheets, sheets of tin or iron, and they had heard a lot of hammering and banging in his room for several days. But that had stopped and that was all there was to that story.

  Where he worked I don’t know and never found out. He had money, for he was reputed to pay his rent regularly when the janitor asked for it.

  Well, people like that inhabit big cities and nobody knows the story of their lives until they’re all over. Or until something strange happens.

  I grew up, I went to college, I studied.

  Finally I got a job assisting a museum curator. I spent my days mounting beetles and classifying exhibits of stuffed animals and preserved plants, and hundreds and hundreds of insects from all over.

  Nature is a strange thing, I learned. You learn that very clearly when you work in a museum. You realize how nature uses the art of camouflage. There are twig insects that look exactly like a leaf or a branch of a tree. Exactly.

  Nature is strange and perfect that way. There is a moth in Central America that looks like a wasp. It even has a fake stinger made of hair, which it twists and curls just like a wasp’s stinger. It has the same colorings and, even though its body is soft and not armored like a wasp’s, it is colored to appear shiny and armored. It even flies in the daytime when wasps do, and not at night like all other moths. It moves like a wasp. It knows somehow that it is helpless and that it can survive only by pretending to be as deadly to other insects as wasps are.

  I learned about army ants, and their strange imitators.

  Army ants travel in huge columns of thousands and hundreds of thousands. They move along in a flowing stream several yards across and they eat everything in their path. Everything in the jungle is afraid of them. Wasps, bees, snakes, other ants, birds, lizards, beetles—even men run away, or get eaten.

  But in the midst of the army ants there also travel many other creatures—creatures that aren’t ants at all, and that the army ants would kill if they knew of them. But they don’t know of them because these other creatures are disguised. Some of them are beetles that look like ants. They have false markings like ant thoraxes and they run along in imitation of ant speed. There is even one that is so long it is marked like three ants in single file! It moves so fast that the real ants never give it a second glance.

  There are weak caterpillars that look like big armored beetles. There are all sorts of things that look like dangerous animals. Animals that are the killers and superior fighters of their groups have no enemies. The army ants and the wasps, the sharks, the hawk, and the felines. So there are a host of weak things that try to hide among them—to mimic them.

  And man is the greatest killer, the greatest hunter of them all. The whole world of nature knows man for the irresistible master. The roar of his gun, the cunning of his trap, the strength and agility of his arm place all else beneath him.

  Should man then be treated by nature differently from the other dominants, the army ants and the wasps?

  It was, as often happens to be the case, sheer luck that I happened to be on the street at the dawning hour when the janitor came running out of the tenement on my street shouting for help. I had been working all night mounting new exhibits.

  The policeman on the beat and I were the only people besides the janitor to see the thing that we found in the two dingy rooms occupied by the stranger of the black cloak.

  The janitor explained—as the officer and I dashed up the narrow, rickety stairs—that he had been awakened by the sound of heavy thuds and shrill screams in the stranger’s rooms. He had gone out in the hallway to listen.

  When we got there, the place was silent. A faint light shone from under the doorway. The policeman knocked, there was no answer. He put his ear to the door and so did I. We heard a faint rustling—a continuous slow rustling as of a breeze blowing paper.

  The cop knocked again, but there was still no response.

  Then, together, we threw our weight at the door. Two hard blows and the rotten old lock gave way. We burst in.

  The room was filthy, the floor covered with scraps of torn paper, bits of detritus and garbage. The room was unfurnished, which I thought was odd.

  In the corner there stood a metal box, about four feet square. A tight-box, held together with screws and ropes. It had a lid, opening at the top, which was down and fastened with a sort of wax seal.

  The stranger of the black cloak lay in the middle of the floor—dead.

  He
was still wearing the cloak. The big slouch hat was lying on the floor some distance away. From the inside of the box the faint rustling was coming.

  We turned over the stranger, took the cloak off. For several instants we saw nothing amiss and then gradually—horribly—we became aware of some things that were wrong.

  His hair was short and curly brown. It stood straight up in its inch-long length. His eyes were open and staring. I noticed first that he had no eyebrows, only a curious dark line in the flesh over each eye.

  It was then I realized he had no nose. But no one had ever noticed that before. His skin was oddly mottled. Where the nose should have been there were dark shadowings that made the appearance of a nose, if you only just glanced at him. Like the work of a skillful artist in a painting.

  His mouth was as it should be and slightly open—but he had no teeth. His head perched upon a thin neck.

  The suit was—not a suit. It was part of him. It was his body.

  What we thought was a coat was a huge black wing sheath, like a beetle has. He had a thorax like an insect, only the wing sheath covered it and you couldn’t notice it when he wore the cloak. The body bulged out below, tapering off into the two long, thin hind legs. His arms came out from under the top of the “coat.” He had a tiny secondary pair of arms folded tightly across his chest. There was a sharp, round hole newly pierced in his chest just above the arms, still oozing a watery liquid.

  The janitor fled gibbering. The officer was pale but standing by his duty. I heard him muttering under his breath an endless stream of Hail Marys over and over again.

  The lower thorax—the “abdomen”—was very long and insectlike. It was crumpled up now like the wreckage of an airplane fuselage.

  I recalled the appearance of a female wasp that had just laid eggs—her thorax had had that empty appearance.

  The sight was a shock such as leaves one in full control. The mind rejects it, and it is only in afterthought that one can feel the dim shudder of horror.

  The rustling was still coming from the box. I motioned to the white-faced cop and we went over and stood before it. He took the nightstick and knocked away the waxen seal.

  Then we heaved and pulled the lid open.

  A wave of noxious vapor assailed us. We staggered back as suddenly a stream of flying things shot out of the huge iron container. The window was open, and straight out into the first glow of dawn they flew.

  There must have been dozens of them. They were about two or three inches long and they flew on wide gauzy beetle wings. They looked like little men, strangely terrifying as they flew—clad in their black suits, with their expressionless faces and their dots of watery blue eyes. And they flew out on transparent wings that came from under their black beetle coats.

  I ran to the window, fascinated, almost hypnotized. The horror of it had not reached my mind at once. Afterward I have had spasms of numbing terror as my mind tries to put the things together. The whole business was so utterly unexpected.

  We knew of army ants and their imitators, yet it never occurred to us that we too were army ants of a sort. We knew of stick insects and it never occurred to us that there might be others that disguise themselves to fool, not other animals, but the supreme animal himself—man.

  We found some bones in the bottom of that iron case afterwards. But we couldn’t identify them. Perhaps we did not try very hard. They might have been human . . .

  I suppose the stranger of the black cloak did not fear women so much as it distrusted them. Women notice men, perhaps, more closely than other men do. Women might become suspicious sooner of the inhumanity, the deception. And then there might perhaps have been some touch of instinctive feminine jealousy. The stranger was disguised as a man, but its sex was surely female. The things in the box were its young.

  But it is the other thing I saw when I ran to the window that has shaken me the most. The policeman did not see it. Nobody else saw it but me, and I only for an instant.

  Nature practices deceptions in every angle. Evolution will create a being for any niche that can be found, no matter how unlikely.

  When I went to the window, I saw the small cloud of flying things rising up into the sky and sailing away into the purple distance. The dawn was breaking and the first rays of the sun were just striking over the housetops.

  Shaken, I looked away from that fourth-floor tenement room over the roofs of lower buildings. Chimneys and walls and empty clotheslines made the scenery over which the tiny mass of horror passed.

  And then I saw a chimney, not thirty feet away on the next roof. It was squat and of red brick and had two black pipe ends flush with its top. I saw it suddenly vibrate, oddly. And I saw its red brick surface seem to peel away, and the black pipe openings turn suddenly white.

  I saw two big eyes staring into the sky.

  A great, flat-winged thing detached itself silently from the surface of the real chimney and darted after the cloud of flying things.

  I watched until all had lost themselves in the sky.

  “The Faceless Thing” in this story is a home-grown BEM; i.e., a terrestrial rather than extraterrestrial monster—a being formed of primordial ooze, an accident of nature at once terrifying and pathetic. And its story, along with that of the old man once known as Buddy, is poignant and quite different from the usual.

  Edward D. Hoch (b. 1930) is a rara avis among contemporary professional writers: he makes his living almost entirely from short stories. He has published over 500 in the past twenty-five years, most of them mystery and detective tales, with twoscore or so in the science-fiction/fantasy field; his stories have appeared in well over 100 anthologies and have been translated into many languages. (One, “The Oblong Room,” was awarded an Edgar by the Mystery Writers of America as the best mystery short of 1968.) In addition to writing short fiction, he edits the annual Best Detective Stories of the Year and is a recognized authority on the brief-and-criminous. Three of his four novels (all published between 1969 and 1975) are science-fiction mysteries: The Transvection Machine, The Fellowship of the Hand, and The Frankenstein Factory.

  The Faceless

  Thing

  Edward D. Hoch

  Sunset: golden flaming clouds draped over distant canyons barely seen in the dusk of the dying day; farmland gone to rot; fields in the foreground given over wildly to the running of the rabbit and the woodchuck; the farmhouse gray and paint-peeled, sleeping possibly but more likely dead—needing burial.

  It hadn’t changed much in all those years. It hadn’t changed; only died.

  He parked the car and got out, taking it all in with eyes still intent and quick for all their years. Somehow he hadn’t really thought it would still be standing. Farmhouses that were near collapse fifty years ago shouldn’t still be standing; not when all the people, his mother and father and aunt and the rest, were all long in their graves.

  He was an old man, had been an old man almost as long as he could remember. Youth to him was only memories of this farm, so many years before, romping in the hay with his little sister at his side; swinging from the barn ropes, exploring endless dark depths out beyond the last field. After that, he was old—through misty college days and marriage to a woman he hadn’t loved, through a business and political career that carried him around the world. And never once in all those years had he journeyed back to this place, this farmhouse now given over to the weeds and insects. They were all dead; there was no reason to come back . . . no reason at all.

  Except the memory of the ooze.

  A childhood memory, a memory buried with the years, forgotten sometimes but always there, crowded into its own little space in his mind, was ready to confront him and startled him with its vividness.

  The ooze was a place beyond the last field, where water always collected in the springtime and after a storm; water running over dirt and clay and rock, merging with the soil until there was nothing underfoot but a black ooze to rise above your boots. He’d followed the stream rushing with storm
water, followed it to the place where it cut into the side of the hill.

  It was the memory of the tunnel, really, that had brought him back—the dark tunnel leading nowhere, gurgling with rain-fed water, barely large enough for him to fit through. A tunnel floored with unseen ooze, peopled by unknown danger; that was a place for every boy.

  Had he been only ten that day? Certainly he’d been no more than eleven, leading the way while his nine-year-old sister followed. “This way. Be careful of the mud.” She’d been afraid of the dark, afraid of what they might find there. But he’d called encouragement to her; after all, what could there be in all this ooze to hurt them?

  How many years? Fifty?

  “What is it, Buddy?” She’d always called him Buddy. What is it, Buddy? Only darkness, and a place maybe darker than dark, with a half-formed shadow rising from the ooze. He’d brought along his father’s old lantern, and he fumbled to light it.

  “Buddy!” she’d screamed—just once—and in the flare of the match he’d seen the thing, great and hairy and covered with ooze; something that lived in the darkness here, something that hated the light. In that terrifying instant it had reached out for his little sister and pulled her into the ooze.

  That was the memory, a memory that came to him sometimes only at night. It had pursued him down the years like a fabled hound, coming to him, reminding him, when all was well with the world. It was like a personal demon sent from Hades to torture him. He’d never told anyone about that thing in the ooze, not even his mother. They’d cried and carried on when his sister was found the next day, and they’d said she’d drowned. He was not one to say differently.

  And the years had passed. For a time, during his high school days, he read the local papers—searching for some word of the thing, some veiled news that it had come out of that forgotten cavern. But it never did; it liked the dark and damp too much. And, of course, no one else ever ventured into the stream bed. That was a pursuit only for the very young and very foolish.