Image of the Beast and Blown

by Philip José Farmer

  during the time—that the liquid contained something

  which did not become a drug unless it contacted human

  epidermis?

  He sat up in bed then. Sergeant Mustanoja! He should

  have been worrying about Childe's failure to call in.

  What had he done—if anything?

  He phoned the LAPD and got Mustanoja. Yeah, he

  had the note but Bruin didn't seem to think it was im-

  portant and, anyway, what with being so busy—what

  a night!—he had forgotten it. That is, until this Beverly

  Hills officer called in about him and then Mustanoja

  had found out what happened and knew he was not at

  Igescu's so what was there to worry about, huh7 How

  was Childe?

  Childe said he was home and OK. He hung up with

  some anger at Bruin for making light of his concern.

  However, he had to admit that there was no reason for

  Bruin to do otherwise. He would change his opinion af-

  ter he found out what had happened last night. Perhaps,

  Bruin could arrange with the Beverly Hills Police De-

  partment … No, that wasn't going to work. The BHPD

  had far more immediate duties than investigating what

  was, objectively speaking, a very hazy lead. And

  there were certain things, important things, about the

  events that Childe was not going to tell them. He could

  skip the summerhouse activities and just say that he

  had been drugged with the brandy in the drawing room,

  but the officers were shrewd, they had heard so many

  false tales and part-true tales, so many omissions and

  hesitations, that they picked up untruths and distortions

  as easily as radar distinguished an eagle from an air-

  liner.

  Besides, he had the feeling that Magda would not

  hesitate to claim that Childe had raped her and forced

  "perversions" upon her.

  He had gotten into bed again but now he climbed out

  swiftly once more. He felt ashamed and sick. That drug

  had overcome his normal fastidiousness and caution. He

  would never have gone down on a woman he just met.

  He always reserved this act—even if he were strongly

  tempted to do so—for women whom he knew well,

  liked or loved, and was reasonably sure were free of

  syphilis or gonorrhea.

  Although he had brushed his teeth, he went into the

  bathroom and brushed again and then gargled deeply

  ten times with a burning mouthwash. From the kitchen

  cabinet he took a bottle of bourbon, which he kept

  for guests, and drank it straight. It was a dumb act, be-

  cause he doubted that the alcohol would kill any germs

  he had swallowed so many hours ago, but it, like many

  purely ritual acts, made him feel better and cleaner.

  He started for bed again and then stopped. He had

  been so upset that he had forgotten to check in with the

  exchange or turn on the recorder. He tried the exchange

  and hung up after the phone rang thirty times. Appar-

  ently, the exchange was not yet operating again or had

  lost its third-shift operator. The recorder yielded one

  call. It was from Sybil, at nine o'clock. She asked him

  to please call her as soon as he came in, no matter what

  time it was.

  It was now three-ten in the morning.

  Her phone rang uninterruptedly. The ring seemed

  to him like the tolling of a faraway bell. He envisioned

  her lying on the bed, one hand drooping over the edge

  of the bed, her mouth open, the eyes opened and glazed.

  On the little table by the bed was an empty bottle of

  phenobarbital.

  If she had tried to kill herself again, she would be

  dead by now. That is, if she had taken the same amount

  as the last time.

  He had sworn that if she tried again, she would

  have to go through with it, at least as far as he was con-

  cerned.

  Nevertheless, he dressed and was out on the street and

  walking within a minute. He arrived at her apartment

  panting, his eyes burning, his lungs doubly burned from

  exertion and smog. The poison was accumulating swiftly,

  so swiftly that by tomorrow evening it would be as

  thick as before—unless the winds came.

  Her apartment was silent. His heart was beating and

  his stomach clenching as he entered her bedroom and

  switched on the light. Her bed was not only empty; it

  had not been slept in. And her suitcases were gone.

  He went over the apartment carefully but could find

  nothing to indicate "foul play." Either she had gone on a

  trip or someone had taken the suitcases so that that im-

  pression would be given.

  If she had wanted him to know that she was leav-

  ing, why hadn't she left the message?

  Perhaps her call and her sudden departure were un-

  related.

  There was the possibility that they were directly

  related but that she had told him only enough to get

  him over here so that he would worry about her. She

  could be angry enough to want to punish him. She had

  been mean enough to do similar things. But she had al-

  ways quickly relented and tearfully and shamefully

  called him.

  He sat down in an easy chair, then got up again

  and went into the kitchen and opened the secret com-

  partment in the wall of the cabinet rear, second shelf'

  up. The little round candy cup and its contents of white-

  paper-wrapped marijuana sticks—fifteen in all—were

  still there.

  If she had left willingly, she would have disposed of

  this first.

  Unless she were very upset.

  He had not found her address book in any of the

  drawers when he had searched, but he looked again to

  make sure. The book was not there, and he doubted that

  any of the friends she had when they were married

  would know her whereabouts. She had been dropped by

  them or she had dropped them after the divorce. There

  was one, a life-long friend, whom she still wrote to

  now and then, but she had moved from California over

  a year ago.

  Perhaps her mother was ill, and Sybil had left in a

  hurry. But she wouldn't be in such a hurry that she

  wouldn't have left the message with the recorder.

  He did not remember her mother's number but he

  knew her address. He got the information from the oper-

  ator and put a call through to the San Francisco ad-

  dress. The phone rang for a long time. Finally, he hung

  up and then thought of what he should have immedi-

  ately checked. He was deeply upset to have overlooked

  that.

  He went into the basement garage. Her car was still

  there.

  By then he was considering the fantastic—or was it

  fantastic?—possibility that Igescu had taken her.

  Why would Igescu do this?

  If Igescu was responsible for Colben's death and

  Budler's disappearance, then he might have designs on

  the detective investigating the case. Childe had pre-

  tended to be Wellston, the magazine reporter, but he

  had been forced to
give his own phone number. And

  Igescu may have checked out the so-called Wellston.

  Certainly, Igescu had the money to do this.

  What if Igescu knew that Wellston was really Childe?

  And, having found out that Childe had not gotten into

  the serious car accident he had hoped for, he had taken

  Sybil away. Perhaps Igescu planned to let Childe know

  that he had better drop the investigation … no, it

  would be more probable that Igescu wanted to force

  him to break into the estate, to trespass. For reasons

  of his own, of course.

  Childe shook his head. If Igescu were guilty, if he,

  say, had been guilty of other crimes, why was he sud-

  denly letting the police know that these crimes had been

  committed?

  This question was not one to be answered immedi-

  ately. The only thing as of this moment was whether or

  not Sybil had gone voluntarily and, if she had not, with

  whom had she gone?

  He had not checked the airports. He sat down and

  began dialing. The phones of every airline were busy,

  but he hung on until he got through to each and then

  went through more exasperating waits while the passenger

  lists were checked. At the end of two hours, he knew

  that she had not taken a plane out. She might have in-

  tended to, but the airlines had been overburdened ever

  since the smog had become serious. The waiting lists

  were staggeringly long, and the facilities at the ports, the

  restaurants and toilets, had long queues. Parking facil-

  ities no longer existed for newcomers. Too many people

  had simply left their cars and taken off with no inten-

  tion of returning immediately. The authorities had im-

  posed an emergency time limitation, but the process

  of towing away cars to make room for others was

  tedious, involved, and slow. The traffic jam-up around

  International Airport demanded more police officers

  than were available.

  He ate some cereal and milk and then, though it

  hurt him to think of all the money wasted, he flushed

  the marijuana down the toilet. If she continued to be miss-

  ing and he had to notify the police, her apartment would

  be searched. On the other hand, if she were to return

  soon and find her supply gone, she would be in a rage.

  But surely she would understand why he had had to get

  rid of the stuff.

  Dawn had arrived by then. The sun was a twisted pale-

  yellow thing in a white sky. Visibility was limited to a

  hundred feet. The eye-burning and the nostril-scorching

  and the lung-searing were back.

  He decided to call Bruin and to tell him about Sybil.

  Bruin would, of course, think that he was being unduly

  concerned and would think, even if he didn't say so,

  that she had simply left for an extended shacking-up with

  some man. Or, possibly, Bruin being the cynic he was,

  she was shacking up with some woman.

  Bruin called him as he stood before the phone.

  "We got a package in the late mail yesterday after-

  noon but it wasn't opened until a little while ago. You

  better get down here, Childe. Can you make it in half

  an hour?"

  "What's it about? Budler?" And then, "Never mind.

  But how did you know I was here?"

  "I tried your place and you didn't answer, so I thought

  I'd try your ex-wife's. I knew you was still friendly with

  her."

  "Yeah," Childe said, realizing that it was too early to

  report her missing. "I'll be down in time. See you.

  Unh-unh! Maybe I can't! I have to get my car first and

  that may take some time."

  He told Bruin what had happened but censored the

  summerhouse activities. Bruin was silent for a long time

  and then said, "You realize, Childe, that we're all doing

  a juggling act now, keeping three balls or more in the

  air at the same time? I'd investigate Igescu even if you

  don't have anything provable, because they sure sound

  like a fishy lot, but I doubt we could get into that place

  without a court order and we don't have any evidence

  to get an order. You know that. So it's up to you. Those

  wolf hairs in Budler's car and now this film—well, I

  ain't going to tell you about it, you got to see it to believe

  it—but if you can't get down here on time … lis-

  ten, I could have a squad car pick you up. I would if

  this was ordinary times, but there's none available. Tell

  you what, if I'm out, you can get the film run off again,

  I'll leave word it's OK. Anyway, it might be shown

  again for the Commissioner. He's up to his ass in work,

  but he's taking a special interest in this case, and no won-

  der."

  Childe drank some orange juice, shaved (Sybil kept a

  man's razor and shaving cream for him and—he sus-

  pected—for other men) and then walked to the Beverly

  Hills Police Department. He got his key from the desk

  sergeant and asked if it were possible to get a ride with

  a squad car out to his car. He was told it was not. He

  tried to get a taxi, could not, and decided to hitchhike

  out. After fifteen minutes, he gave up. There were not

  many autos on Santa Monica Boulevard and Rexford,

  and the few that did go by ignored him. He did not blame

  them. Picking up hitchhikers at any time was potenti-

  ally dangerous, but in this eery white-lighted smog any-

  body would have looked sinister. Moreover, the radio,

  TV, and newspapers were advising caution because of

  the number of crimes in the streets.

  His eyes teary and the interior of his nostrils and throat

  feeling as if he were sniffing in fumes from boiling metal,

  he stood upon the corner. He could see the house across

  the street and make out the city hall and the public li-

  brary across the street from it as dim bulks, motionless

  icebergs in a fog. Far down, or seemingly far down, Rex-

  ford Avenue, a pair of headlights appeared and then

  swung out of sight.

  Presently a black-and-white squad car passed him.

  When it was almost out of sight up Rexford, it stopped

  and then backed up until it was by him. The officer on

  the right, without getting out of the car, asked him what.

  he was doing there. Childe told him. Fortunately, the

  officer had heard about him. He invited Childe to get in

  and ride with them. They had no definite goal at that

  moment; they were cruising around the area (the wealthy

  residential district, of course) but there was nothing to

  stop them from going that far out. Childe had to under-

  stand that if they got a call, they might have to dump

  him out on the spot, and he would be stranded again.

  Childe said that he would take a chance.

  It took fifteen minutes to get to his car. Only an emer-

  gency would have forced them to speed through this thick

  milky stuff. He thanked them and then started the car

  without any trouble, backed up, and swung toward town.

  Forty minutes later, he was parked in the LAPD visitors'
r />   lot.

  12

  Budler was in the same room in which Colben had been

  killed. The first scenes had shown Budler being condi-

  tioned, going through fear and impotence at first and

  then confidence and active, eager participation. In the

  beginning, he had been strapped to the same table but

  later the table was gone and a bed took its place.

  Budler was a little man with narrow shoulders and

  skinny hips and legs, but he had a tremendous penis. He

  was pale-skinned and had light blue eyes and straw-

  colored hair. His pubic hairs were a light-brown. His

  penis, however, was dark, as if blood always filled it.

  He had an unusual capacity for sustaining erections after

  orgasms and an unusual supply of seminal fluid.

  (Both victims had been men with hyper sex drives,

  or, at least, men whose lives seemed to be dominated by

  sex. Both were promiscuous, both had made a number

  of girls pregnant, been arrested or suspected of statutory

  rape, and were known as loudmouths about their con-

  quests. Both were what his wife described as "creeps."

  There was something nasty about them. Childe thought

  that the victims had possibly been selected with poetic

  justice in mind.)

  The woman with the garish makeup, and the creature?

  —machine?—organ?—concealed behind her G-string,

  was an actor; she specialized in sucking cock and she

  took out her teeth several times but she did not use the

  iron teeth. Every time he saw her remove the false

  teeth, Childe tensed and felt sick but he was spared the

  mutilation.

  There were other actors, also. One was an enormously

  fat woman with beautiful white skin. Her face never ap-

  peared. There was another woman, whose figure was su-

  perb, whose face was always hidden, usually by a mask.

  Both of these used their mouths and cunts, and once

  Budler buggered the fat woman.

  There were also two men, their faces masked. Childe

  studied their bodies carefully, but he could not say that

  either was Igescu or Glam or the youth who had been

  playing billiards. One of the men had a build similar to

  Igescu's and another was a very big and muscular man.

  But he could not identify them as anyone he had seen