Image of the Beast and Blown

by Philip José Farmer

  Bunyan, an Englishman.

  Forry, looking at them clearly for the first time, thought

  there was something sinister about them. He could not,

  however, define it. Maybe it was something about the

  eyes. Or maybe it was because he was so outraged about

  the painting he thought that anybody who had anything

  to do with Heepish was sinister.

  Mrs. Pocyotl bent over to give him the coffee and

  exposed large light-chocolate colored breasts with big red

  nipples. She wore no brassiere under the thin formal

  gown with the deep cleavage.

  Under other circumstances, he would have been de-

  lighted.

  Then Diana Rumbow, the blonde, dropped a book

  she was holding and bent over to pick it up. Despite

  his upset condition, he responded with a slight popping

  of the eyes and a stirring around his groin. Her breasts

  were just as unbrassiered as Panchita's. They were pale

  white, and the nipples were as large as his thumb tips

  and so red they must have been rouged. When she stood

  up, he could see how darkly they stood out under the

  filmy gown she wore.

  He was also beginning to see that the bendings over

  were not accidents. They were trying to take his mind

  off his painting.

  Pocyotl sat down by him and placed her thigh against

  his. Diana Rumbow sat down on the other side and

  leaned her superb breast against the side of his arm. If

  he looked to either side, he saw swelling mounds and

  deep cleavages.

  "My painting!" he croaked.

  Heepish ignored the words. He drew up a chair and

  sat down facing Forry and said, "Well! This is a great

  honor you have done me, Mr. Ackerman. Or may I call

  you Forry?"

  "My painting, my Stoker!" Forry croaked again.

  "Now that you've finally decided to let bygones be

  bygones, and, I presume, decided that your hostility to-

  wards me was unwarranted, we must talk and talk! We

  must talk the night out. After all, what with the rain

  and all, what else is there to do but to talk? We have so

  much in common, so much, as so many people, kind and

  unkind, have pointed out. I think that we will learn to

  know each other quite well. Who knows, we might even

  decide someday that the Count Dracula Society and the

  Lord Ruthven League can band together, become the

  Greater Vampire Coven, or something like that, even if

  witches and not vampires have covens? Heh?"

  "My painting," Forry said.

  Heepish continued to talk to him, while the others

  chattered among themselves. Occasionally, one of the

  women leaned over against him. He became aware of

  their perfume, exotic odors that he did not remember

  ever having smelled before. They stimulated him even

  in his anger. And those breasts! And Pocyotl's flashing

  dark eyes and Rumbow's brilliant blue eyes!

  He shook his head. What kind of witchcraft were they

  practicing on him? He had entered with the determina-

  tion of finding the painting, taking it down from the wall

  or wherever it was, and marching out the front door

  with it. Now that he considered that, he would have to

  find something to protect it from the rain until he could

  get it into his car, which was across the street. His coat

  would do it. Never mind that he would get soaked. The

  painting was the important thing.

  But he could not get off the sofa. And Heepish would

  not pay the slightest attention to his remarks about the

  painting. Neither would the guests.

  He felt as if he were in a parallel universe which was

  in contact with that in Heepish's house but somewhat out

  of phase with it. He could communicate to a certain de-

  gree and then his words faded out. And, now that he

  looked around, this place seemed a trifle fuzzy.

  Suddenly, he wondered if his coffee had been drugged.

  It seemed so ridiculous that he tried to dismiss the

  thought. But if Heepish could steal his painting and hang

  it up where so many people would see it, knowing that

  word would quickly get to the man from whom he had

  stolen it, and if he could blandly, even friendlily, sit

  with the man from whom he had taken his property and

  act as if nothing were wrong, then such a man would have

  no compunction about drugging him.

  But why would he want to drug him?

  Thoughts of cellars with dirt floors and a six foot long,

  six foot deep trench in the dirt moved like a funeral

  train across his mind. A furnace in the basement burned

  flesh and bones. An acid pit ate away his body. He was

  roasted in an oven and this crew had him for dinner.

  He was immured, standing up, while Heepish and his

  guests toasted him with Amontillado. He was put in

  a cage in the basement and rats, scores of them, big

  hungry rats, were released into the cage. Afterwards, his

  clean-picked skeleton was wired together and stood up

  in this room as a macabre item. His friends and acquain-

  tances, members of the Count Dracula Society and the

  Lord Ruthven League, would visit here because Heepish

  would become king after the great Forry Ackerman dis-

  appeared so mysteriously. They would see the skeleton

  and wonder whose it was—since so many people play

  Hamlet to the unknown Yoricks—and might even pat his

  bony head. They might even speak of Forry Ackerman

  in the presence of the skeleton.

  Forry shook himself as a dog shakes himself emerging

  from water. He was getting a little psycho about this. All

  he had to do was assert his rights. If Heepish objected,

  he would call the police. But he did not think that even

  Heepish would have the guts to stand in his way.

  He stood up so suddenly he became even dizzier.

  He said, "I'm taking my painting, Heepish! Don't get in

  my way!"

  He turned around and stood up on the cushion and

  lifted the painting off its hook. There was a silence

  behind him, and when he turned, he saw that all were

  standing up, facing him. They formed a semicircle

  through which he would have to go to get to the door.

  They looked grave, and their eyes seemed to have

  become larger and almost luminous. It was his imagina-

  tion that put a werewolfish gleam in them. Of course.

  Mrs. Pocyotl curled her lips back, and he saw that her

  canines were very long. How had he missed that feature

  when he first saw her? She had smiled, and it seemed

  to him that her teeth were very white and very even.

  He stepped down off the sofa and said, "I want my

  coat, Heepish."

  Heepish grinned. His teeth seemed to have become

  longer, too. His gray eyes were as cold and hard as a

  winter sky in New York City.

  "You may have your coat, Forry, since you don't

  want to be friendly."

  Forry understood the emphasis. Coat but not painting.

  He said, "I'll call the police."

  "You wouldn't want to do that," Diana Rumbow said.
>
  "Why not?" Forry said.

  He wished his heart could beat faster. It should be,

  but it wasn't, even under this strain. Instead, his muscles

  were jerking, and his eyes were blinking twice as fast as

  usual, as if they were trying to substitute for the lack of

  heartbeats.

  "Because," the blonde said, "I would accuse you of

  rape."

  "What?"

  The painting almost slipped from his hands.

  Diana Rumbow slipped out of her gown, revealing that

  she was wearing only a garter belt and nylon stockings.

  Her pubic hairs were long and very thick and a bright

  yellow. Her breasts, though large, did not sag.

  Mrs. Pocyotl said, "Maybe you'd like two for the price

  of one, Forry."

  She slipped out of her gown, revealing that she wore

  only stockings and a belt. Her pubic hairs were black

  as a crow's feathers, and her breasts were conical.

  Forry stepped back until the backs of his knees were

  in contact with the sofa. He said, "What is this?"

  "Well, if the police should be called, they would find

  this house deserted except for you and the two women.

  One woman would be unconscious, and the other would

  be screaming. Both women would have sperm in their

  cunts, you can bet on that. And bruises. And you would

  be naked and dazed, as if you had, shall we say, gone

  mad with lust?"

  Forry looked at them. All were grinning now, and they

  looked very evil. They also looked as if they meant to

  do whatever Heepish ordered.

  He was in a nightmare. What kind of evil beings

  were these? All this for a painting?

  He said, loudly, "Get out of the way! I'm coming

  through! This painting is mine! And you're not going to

  intimidate me! I don't care what you do, you're not

  getting to keep this! I might have given it to you, Heepish,

  if you'd become a good friend and wanted it badly

  enough! But not now! So out of the way!"

  Holding the painting as if it were a shield or a batter-

  ing ram, he walked towards Heepish and the naked

  Rumbow.

  27

  Herald Childe drove slowly through the rain and the

  high waters. His windshield wipers were not able to cope

  at this moment, so dense was the downpour. His head-

  lights strove to pierce the sheets with little effect. Other

  cars, driven by more foolhardy Angelenos, passed him

  with great splashings.

  It took him more than two hours to get to his house

  in Topanga Canyon. He drove up the steep sidestreet

  at ten miles an hour while water, several inches deep,

  poured down past him. As he turned to go into his

  driveway, he noticed the car beneath the oak tree by the

  road. Another car that had been abandoned here, he

  supposed. There had been seven automobiles left here

  within the past several weeks. All were of the same model

  and year. All had been by the oak tree when he awoke

  in the morning. Some had been left for a week before the

  cops finally came and towed them away. Some had been

  there a few days and then had disappeared during the

  early morning hours.

  He did not know why somebody was abandoning cars

  in front of his house or, if not outright abandoning them,

  was parking them for such a long time. His neighbors for

  two blocks on either side of the house and both sides

  of the street knew nothing about the cars.

  The cops said that the cars they'd towed away were

  stolen.

  So here was the seventh. Possibly the seventh. He must

  not jump to conclusions. It could belong to somebody

  visiting his neighbors. He would find out soon enough.

  Meanwhile, he needed to get to bed. To sleep. He had

  had more than enough of that other bedtime activity.

  The house was his property. He owed nothing on it

  except the yearly taxes. It was a five room bungalow,

  Spanish style, with a big backyard and a number of trees.

  His aunt had willed it to him, and when she had died

  last year, he had moved in. He had not seen his aunt

  since 1942, when he had been a child, nor had he ex-

  changed more than three letters with her in the past ten

  years. But she had left all her property to him. There was

  enough money so that he had the house left after paying

  off the inheritance tax.

  Childe had been a private detective, but, after his ex-

  periences with Baron Igescu and the disappearance of

  his wife, he had quit. He wasn't a very good detective,

  he decided, and besides, he was sick of the business. He

  would go back to college, major in history, in which he

  had always been interested, get a master's and, possibly,

  a Ph.D. He would teach in a junior college at first and,

  later, in a university.

  It would have been more convenient for him to take

  an apartment in Westwood where he would be close to

  the UCLA campus. But his money was limited, and he

  liked the house and the comparative quiet, so he drove

  every day to school. To save gas and also to find a park-

  ing place easier on the crowded campus, he rode a

  motorcycle during the week.

  Just now the school was closed because of vacation.

  It was a lonely life. He was busy studying because

  he was carrying a full load, and he had to keep up the

  house and the yard, but he still needed someone to talk to

  and to take to bed. There were women who came up to

  his house from time to time: teachers his own age or a

  little older, some older students, and, occasionally, a

  younger chick who dug his looks. He resembled a rough-

  hewn Lord Byron. With a clubfoot mind, he always

  added mentally when someone commented on this. It

  was no secret to him that he was neurotic. But then

  who wasn't? If that was any consolation.

  He turned on the lights and checked the windows to

  make sure again that none were leaking. It was a com-

  pulsive action he went through before leaving and after

  coming back—at least three times each time. Then he

  looked out the back window. The yard was narrow but

  deep, and this was good. Behind it towered a cliff of dirt,

  which had, so far, not become a mud flow. Water poured

  off it and drowned his backyard, and the water was up

  over the bottom steps of the back porch stairs. He un-

  derstood, from what his neighbors said, that the cliff had

  been closer to the house at one time. About ten years ago

  it had slid down and covered the backyard almost to the

  house. The aunt had spent much money having the dirt

  hauled away and a concrete and steel wire embankment

  built at the foot of the cliff. Then, two years ago, in the

  extraordinarily heavy rains, the cliff had collapsed again.

  It had, however, only buried the embankment and come

  about six feet into the yard. The aunt had done nothing

  about it, and, a year later, had died.

  The entire Los Angeles, Ventura, and Orange County

  area was being inundated. The governor
was thinking

  about having Southern California declared a disaster

  area. Houses had floated away, mud slides had buried

  other houses, a car had disappeared in a hole in Ven-

  tura Boulevard, a woman waiting for a bus in downtown

  Los Angeles had been buried in a mud slide, houses were

  slipping in the Pacific Palisades' and in the canyons

  everywhere.

  There was only one consolation about the deluge. No

  smog.

  Childe went into the kitchen and opened the pantry

  and took out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He seldom drank,

  preferring marijuana, but when he was downcast and up-

  set, marijuana only made him more gloomy. He needed

  something to dull his mind and nerves, and Tennessee

  mash on the rocks would do it.

  He sipped the stuff, shaking and making a face as he

  did so. After a while, he could swallow it without re-

  pugnance. A little later, he could sip on it with pleasure.

  He began to feel numb and even a trifle happy. The

  memory of Vivienne was still with him, but it did not

  shake him so much now.

  The three men had entered and one had delicately

  placed the tip of his sword against Vivienne's neck. She

  had said something about his breaking the truce.

  What truce? He had never found out. But the man

  with the sword cane had accused her and her people—

  he called them Ogs—of first breaking the truce. The Ogs

  had captured Childe and abused him. This was definitely

  against the rules. He was not even to be aware of their

  existence or of that of the Tocs.

  Moreover, they had endangered Childe's - life. He

  might have been killed because of their irresponsible be-

  havior. In fact, the Tocs were not sure that the Ogs had

  not had it in mind to kill Childe.

  "You know as well as you know anything that we

  agreed on The Face of Barrukh and the Testicle of

  Drammukh that we would let The Child develop until

  he was ready!" the swordsman said.

  "The Child?" thought Herald. "Or did he mean The

  Childe?"

  Later, he thought, "Possibly the two are the same."

  Vivienne, still crouching on the bed, had said, "It was

  an accident that he came to our house—to Igescu's, I