Numb, numb and empty, I must have looked as people do immediately after a terrible accident, before they fully understand what has happened. I could only think of a man I had once seen on the platform of a railway station, quite conscious, and looking stupidly at his leg still on the line where the train had just passed.
My throat was aching terribly, and that made me wonder if my vocal chords had not perhaps been torn, and whether I would ever be able to speak again.
The noise of the typewriter suddenly stopped and I felt I was going to scream again as something touched the door and a sheet of paper slid from under it.
Shivering with fear and disgust, I crawled over to where I could read it without touching it:
NOW YOU UNDERSTAND. THAT LAST EXPERIMENT WAS A NEW DISASTER MY POOR HELENE. I SUPPOSE YOU RECOGNIZED PART OF DANDELO’S HEAD. WHEN I WENT INTO THE DISINTEGRATOR JUST NOW, MY HEAD WAS ONLY THAT OF A FLY. I NOW ONLY HAVE ITS EYES AND MOUTH LEFT. THE REST HAS BEEN REPLACED BY PARTS OF THE CAT’S HEAD. POOR DANDELO WHOSE ATOMS HAD NEVER COME TOGETHER. YOU SEE NOW THAT THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION, DON’T YOU? I MUST DISAPPEAR. KNOCK ON THE DOOR WHEN YOU ARE READY AND I SHALL EXPLAIN WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO.
Of course he was right, and it had been wrong and cruel of me to insist on a new experiment. And I knew that there was now no possible hope, that any further experiments could only bring about worse results.
Getting up dazed, I went to the door and tried to speak, but no sound came out of my throat . . . so I knocked once!
You can of course guess the rest. He explained his plan in short typewritten notes, and I agreed, I agreed to everything!
My head on fire, but shivering with cold, like an automaton, I followed him into the silent factory. In my hand was a full page of explanations: what I had to know about the steam-hammer.
Without stopping or looking back, he pointed to the switchboard that controlled the steam-hammer as he passed it. I went no further and watched him come to a halt before the terrible instrument.
He knelt down, carefully wrapped the carpet round his head, and then stretched out flat on the ground.
It was not difficult. I was not killing my husband. Andre, poor Andre, had gone long ago, years ago it seemed. I was merely carrying out his last wish . . . and mine.
Without hesitating, my eyes on the long still body, I firmly pushed the “stroke” button right in. The great metallic mass seemed to drop slowly. It was not so much the resounding clang of the hammer that made me jump as the sharp cracking which I had distinctly heard at the same time. My hus . . . the thing’s body shook a second and then lay still.
It was then I noticed that he had forgotten to put his right arm, his fly-leg, under the hammer. The police would never understand but the scientists would, and they must not! That had been Andre’s last wish, also!
I had to do it and quickly, too; the night watchman must have heard the hammer and would be round any moment. I pushed the other button and the hammer slowly rose. Seeing but trying not to look, I ran up, leaned down, lifted and moved forward the right arm which seemed terribly light. Back at the switchboard, again I pushed the red button, and down came the hammer a second time. Then I ran all the way home.
You know the rest and can now do whatever you think right.
So ended Helene’s manuscript.
~ * ~
The following day I telephoned Commissaire Charas to invite him to dinner.
“With pleasure, Monsieur Delambre. Allow me, however to ask: is it the Commissaire you are inviting, or just Monsieur Charas?”
“Have you any preference?”
“No, not at the present moment.”
“Well then, make it whichever you like. Will eight o’clock suit you?”
Although it was raining, the Commissaire arrived on foot that evening.
“Since you did not come tearing up to the door in your black Citroen, I take it you have opted for Monsieur Charas, off duty?”
“I left the car up a side-street,” mumbled the Commissaire with a grin as the maid staggered under the weight of his raincoat.
“Merci,” he said a minute later as I handed him a glass of Pernod into which he tipped a few drops of water, watching it turn the golden amber liquid to pale blue milk.
“You heard about my poor sister-in-law?”
“Yes, shortly after you telephoned me this morning. I am sorry, but perhaps it was all for the best. Being already in charge of your brother’s case, the inquiry automatically comes to me.”
“I suppose it was suicide.”
“Without a doubt. Cyanide the doctors say quite rightly; I found a second tablet in the unstitched hem of her dress.”
“Monsieur est servi,” announced the maid.
“I would like to show you a very curious document afterwards, Charas.”
“Ah, yes. I heard that Madame Delambre had been writing a lot, but we could find nothing beyond the short note informing us that she was committing suicide.”
During our tête-à-tête dinner, we talked politics, books and films, and the local football club of which the Commissaire was a keen supporter.
After dinner, I took him up to my study where a bright fire —a habit I had picked up in England during the war—was burning.
Without even asking him, I handed him his brandy and mixed myself what he called “crushed-bug juice in soda water” —his appreciation of whiskey.
“I would like you to read this, Charas; first because it was partly intended for you and, secondly, because it will interest you. If you think Commissaire Charas has no objection, I would like to burn it after.”
Without a word, he took the wad of sheets Helene had given me the day before and settled down to read them.
“What do you think of it all?” I asked some 20 minutes later as he carefully folded Helene’s manuscript, slipped it into the brown envelope, and put it into the fire.
Charas watched the flames licking the envelope from which wisps of gray smoke were escaping, and it was only when it burst into flames that he said, slowly raising his eyes to mine: “I think it proves very definitely that Madame Delambre was quite insane.”
For a long while we watched the fire eating up Helene’s “confession.”
“A funny thing happened to me this morning, Charas. I went to the cemetery, where my brother is buried. It was quite empty and I was alone.”
“Not quite, Monsieur Delambre. I was there, but I did not want to disturb you.”
“Then you saw me . . .”
“Yes. I saw you bury a matchbox.”
“Do you know what was in it?”
“A fly, I suppose.”
“Yes. I had found it early this morning, caught in a spider’s web in the garden.”
“Was it dead?”
“No, not quite. I . . . crushed it . . . between two stones. Its head was . . . white . . . all white.”
<
~ * ~
BLOOD BROTHER
BY CHARLES BEAUMONT
This story is as amusing and brief as “The Fly” is horripilating and long. A light soufflé concocted of vampires, it represented a departure for the late Charles Beaumont, who built his large and loyal following principally on stories of powerful emotional impact (such as “The Crooked Man,” which you will discover later in these pages); on his novel, “The Intruder,” which tackled the difficult problems of racial integration in the South; and on his numerous dramatic motion picture and television plays. Of him, Ray Bradbury said: “Some writers are one-idea people. Other writers, far rarer, far wilder, are pomegranates. They burst with seed. Chuck has always been a pomegranate writer. You simply never know where his love and high excitement will take him next.” When Beaumont wrote “Blood Brother,” a playboy editor somewhat bemusedly observed that it read like a Bob Newhart routine. “Thank you very much” replied Beaumont. “It was meant to.”
~ * ~
“NOW, THEN,” said the psychiatrist, looking up from his note pad, “w
hen did you first discover that you were dead?”
“Not dead,” said the pale man in the dark suit. “Undead. If I was dead, I’d be in great shape. That’s the trouble, though. I can’t die.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not alive.”
“I see.” The psychiatrist made a rapid notation. “Now, Mr. Smith, I’d like you to tell me the whole story.”
The pale man shook his head. “At twenty-five dollars an hour,” he said, “are you kidding? I can barely afford to have my cape cleaned once a month.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you wear it?”
“You ever hear of a vampire without a cape? It’s part of the whole schmear, that’s all. I don’t know why!”
“Calm yourself.”
“Calm myself! I wish I could. I tell you, Doctor, I’m going right straight out of my skull. Look at this!” The man who called himself Smith put out his hands. They were a tremulous blur of white. “And look at my eyes!” They were ornamented with an intricate red lacework of veins. “Believe me,” he said, flinging himself upon the couch, “another few days of this and I’ll be ready for the funny farm!”
The psychiatrist picked a mahogany letter opener off his desk and tapped his palm irritably. “Perhaps if you would begin at the beginning, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, I met this girl, Dorcas, and she bit me.”
“Dorcas ... an unusual name . . .”
“Yeah. She’s the one recommended you. Maybe you know her?”
“It’s possible. But let’s get back to you. She bit you. And then what?”
“That’s all. It doesn’t take much, you know.”
The psychiatrist removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “As I understand it,” he said, “you think you’re a vampire.”
“No,” said Smith. “I think I’m a human being, but I am a vampire. That’s the hell of it. I can’t seem to adjust.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the hours, for instance. I used to have very regular habits. Work from nine to five, home, a little TV, maybe, into bed by ten, up at six-thirty. Now--” He shook his head violently from side to side. “You know how it is with vampires.”
“Let’s pretend I don’t,” said the psychiatrist, soothingly. “Tell me. How is it?”
“Like I say, the hours. Everything’s upside down. You’re supposed to sleep during the day and work at night.”
“Why?”
“Boy, you’ve got me. I asked Dorcas, and she said she’d try and find out, but nobody seems to be real sure about it. Of course, Dorcas was always kind of a night owl anyway, so she doesn’t mind much, but it drives me nuts. Eight jobs I’ve had —eight! —and lost every one.”
“Would you care to explain that?”
“Nothing to explain. I just can’t stay awake, that’s all. Every night—I mean every day—I toss and turn for hours and then when I finally do doze off, boom, it’s nightfall and I’ve got to get out of the coffin.”
“The coffin.”
“Yeah. That’s another sweet wrinkle. The minute you go bat, you’re supposed to give up beds and take to a casket. Which is not only sick but also expensive as hell.” Smith shook his head angrily. “First you got to buy the damn thing. Do you know the cost of the average casket?”
“Well,” began the psychiatrist.
“Astronomical! Completely out of proportion. I’m telling you, it’s a racket! For anything even halfway decent you’re going to drop five bills, easy. But that’s just the initial outlay. Then there’s the dirt. Sacking out in a coffin isn’t bad enough, no, you’ve got to line it with soil from the family plot. I ask you, who’s got a family plot these days? Have you?”
“No, but--”
“Right. So what do you do? You go out and buy one. Then you bring home a couple pounds of dirt and spread it around in the coffin. Wake up at night and you’re covered with it.” Smith clicked his tongue exasperatedly. “If you could just wear pajamas—but no, the rules say the full bit. Ever hear of anything so crazy? You can’t even take off your shoes, for cry eye!” He began to pace. “Then there’s the blood stains. I must go through twenty white shirts a month. Even at two-fifty a shirt, that’s a lot of dough. You’re probably thinking, Why isn’t he more careful? Well, listen, I try to be. But it isn’t like eating a bowl of tomato soup, you know.” A shudder, or something like a shudder, passed over the pale man. “That’s another thing. The diet. I mean, I always used to like my steaks rare, but this is ridiculous! Blood for breakfast, blood for lunch, blood for dinner. Uch—just the thought of it makes me queasy to the stomach!” Smith flung himself back onto the couch and closed his eyes. “And the routines I have to go through to get it! What if you had to rob somebody every time you wanted a hamburger—I mean, just supposing? That’s the way it is with me. I tried stocking up on plasma, but that’s death warmed over. A few nights of it and you’ve got to go after the real thing, no matter how many promises you’ve made to yourself.”
“The real thing.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” said Smith, turning his head to the wall. “I’m actually a very sensitive person. Gentle. Kind. Never could stand violence, not even as a kid. Now . . .” He sobbed wrackingly, leaped to his feet and resumed pacing. “Do you think I enjoy biting people? Do you think I don’t know how disgusting it is? But, I tell you, I can’t help it! Every few nights I get this terrible urge . . . And, because of it, everybody hates me!”
“You feel, then, that you are being persecuted?”
“Damn right,” said Smith. “And you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I am being persecuted. That’s why. Have you ever heard a nice thing said about a vampire? Ever in your whole life? No. Why? Because people hate us. But I’ll tell you something even sillier. They fear us, too!” The pale man laughed a wild, mirthless laugh. “Us,” he said. “The most helpless creatures on the face of the Earth! Why, it doesn’t take anything to knock us over. If we don’t cut our throats trying to shave—you know the mirror bit: no reflection —we stand a chance to land flat on our backs because the neighbor downstairs is cooking garlic. Or bring us a little running water, see what happens. We flip our lids. Or silver bullets. Daylight, for crying out loud! If I’m not back in that stupid coffin by dawn, zow, I’m out like a light. Or take these.” He smiled for the first time, revealing two large pointed incisors. “What do you imagine happens to us when our choppers start to go? I’ve had this one on the left filled it must be half a dozen times. The dentist says if I was smart I’d have ‘em all yanked out and a nice denture put in. Sure. Can’t you just see me trying to rip out somebody’s throat with a pair of false teeth? Boy. Or take the bit with the wooden stake. It used to be that was kind of a secret. Now with all these lousy horror-type movies, the whole world is in on the gag. I ask you, Doctor, how are you supposed to be able to sleep when you know that everybody in the block is just itching to find you so they can drive a piece of wood into your heart? Huh? Man, you talk about sick! Those people are in really bad shape!” He shuddered again. “I’ll tell you about the jazz with crosses, but frankly, even thinking about it makes me jumpy. You know what? I have to walk three blocks out of my way to avoid the church I used to go to every Sunday! But don’t get the idea it’s just churches. No; it’s anything. Cross your fingers and I’ll start sweating. Lay a fork over a knife, and I’ll probably jump right out the window. So then what happens? I splatter myself all over the sidewalk, right? But do I die? Oh, hell, no. Doc, listen! You’ve got to help me! If you don’t, I’m going to go off my gourd, I know it!”
The psychiatrist closed his note pad and smiled. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “you may be surprised to learn that yours is a relatively simple problem . . . with a relatively simple cure.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The psychiatrist rose casually from his chair, reached for the mahogany letter opener on his desk, then swiftly plunged it down, burying it to the hilt
in Mr. Smith’s heart. Seconds later, he was dialing a telephone number. “Is Dorcas there?” he asked, idly scratching the two circular marks on his neck. “Tell her it’s her fiancé.”
<
~ * ~
LOVE, INCORPORATED
BY ROBERT SHECKLEY
Devotees of the Italian cinema know Robert Sheckley as the author of the story on which the far-out film, “The Tenth Victim “ was based, but playboy readers admired his gifts long before he enjoyed the suave services of Marcello Mastroianni and Ursula Andress. Greenwich Villager Sheckley feels ambivalent about direct personal involvement in the movie medium, however, saying, “Film seems a very exciting form, but it would call for a great deal of my time and energy, which would be at the expense of my fiction.” That would indeed be a price too high to pay. Although a young man, he has several novels and collections to his credit—most of them science fiction and fantasy, some of them espionage adventures—and he has earned the esteem of the renowned British novelist-critic Kingsley Amis, who calls him “science-fiction’s premier gadfly” as well as the only sci-fi writer “capable of imagining an independent sexual revolution.” One of the Sheckley stories cited by Amis as an example of this unique capability is “Love, Incorporated” a tale of a time when love—not simply sex—has become a commodity that can be bought and sold.
The Playboy Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Page 5