Image of the Beast / Blown

by Philip José Farmer

This was no longer true.

  That night he had come home to his house in the 800

  block of Sherbourne Drive. It was raining then as now,

  and water was pouring down his driveway into the street.

  The street was flooded but the water had not yet risen

  to cover the sidewalk. It was after one o'clock, and

  he had just left a party at Wendy's to come here be-

  cause he had to get out one of his comic magazines.

  As editor of Vampirella and some horror maga-

  zines, he had hard schedule dates to meet. He had to

  edit Vampirella tonight and get it out in the morning,

  air mail, special delivery, to his publisher in New York.

  He had unlocked the door and entered the front room.

  This was a rather large room decorated with large and

  small original paintings of science-fiction and fantasy

  magazine covers, paintings done on commission, stills

  from various horror and so-called science-fiction movies,

  photographs of Lon Chaney, Jr., as the Wolf Man, Boris

  Karloff as Boris Karloff, and Bela Lugosi as Dracula.

  Each bore a signature and a dedication of best wishes

  and fondest regards to "Forry." There were also heads

  and masks of Frankenstein's monster, the Creature from

  the Black Lagoon, King Kong, and a number of other

  fictional monsters. The bookshelves reached from floor

  to ceiling at several places, and these were jammed

  with the works of science-fiction authors, Gothic novel

  writers, and some volumes on exotic sexual practices.

  Forry's house had to be seen to be visualized. It had

  once been his residence, but he had filled it with works

  evaluated at over a million dollars. He had moved into

  Wendy's apartment and now used the house as his busi-

  ness office and as his private museum. The day would

  come—perish the day!—when he would no longer be

  around to enjoy, to vibrate with joy, in the midst of

  his dream come true. Then it would become a public

  museum with the great Ray Bradbury as trustee, and

  people would come from all over the world to view his

  collection or to do research in the rare books and with

  the paintings and manuscripts and letters. He was think-

  ing about having his ashes placed in a bronze bust of

  Karloff as Frankenstein's monster and the bust put on a

  pedestal in the middle of this room. Thus he would be

  here in physical fact, though not in spirit, since he re-

  fused to believe in any survival after death.

  California law, however, forbade any such deposit of

  one's ashes. The morticians' and cemetery owners' lobby

  had insured that the legislature passed laws beneficial to

  their interests. Even a man's ashes had to be buried in

  a cemetery, no matter what his wishes. There was a

  provision that ashes could be scattered out over the sea,

  but only from an airplane at a suitable distance and height.

  The lobby ensured that the ashes of a number of de-

  ceased were stored until a mass, thus economical, flight

  could be made.

  Forry, thinking about this, suppressed his anger at the

  money-hungry and essentially soulless robbers of the

  bereaved. He wondered if he could not make some

  arrangements for an illegal placing of his ashes in the

  bust. Why not? He could get some of his friends to do

  it. They were a wild bunch—some of them were—and

  they would not be stopped by a little illegality.

  While he was standing there, taking off his raincoat.

  he looked around. There was the J. Allen St. John

  painting of Circe and the swine, Ulysses' buddies. And

  there, pride of his prides, and there … and there ...

  The Stoker was gone.

  It had been hung on a place opposite the door so

  that anybody entering could not miss seeing it. It had

  displaced two paintings. Forry had had a hard time

  finding space in this house where every inch of wall

  was accounted for.

  Now, a blank spot showed where it had been.

  Forry crossed the room and sat down. His heart beat

  only a little faster. He had a faulty pacemaker; it con-

  trolled the heart within a narrow range, and that ex-

  plained why he had to take stairs slowly and could not

  run. Nor did excitement step up the heart. The emotions

  were there, however, and they made him quiver when he

  should have beat.

  He thought of calling the police, as he had done sev-

  eral times in the past. His collection had been the object

  of attentions of many a burglar, usually a science-fiction

  or horror addict who brushed aside any honesty he might

  have possessed in his lust to get his hands on books,

  paintings, stills, manuscripts, masks, photographs of the

  famous, and so forth. He had lost thousands of dollars

  from this thievery, which was bad enough. But the realiza-

  tion that some of the works were irreplaceable hurt him

  far worse. And the thought that anybody could do these

  evil things to him, who loved the world as he did not

  love God, hurt. Who loved people, rather, since he was

  no Nature lover.

  Putting aside his first inclination to call the police, he

  decided to check with the Dummocks. These were a

  young couple who had moved in shortly after the pre-

  vious caretakers, the Wards, had moved out. Renzo and

  Huli Dummock were broke and houseless, as usual, so

  he had offered them his hospitality. All they had to do

  was keep the house clean and fairly well ordered and

  act as helpers sometimes when he gave a party. Also,

  they would be his burglar insurance, since he no longer

  lived in the house.

  He went upstairs after calling a number of times and

  getting no answer. The bedroom was the only room in

  the house which had space for residents. There was a

  bed and a dresser and a closet, all of which the Dum-

  mocks used. Their clothes were thrown on the bed, the

  floor, the dresser top, and on a pile of books in one cor-

  ner. The bed had been unmade for days.

  The Dummocks were not there, and he doubted they

  could be anyplace else in the house. They had gone

  out for the night, as they quite often did. He did not

  know where they got their money to spend, since Huli

  was the only one working and she did that only between

  fits of apathy. Renzo wrote stories but had so far been

  able to sell only his hardcore pornography and not much

  of that. Forry thought they must be visiting somebody

  off whom they were undoubtedly sponging. This increased

  his anger, since he asked very little of them in return for

  room and board. Being here nights to watch for burglars

  had been their main job. And if he reproached them for

  falling down on this, they would sneer at him and accuse

  him of exploiting them.

  He searched through the house and then put on his

  raincoat and went out to the garage. The Stoker painting

  was not there.

  Five minutes later, he got a phone call. The voice was

  muffled and unrecognizable,
although the caller had iden-

  tified himself as Rupert Vlad, a friend and a committee-

  man in the Count Dracula Society. Since Forry took all

  his calls through the answering service, he could listen in

  and determine if he wished to answer any. This voice

  was unfamiliar, but the name got the caller through.

  "Forry, this isn't Vlad. Guess you know that?"

  "I know," said Forry softly. "Who is it?"

  "A FRIEND, Forry. You know me, but I'd just as

  soon not tell you who I really am. I belong to the Lord

  Ruthven League and the Count Dracula Society, too. I

  don't want to get anybody mad at me. But I'll tell you

  something. I heard about you getting that painting of

  Dracula by Stoker. I was going to come over and see it.

  But I attended a meeting of the Lord Ruthven League

  … and I saw it there."

  "You what?" Forry said shrilly. For once, he had lost

  his self-control.

  "Yeah. I saw it on the wall of, uh, well …"

  There was a pause.

  Forry said, "For the sake of Hugo, man, don't keep

  me hanging in air! I have a right to know!"

  "Yeah, but I feel such a shit finking on this guy.

  He…"

  "He's a thief!" Forry said. "A terrible thief! You

  wouldn't be a fink. You'd be doing a public service! Not

  to mention servicing me!"

  Even in his excitement and indignation, he could not

  keep from punning.

  "Yeah, uh, well, I guess you're right. I'll tell you. You

  go right over to Woolston Heepish's house. You'll see

  what I'm talking about."

  "Woolston Heepish!" Forry said. He groaned and then

  added, "Oh, no!"

  "Uh, yeah! I guess he's been bugging you for years,

  right? I kinda feel sorry for you, Forry, having to put up

  with him, though I must say he does have a magnificent

  collection. I guess he should, since he got some of it from

  you."

  "I never gave him anything!"

  "No, but he took. So long, Forry."

  26

  Fifteen minutes later, Forry was outside the Heepish

  residence. This was two blocks over from Forry's own

  house, almost even with it. In the dark and the driving

  rain, it looked like an exact duplicate of the Ackerman-

  sion. It was a California pseudo-Spanish bungalow with

  a green-painted stucco exterior. The driveway was on

  the left as you approached the house, and when you

  stepped past the extension of the house, a wall, you saw

  the big tree that grew in the patio. It leaned at a forty-

  five degree angle across the house, and its branches lay

  like a great hand over part of the tiled roof. At the end

  of the driveway was the garage, and in front of the ga-

  rage was a huge wooden cutout of a movie monster.

  You turned to the right and onto a small porch to face

  a wooden door plastered with various signs: NO SMOK-

  ING PERMITTED. WIPE YOUR FEET AND YOUR

  MIND BEFORE ENTERING. THE EYES OF HEEP-

  ISH ARE ON YOU (hinting at the closed-circuit TV

  with which Heepish scanned his visitors before admit-

  ing them). ESPERANTO AND VOLAPÜK SPOKEN

  HERE. (This bugged Forry, who was a long-time and

  ardent Esperantist. Heepish not only imitated Ackerman

  with the Esperanto, but, in his efforts to go him one

  better, had learned Esperanto's closest rival, Volapük.)

  Forry stood for some time before the door, his finger

  held out to press on the doorbell. The skies were still

  emptying their bins; the splash of water was all around.

  Water roared out of the gutter drains and covered the

  patio. The light above the door gave a ghastly green

  illumination. All that the scene needed was thunder and

  lightning, the door swinging open slowly and creakingly,

  and a tall pale-faced, red-lipped man with sharp features

  and black hair plastered close to his head, and a deep

  voice with a Hungarian accent saying, "Good evening!"

  There was no light from the interior of the house.

  Every window was curtained off or boarded up or barred

  by bookcases. Forry had not seen the interior of the

  house, but it had been described to him. His own house

  was so furnished.

  Finally, he dropped his hand from the doorbell. He

  would scout around a little. After all, he would look like

  an ass if he barged in demanding to have his painting

  back, only to find that his informant had lied. It would

  not be the first time that he had been maliciously mis-

  informed so he would get into an embarrassing situation.

  He walked around the side of the house and then to

  the back. There should be a room here which had once

  been an anteroom or pantry for the kitchen. In his own

  house, it was now piled with books and magazines; in

  fact, he kept his collection of Doc Savage magazines just

  off the kitchen door.

  The curtains over the windows were shut tight. He

  placed his ear against the window in the door but could

  hear nothing. After a while, he returned to the front.

  That there were two cars in the driveway and a number

  parked in the street might indicate that Heepish had

  guests. Perhaps he should return to his house and phone

  Heepish.

  Then he decided that he would confront Heepish di-

  rectly. He would not give him a chance to deny he had

  the painting or to hide it.

  Having made up his mind, he still could not bring him-

  self to ring the doorbell. He went to the front of the

  house and stood in the bushes for a while while the rain

  pelted him and water dripped off the branches. The con-

  frontation was going to be dreadful. Highly embarrass-

  ing. For both of them. Well, maybe not for Heepish.

  That man had more nerve than a barrel of brass mon-

  keys.

  A car passing by threw its water-soaked beams on him

  for a minute. He blinked against the diffused illumination

  and then walked from under the shelter of the bush. Why

  wait any longer? Heepish was not going to come out and

  invite him in.

  He pressed the button, which was the nose of a gar-

  goyle face painted on the door. A loud clanging as of

  bells came from within followed by several bars of organ

  music: Gloomy Sunday.

  There was a peephole in the large door, but Heepish

  no longer used this, according to Forry's informants. The

  pressing of the doorbell now activated a TV camera

  located behind a one-way window on the left of the

  porch.

  A voice from the Frankenstein mask nailed on the

  door said, "As I live and don't breathe! Forrest J (no

  period) Ackerman! Thrice welcome!"

  A moment later, the door swung open with a loud

  squeaking as of rusty hinges. This, of course, was a re-

  cording synchronized to the door.

  Woolston Heepish himself greeted Forry. He was

  six feet tall, portly, soft-looking, somewhat paunched, and

  had a prominent dewlap. His walrus moustache was

  bronzish, and his hair was dark red, straight, and s
lick.

  He wore square rimless spectacles behind which gray

  eyes blinked. He hunched forward as if he had spent

  most of his life reading books or working at a desk. Or

  standing under a rainy bush, Forry thought.

  "Come in!" he said in a soft voice. He extended a

  hand which Forry shook, although he wished he could

  ignore it, let it hang out in the air. But, after all, he did

  not know for sure that Heepish was guilty.

  Then he stiffened, and he dropped Heepish's hand.

  Over Heepish's shoulder he saw the painting. It was

  hung at approximately the same place it had hung in

  his house. There was Dracula sinking those long canines

  into the neck of a blonde girl!

  He became so angry that the room swirled for a mo-

  ment.

  Heepish took his arm and walked him towards the

  sofa, saying, "You look ill, Forry. Surely I don't have

  that effect on you?"

  There were five others in the room, and they gathered

  about the sofa where he sat. They looked handsome and

  beautiful and were dressed in expensive up-to-the-latest-

  minute clothes.

  "My painting!" Forry gasped. "The Stoker!"

  Heepish looked up at it and put the tips of his fingers

  together to make a church steeple. He smiled under the

  walrus moustache.

  "You like it! I'm so glad! A fabulous collector's item!"

  Forry choked and tried to stand up. One of the guests,

  a woman who looked as if she were Mexican, pushed him

  back down.

  "You look pale. What are you doing out on a night

  like this? You're soaked! Stay there. I'll get you a

  cup of coffee."

  "I don't want coffee," Forry said. He tried to stand up

  but felt too dizzy. "I just want my painting back."

  The woman returned with a cup of hot coffee, a pack-

  age of sugar, and a pitcher of cream on a tray. She

  offered it to him, saying, "I am Mrs. Panchita Pocyotl."

  "Of course, how graceless of me!" Heepish said. "I

  apologize for not introducing you, my dear Forry. My

  only excuse is that I was worried about your health."

  The other woman was a tall slender blonde with large

  breasts, a Diana Rumbow. The three men were Fred

  Pao, a Chinese, Rex Bilgren, a mulatto, and George