Image of the Beast / Blown

by Philip José Farmer

  phrasing Alice.

  And Sybil had been a sort of Alice in Sexland. Cer-

  tainly her adventures were as strange as Alice's.

  "You never found anything peculiar about Vivienne?"

  he said.

  "No. Should I have?"

  This seemed to confirm her story about her gentle

  treatment. If Vivienne had revealed the snake-thing, and

  the two had made love to Sybil, then she was being very

  considerate of Sybil.

  Despite all this enjoyment and the use of drugs, Sybil

  had many periods of depression, frustration, and a desire

  to get away. There were times when she felt as if she were

  a cow being fattened up for the slaughter. And even

  after she became quite at ease with her captors and talked

  fluently, she could not get them to answer one question

  about the reason for her imprisonment.

  And then, two days ago, all her visitors, except for

  a woman who brought her meals now and then, quit

  coming. The woman would not even say good morning

  to her, let alone answer questions. Sybil had watched TV

  and smoked pot and wondered what was going on. Her

  fears came to the surface, and she fantasized many dread-

  ful things happening to her.

  Then, this very night, she was awakened by a hand

  shaking her. She sat up in bed, her heart throbbing

  painfully, to find three masked men by her bedside. One

  told her to get dressed. She did so, while they packed for

  her. They had brought her clothes in from someplace,

  presumably from a closet in the house. Then they blind-

  folded her and took her out of the house and drove her

  here. The drive, she estimated, had lasted about two

  hours.

  Childe did not say anything, but it seemed to him that

  she could have been located much closer than two hours'

  drive to his house. If she were prisoner in that house near

  his, her rescuers might have driven around to make it

  seem that she had been a long way from him.

  On the other hand, she might have been held in, say,

  Vivienne's house in Beverly Hills.

  "Do you feel all right?" he said.

  "What? Oh, yes, I feel fine, except for being tired.

  And I am happy that I'm out of that, although it wasn't

  an altogether unpleasant experience. But very puzzling.

  What do you think made Plugger the way he was? I

  mean, how about that electricity of his? Do you think he

  had a surgically implanted battery of some sort? It sounds

  sort of science-fictiony, doesn't it?"

  He kissed her and said, "What about some nice normal

  sex?"

  "All right," she murmured. "It's late and I'm tired, but

  I would like to have a man who's really in love with me.

  You are in love with me, aren't you? Despite all our

  troubles?"

  "I must be," he said. "There have been times this

  past year when I was almost out of my mind wondering

  what could have happened to you."

  He stood up and said, "I'll get into my pajamas after

  I shower and shave."

  "I'm clean," she said. "I'll wait right here for you.

  You can carry me to bed. It'll be so nice."

  Ten minutes later, having sped through his prepara-

  tions, he returned to the front room. She was sitting

  slumped on the sofa, fast asleep. He grinned wryly and

  kissed her on the forehead, moved her so that she was

  stretched out on the sofa, put the blanket over her, kissed

  her forehead again, and went into his bedroom. The rain

  had started again.

  32

  Forrest J Ackerman awoke with his head on the desk and

  the finally edited package of the latest issue of

  Vampirella beside him. He got up and shook his head.

  When he had finished his work this morning, he had

  intended to rush down to the post office on Robertson

  and mail it out. But he had somehow fallen asleep.

  The first thought was: The painting! Had he been

  drugged so that it could be stolen again?

  But it was leaning against the wall by the desk. He

  sighed with relief, part of which could be repressed anger

  at Woolston Heepish. Something really should be done

  about that fellow. He was not only a thief, he was danger-

  ous. Anybody who would get two women to strip in order

  to seduce him out of the painting—and before witnesses

  —was not only dangerous, he was mad.

  Forry stumbled into the kitchen, washed his face in

  the sink, and then picked up the bulky envelope contain-

  ing Vampirella. He was outside before he remembered

  that he did not have a car. One more count against

  Woolston Heepish!

  At that moment, like the Gray Lensman or Batman

  arriving to save the situation, the Dummocks drove up.

  Renzo crawled out of the car and, on all fours, progressed

  slowly towards the house. He was a youth of thirty-five,

  of medium height, black haired, ruddy faced, black

  moustached, paunched, and skinny legged. Huli, his

  wife, could walk, but just barely. She was a short woman

  with a magnificent bust, a hawk face, dark hair, and

  thick spectacles. She was thirty.

  Forry said, "I'd like to borrow your car. I have to run

  to the post office."

  "All yours," said Renzo, not looking up at him.

  "The keys," Forry said. "The keys."

  "You want Huli, you can have her. The cunt's all

  yours. Just keep me in cigarettes, food, booze, and typing

  paper, and she's all yours, Forry, old buddy. Ask her,

  she doesn't mind."

  "I want the keys to your car, not your wife!" Forry

  said loudly.

  Renzo continued to crawl towards the door. He turned

  his head and said, "Huli! Hurry up, help me up! Got the

  keys?"

  Huli stood swaying and blinking, looking like a giant

  drunken owl. "What keys? To the car or the house?"

  "Fuck it! Forry, can you open the door for me?"

  Forry looked into the car. As he had suspected, the

  keys were still in the ignition. He did not see how Renzo

  could have driven in his condition without smashing up,

  but the luck of drunkards and egoists had held out.

  He walked back and opened the door for the two. After

  Renzo had crawled in and Huli had fallen on her face

  crossing the threshold, he started to close the door. But he

  said, "Don't you dare puke on any of my stuff! You do,

  and out you go! Pronto!"

  "Why, Forry!" Huli said. "Have we ever puked on

  anything of yours?"

  "Just my Creature from the Black Lagoon bust," Forry

  said. "I forgave you, since it could be cleaned. But if you

  vomit on any of my books or paintings, or anything at all

  anymore, out you go!"

  "You must really be mad at us, Forry darling!" Huli

  said. "I've never seen you angry before. I thought you

  were a saint!"

  "If I puke, you can have Huli," Renzo said, looking

  up at Forry from his supine position in the middle of the

  floor. "Just so you don't toss our ass out of here. I'm writ-

  ing the Great Cosmic Novel now,
Forry. Not the Great

  American Novel. The Cosmic Novel. It makes Tolstoy,

  Dostoyevsky, and Norman Mailer look sick. I'm really

  the greatest creator of them all, Forry, my Maecenas,

  patron of the arts, protector of the gifted and the genius.

  Your name will go down in history as Forrest J (No Pe-

  riod) Ackerman, the man who gave Renzo Dummock a

  roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, a desk to write on,

  food, booze, cigarettes, and typing paper. And got my

  typewriter out of hock for me, me, Renzo the Magnifi-

  cent."

  The pity of it was that Renzo believed that he was the

  greatest. He had believed it since he was eighteen. The

  world owed him a living because the world was going to

  benefit. The world, as typified by Forry Ackerman, owed

  it to him.

  Dummock had said he would do anything, even suck

  cock if he had to, so he could pursue the call of Apollo.

  He would do anything except work. Work degraded him,

  tired him, took precious time from his writing. It was all

  right for Huli to work, she should support him while he

  wrote. Too bad Huli's apathy and occasional fits of hysteria

  kept her from holding a steady job. But it couldn't be

  helped, and if she would suck a few cocks now and then

  to keep a roof over their head and booze and cigarettes

  and typing paper at his elbow, what was the harm in

  that? Forry had turned down an offer by Huli to blow

  him. He said that he preferred that she keep the house

  clean and act as hostess now and then when he had a big

  party. Huli had said she would, but it was easier, and

  more fun, sucking cock. She kept her cunt reserved for

  Renzo, who got killingly jealous at the thought of another

  man sticking his prick into it. So far, she had done a mis-

  erable job as a housekeeper.

  Forry turned away from them, swearing that he would

  kick them out at the first chance, and knowing that he

  wouldn't. He got into the car, a beat-up 1960 Ford with

  bald tires, and verified what he had suspected. The fuel

  indicator was on zero.

  Despite this, the motor started up and got him one

  block down Olympic before sputtering out. He walked to

  the nearest gas station and returned with a canful. Some-

  how, he never knew how it worked out, he always bor-

  rowed their car when it was out of gas.

  When he got back to the house, he found Alys Merrie

  sitting on the sofa in the front room. There was an odor of

  vomit in the house. Renzo had come through again.

  "Hello, Alys!" he said, his heart dropping like an ele-

  vator with snapped cables. "What brings you here? And

  how did you get in?"

  "You gave me a key long ago, remember?"

  "And I asked for it back, and you gave it to me," he

  said.

  "So I had a couple of duplicates made in the interim.

  Aren't you glad to see me, Forry? There was a time …"

  "Excuse me, I got to attend to something."

  He walked to the foot of the steps and looked up. Half-

  way to the landing was the nauseating pool. And Huli had

  not even bothered to clean it up!

  He had returned because he had some vital corres-

  pondence to clear up before he went to Wendy's to sleep.

  But Renzo's spoor and Alys Merrie were too much to put

  up with at this time. He would take off like Seaton after

  "Blackie" Duquesne.

  Alys Merrie thought differently. She was a blonde of

  medium height and good shape, about forty years old. She

  had been married, but, on meeting him at a world con-

  vention, had, as she put it, "gone ape over that divine

  Forry." Forry had been amused and flattered for a long

  time, but she had become a nuisance. He wasn't in love

  with her, and, while her adulation was pleasing, it got

  sticky after a while. Especially since her husband had

  threatened to sue him as corespondent.

  "The Dummocks are too busy to worry about that

  puke," she said. "I went upstairs to see what was going on,

  there was so much noise. Would you believe it? That fat-

  head was sitting in the chair and Huli was blowing him!

  No big deal about that except he was taking notes! Taking

  notes! I wonder if he uses his pen for his prick!"

  "Why don't you go back up and watch?" Forry said. "I

  have to go now, Alys. I've been up all night, my car is

  wrecked, I'm exhausted, I'm worried, and ... in short,

  I've had it."

  "Yes, I know all about that."

  He looked at her with amazement. "You know all

  about it? Who could have told you?"

  "I've been in it from the beginning," she said. She took

  a cigarette from her purse, lit it, and looked coolly at him.

  She knew he allowed no smoking in the house—except

  in one bedroom upstairs—but she was doing this for a

  purpose. He decided to ignore the gesture.

  "You've been in what from the beginning?" he said.

  Despite his tiredness, he was becoming interested.

  "The whole business. Starting so many years ago that

  you would not believe it. Or, if you did, you'd be

  frightened. Which you're going to be, anyway, because

  you'll believe before I'm done."

  He sat down in the chair across the room and said,

  "How many years?"

  "About ten thousand or so Earth years," she said.

  He was silent for a while. Alys Merrie was a great little

  kidder when she wasn't mad at him or making love. She

  knew well how deeply immersed in science-fiction he was

  —sometimes he thought of himself as the leviathan in the

  great sea of sci-fi or as a sort of Flying Dutchman of the

  outer spaceways—and she sometimes poked fun at him

  about it. This did not seem a likely time for it, however.

  On the other hand, she just could not be serious.

  "Look around you," she said, waving her cigarette.

  "Look at all those wild paintings and photographs. Strange

  planets, alien forms of life, big-chested, elephant-trunked

  Martians; winged men; sentient machines; giant insects;

  synthetic humans; what have you. You've been reading

  books about weird beings and worlds, and you've col-

  lected a monument to science-fiction and fantasy and, in-

  cidentally, to yourself. A lifetime of love and labor is

  represented here.

  "You must believe in this exotic otherworld of yours.

  Otherwise, you would never have gone to such unique

  lengths to gather the artifacts of this otherworld about

  you."

  Something was different about Alys Merrie. She had

  never talked like this before. She had seemed incapable

  of talking so seriously or so fluently.

  "Ten thousand years," she said. "Would you believe

  that I'm ten thousand years old? No! What about twelve

  thousand?"

  "Twelve thousand?" he said. "Come on, Alys. I could

  believe in ten thousand, but twelve? Don't be ridiculous!"

  "I look a hard forty years old, don't I?" she said. "How

  about this, Forry?"

  It was like watching She or Lost Hor
izon, only it was in

  reverse. Instead of the beautiful young woman wrinkling

  into ghastly old age, it was a case of a woman unwrin-

  kling, becoming a beautiful young girl. Helen Gahagan

  and Jane Wyatt should have had it so good.

  He wished his heart could beat faster. Then he wouldn't

  shake so much. So it was true. Everything he had read

  and dreamed about was true! Well, maybe not everything.

  But at least some of it was true.

  "Who and what are you?" he said. The room was be-

  ginning to seem a little fuzzy, and the illustrations by Paul,

  Finlay, St. John, Bok, and the rest of the wild crew had

  taken on three dimensions. He must be in a state of slight

  shock.

  "Do you like it?" Alys said.

  "Of course," Forry said. "But you didn't answer my

  question."

  "I am a, uh, let's say, a Toc," she said. "We are the

  enemies of the Ogs. You met some of them last night.

  Fred Pao, Diana Rumbow, Panchita Pocyotl. And Wool-

  ston Heepish."

  33

  "Heepish!" he almost screamed. "You mean Heepish isn't

  human?"

  "We're not only not human," she said. "We're extra-

  terrestrial. Extra-solar system. More. Extra-Galactic. The

  home of the Tocs is on the fourth planet circling a star

  in the Andromeda galaxy."

  He thought, I've always been a lucky man. I wanted

  only to work in science-fiction, and I was able to make

  my living out of it. I wanted to be the greatest collector

  of science-fiction and fantasy in the world, and I did that

  as naturally and as easily as a snail grows a shell. I need a

  job and a publisher wants to put out a series of horror-

  movie magazines for children, and who else is more ca-

  pable or more willing to edit those? I have known the

  greats of this field, I have been their good friend, I have

  seen the first men land on the moon, and I hope to see the

  first men land on Mars before I die. I have been lucky.

  But now, this! I would have rejected this as a dream

  that only a lunatic could believe to be true, even if I

  have fantasized it many many times. The beings from

  outer space make contact with Earthlings through me!

  That was not exactly true, of course. If what she said

  was correct, the extees had been in contact with Earth-