by Robert Bloch
“What for?”
“The machine will process your answers and indicate your best choice for a marriage partner. It’s what we call a computer match.”
Drool shrugged. “Who wants to marry a computer?” he asked.
I took him out of there fast and led him into Grislyland. The results here were hardly more encouraging. The medieval torture devices left him cold; even the strappado didn’t give him a boot. Nor did he care for the Chamber of Horrors with its wax-figure criminals and its replicas of television comedians.
“Try Heroland,” Sandy suggested, sensing Drool’s lack of interest. “He should get some jollies there.”
I nodded. “Wait until he sees George Washington,” I said.
Quickly we entered Heroland and I led Drool proudly over to the little auditorium where, as I remembered, every fifteen minutes or so a remarkable event took place. Before the assembled audience an amazingly clever animated figure of the Father of our Country rose from a chair and walked to center stage, there to deliver Washington’s Second Inaugural Address.
“This you’ve got to hear!” I told Drool, happily.
But when we reached the auditorium we found it deserted; the stage itself was bare.
A bored attendant was sweeping the floor near the doorway and I collared him. “What gives?” I inquired. “Where is Washington?”
“Took him away yesterday,” the attendant informed me.
“What a shame!” I glanced at Drool. “I wanted you to see it—the most lifelike automaton you could ever imagine—”
“Too lifelike,” the attendant volunteered. “That’s why they took him away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hear tell he was sold to a bunch of politicians. The way election campaigns are going nowadays, they figure to put this dummy on television, let him give his speech, and run him for governor.”
“Might have a chance at that,” I agreed. “Considering some of the speeches I’ve heard other dummies make. After all, he’s got a good name and a familiar face. This is what they buy.”
“Not those lemon-faced voters in Orange County,” Sandy reminded me. “The minute they remember that Washington had something to do with the Constitution, they’ll vote against him. He’s too left-wing for them.”
She had a point there.
But I was rapidly losing points with Drool. There was just one possible way left to hook his attention, and I decided to take it. I dragged him over to Bodyland.
Now all of the other lands in Groovyland are housed in separate buildings. Bodyland is different—because Bodyland is the building.
Drool’s eyes bugged when he saw it, and frankly, I don’t blame him. Even though this wasn’t my first visit here, my eyes protruded.
Picture a naked woman three hundred feet tall and proportionately proportioned, tipped over so that she is lying on her stomach. Fluorescent lights flash from her staring eyes as you approach her open mouth, and the lights blind you. Yet you must approach, because that’s how you enter Bodyland—through her mouth.
“Step over the lower incisors,” I told Drool. “Then sit on her tongue and we’ll slide down her throat.”
Sandy glanced across at me over Drool’s head and winked. It was unnecessary; I could already sense his kindled interest.
Together we seated ourselves on the pink, plushy surface of the tongue. Somewhere deep inside the inner recesses of the giant figure, a motor began to hum. Slowly the tongue elevated at an angle, propelling us into the throat cavity beyond.
“Duck your head,” I cautioned. “We’re coming to the tonsils!”
They loomed overhead, brilliantly illuminated, and we passed them en route to the tunnelling throat. It received us as we shot off the tongue and shot, at a steeper angle, along a neon-lit esophagus. Then we landed in the vast, hollow cavern of the stomach, its well-lighted lining disclosing a network of passages on every side and overhead.
Drool glanced around in open curiosity.
“Want to see the lungs?” I inquired.
He nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. Everything.” He turned to Sandy. “I never realized there was so much inside you.”
“I’ve got a lot of guts, if that’s what you mean.” But Sandy wasn’t displeased by the observation. Quickly we led Drool on a conducted tour of the human anatomy—through the lungs, along the aorta into the ventricles, past the bronchia, then doubled back along a maze of veins. Pausing to wait for arterial traffic, I branched off into the liver, spleen and kidneys. Everything was well lit, and there were little signs on the walls of each organ or passage to chart our route.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Drool beamed at me happily.
“You’re getting the real inside story,” I assured him. “This exhibit is endorsed by the Secretary of the Interior.”
With plastic bone-structure and muscle-sheathing gleaming on all sides, we wound our way through the labyrinthine intricacies of canals, ducts and sinus cavities until we were confronted with another corridor, darker and longer than the others.
Sandy peered into it. “What’s this?” she queried. “One of the canals?”
“Alimentary, my dear Watson,” I said.
Grasping her wrist, I started forward. “Join hands now, because we’re going to loop the loop a few times, and we’ll need some intestinal traction.”
“Isn’t there another way to go?”
For answer I pointed up at one of the small, neatly lettered signs—Please Exit Thru Rear.
Climbing, clambering, then crawling, we did just that and finally emerged again amidst Groovyland’s vortex of vacationing visitors.
“Satisfied?” I asked Drool.
He nodded. “It was fascinating. Next time we must go to the head—”
“They don’t have one in there,” I informed him, then realized what he was referring to. “Yes, we’ll do that,” I amended quickly. “But right now we’ve got another head to visit. The head of this enterprise—Sylvester Schlock.”
VII
Sylvester Schlock rose from behind his desk and threw his cigar at me.
“How dare you?” he spluttered. “How dare you come to me with a proposition like this?”
I shrugged with outward calm, but inwardly I echoed the question to myself. Approaching this fabulous showman had not been easy. For I, like all the world, knew the Schlock story.
Sylvester Schlock was the most controversial figure in the world of show biz. His admirers said he was a self-made man. His enemies agreed, but pointed out that this merely indicated what you got when you used cheap labor.
His boosters stated that Schlock had been born in a log cabin. His detractors reminded you that the log cabin had been built atop his father’s penthouse, where that multi-millionaire eccentric chose to recreate a rural atmosphere.
It is true, as Schlock’s friends state, that he worked his way through school. But it is also true, as enemies assert, that he had to do so because his father disowned him, and he had worked his way through medical college as a corpse-washer in a Forest Laundromat.
In any case, Sylvester Schlock graduated and began his practice as a physician. His supporters remind you that he gained a brilliant reputation as a proctologist. His foes assert that he gave up his specialty because he could never identify his patients when they came face to face with him, and he took a dim view of humanity.
Be that as it may, Schlock retired to an area east of Los Angeles, where he owned a thousand acres of barren desert land, and it was here that Groovyland was born.
At first he operated on the lowest level of entertainment—the roadside tourist trap. Crude sign-posts along the highway urged motorists to Visit the Monster Museum! and Feed the Ravenous Reptiles! The monster museum turned out to be a small snake-pit. Schlock stocked the pit with specimens he found wriggling over his own property, and the ravenous reptiles were merely toads or gecko lizards. But enough cars stopped and enough quarters poured in to enable Schlock to expand. He added a tiny restau
rant to his enterprise. Here, his champions say, he attracted a growing clientele because of the unusual flavor of his ’burgers. His opponents admit the flavor was unusual, but hint he used the same source of supply for his food as he did for stocking his snake-pit.
Snakeburgers or no, Schlock did have the only eatery in all that stretch of dreary desert—to say nothing of the only restrooms.
To say that Groovyland was founded on the receipts from a public pay-toilet would be a vast oversimplification, but it is true that Schlock always gave the customers what they wanted.
He next incorporated an amusement park and carnival, not hesitating to use the lowest carny attractions. And it was here that his unusual genius for entertainment first came into play. Noting that people would pay money for almost anything—even to see a geek bite the head off a chicken—Schlock added refinements. On Thanksgiving Day he advertised that his geek would bite the head off a turkey. And before long, just for the kiddies, he had a junior geek who bit the heads off canaries.
Success breeds success, and from that point on Sylvester Schlock soared. He obtained financing and started Groovyland with its first major attraction—a typically phony frontier town which he called Tombstone Territory. It had the usual livery stables and saloons for atmosphere, plus Central Casting cowboys, but Schlock added an extra. No doubt harking back to his pre-med days, he built a Boot Hill cemetery plot, with genuine tombstones. Here, driving around in the comfort of a Rent-A-Hearse, one could follow the progress of a daily western drama; see an outlaw apprehended for rustling cattle, watch his two-minute trial, attend the subsequent hanging (in which a very skilled stunt-man literally risked his neck at every performance) and then observe the digging of a grave and the burial of the outlaw as a grand finale.
Perhaps this is the point where Schlock really made his start. Certainly it was a stroke of sheer genius when he altered the program to include audience participation.
Now, for a given fee, one could purchase tickets to join a posse and ride after the outlaw. Another ticket entitled a customer to serve on the jury during the trial. For a considerable extra sum, some lucky member of the audience could play executioner during the hanging. And the biggest kick—at the largest price, of course—was to join the burial party and help dig the grave in which the outlaw was interred.
Schlock had fathomed the secret at last, and now there was no stopping him. Within the next decade, Groovyland rose from the dusty desert like the pleasure dome of Kublai Khan. Came Monkeyland, where you put on the ape-suit and swung through the branches of the artificial trees; came all the other lands, plus facilities for weddings, christenings, conventions, bar mitzvahs and actual burials in what was somewhat painfully described as a “real, live cemetery” adjoining the private landing-field.
Finally came The Hall of the Mountain King—a gigantic open-air cavern, with rocky walls moulded of genuine papier-mâché, in which outdoor concerts were held every weekend. Here the top singing stars performed, the hit combos, the Name Attractions.
A booking at Groovyland could make a national reputation overnight and pave the way for television, a spot in Vegas, films, recordings, the works. So it was here, naturally, that I determined to launch the career of the entity I’d introduced to Schlock as Sneed Hearn.
No wonder he’d hurled his cigar at me. But now, as I stared into Sylvester Schlock’s heated countenance, I came on cool.
“He’s a great singer,” I said softly. “Wait until you hear him.”
“This is a singer?” Schlock stared scornfully at Drool. “I can’t even stand the sight of him, let alone the sound.”
“What’s wrong with his looks?” Sandy inquired.
“He’s green!” Schlock lifted his arms in an imploring gesture. “Do you think for a moment I’m going to put my audience at the mercy of some green kid?”
This, as we say in the industry, was my cue—and Drool’s. I signalled, he stepped forward, he opened his mouth.
Out came a perfect reproduction of that smash singsational group, Vermin and the Varmints.
Schlock reached for another cigar, but he didn’t throw it. He didn’t even light it, just sat wide-eyed and open-eared as Drool poured it on.
Without pausing for breath, Drool launched into a second selection. This one, with an oriental beat, was Yogi and the Yo-Yos punching out What Makes Swami Run?
Drool was just about ready to launch an imitation of Charlie Horse and the Bruised Tendons when Schlock’s cigar levelled in imperial command.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Enough, already!”
I noticed that the hand holding the cigar was shaking. So was Schlock’s head. “I don’t know how you do it, young man,” he groaned, “but never in my life have I heard anything so atrocious, so abominable, so positively disgusting! In other words, you sound exactly like those groups you’re imitating. And if it’s bad enough for me, it’s good enough for the audience.”
Pointing his Havana Imperfecto at me, Schlock got down to business. “Our next big concert is scheduled for a week from Saturday. What do you say to a spot for your boy at three G’s?”
I shrugged. “Forget it.”
Sandy gave me a glance that was strictly distress merchandise, but I ignored her.
“Okay, five G’s but that’s my top quote, and I’ll want repeat options on—”
“No,” I said.
“But you can’t get any more the first time out, not even from the Sullivan Show—”
“No,” I repeated. “We don’t want any money.”
Now both Sandy and Schlock were sending out distress signals. I smiled at them happily.
“We’ll let our boy perform for you absolutely free of charge,” I told him. “But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“He’s not going to have a spot in your concert a week from Saturday. He is the concert.”
“The whole show, all by himself?” Schlock did something new with the cigar: he swallowed it.
“What’s the matter, don’t you think it’s possible? You heard him.”
“But—”
I brushed objections aside. “He can take the place of any solo singer, any singing group, any combination of instruments and instrumentalists. What more do you need?”
“I know,” Schlock conceded. “It’s just that a one-man concert is practically unheard of. Even the so-called one-man shows are usually backed up by a supporting act to open the bill.”
“My boy supports himself,” I said. “And if you’ll give him a chance, he’ll support you, too. This act is going to sell a lot of tickets.”
“After they’ve heard him and the word gets around,” Schlock agreed. “But this first appearance, he’s an unknown quantity. I can’t advertise just Sneed Hearn in a one-man performance.”
“Then bill him as a group,” I said. “After all, he is a group when he opens his mouth, isn’t he? Call him—eh, anything—”
Inspiration gleamed in Sylvester Schlock’s flashing eyes. “Sneed Hearn and his Hearnias!” he shouted.
I gripped his hand. “Okay, we have a firm deal.”
And thus, a star was born.
VIII
The ride back to Los Angeles was something of a triumph.
“That was a stroke of genius, letting him go on for free the first time,” Sandy conceded. “After one exposure, you can name your own price. Joe, you’re a genius.”
It is my policy never to contradict a lady, so I just nodded silently. But deep within myself I could feel the surge of supreme confidence. I knew now that nothing was beyond me; I could achieve the seemingly impossible. Right then and there I resolved to put my belief to the final test. The next time I stopped for a traffic light on the Strip and a hippy came up to sell me a copy of The Free Press, I would sell him a copy of The Christian Science Monitor.
My mood was heightened when we got back to the house and Sandy told the waiting group what had happened.
“Incredible!” Luke Emia gasped. “Wai
t ’til they hear him!”
“They’ll go outta their skulls,” Swinger predicted.
“——!” agreed Grafitti.
I accepted the accolades with due modesty. After dinner I wandered out on the patio behind the house to compose myself and my thoughts. This was going to be a hectic week, and I had to plan a schedule.
To my surprise, I found Drool standing there at the edge of the hilltop, staring up at the smog as though he could actually see the stars beyond. His face was expressionless.
I moved up beside him. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Then cheer up. You’re on your way. You heard what Schlock said—with your looks and your voice you can’t miss!”
Drool blinked at me. “I still don’t see how I’m going to take over the world this way.”
“Look,” I said. “It’s all a matter of who has the clout, and in this world money is power. Your voice will make more money than anyone has ever dreamed of earning. With it you can buy anything you want—”
“But I don’t want anything for myself. I’m only here to follow orders. And my orders are to conquer. If I just had my own little superdisintegratosonic weapon—”
“This is your weapon.” I pointed at his throat. “And for the moment, I’m your commanding officer. So forward march!”
Luke Emia stepped forth from the shadows. “What’s this about a weapon?” he asked.
I filled him in on Drool’s story.
“Mean to tell me you haven’t investigated any further?” Luke gestured excitedly. “If Drool dropped this gizmo of his when he fell, it must have landed around here somewhere, just as he did. For all we know, it could be lying out in the street.”
“Forget it,” I said. “Who needs weapons?”
“We do! Why, if this thing has half the power he says it does, we’re wasting our time. We could sell a copy to the government for billions.”
“Quit talking like a business man,” I told him.
But Luke was carried away with his own vision. “Then we could turn around and sell another copy to the enemy powers for more billions.”
“Quit talking like a business man,” I sighed.