Fear and Trembling

by Robert Bloch

  Standing just outside an open doorway was a young lady wearing a Trekkie T-shirt emblazoned with the legend, Friends, Romans and Mr. Spock—Lend me your ears.

  I nodded at her as I approached. “What’s going on inside?”

  “Authors’ panel,” she told me.

  My heart leaped. A science fiction writers’ panel! Surely they, of all people, would be impressed if I revealed myself!

  “What are they discussing?” I asked. “Alternate universes, other worlds, alien life-forms? Do you think they might be interested in actual contact with an extra-terrestrial being?”

  “You don’t understand,” said the girl. “These happen to be New Wave authors. They’re talking about sex, and ecology, and sex, and relevancy.”

  Over her words the voice of one of the panelists boomed in my ears from a table-microphone. “Four-letter the editors!” he cried. “Four-letter the publishers!”

  “Right on!” shouted a fellow-panelist. “Four-letter the agents and the distributors. And, while we’re at it, four-letter the readers, too!”

  There was a burst of wild applause from the audience. “Remember our slogan!” yelled the speaker. “Advocates of violence must be destroyed!”

  The girl turned to me and shrugged. “You see?” she said.

  “I hear,” I told her. And moved off again. It was obvious that if I came up against the New Wave I wouldn’t even create a ripple.

  But there were other functions going on. Around the corner at the end of the corridor I found a meeting-room where another panel discussion was in progress. The group on the podium consisted entirely of females. Unobtrusively I edged my way to a chair at the rear.

  A girl seated beside me turned and offered a disapproving stare.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Don’t you know this is a discussion-group for lady writers? They’re speaking on Woman’s Lib.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “I’ve studied a little psychology and I know the problems of a woman’s libido—”

  “Woman’s Liberation!” she snapped. “Listen, and maybe you’ll learn something.”

  A strikingly-handsome young woman was addressing the audience over the microphone.

  “It’s a conspiracy!” she declared. “Everyone knows that Hugo Gernsback was a male-chauvinist pig. Ever since he started his science fiction magazine, the field has been totally usurped by men! They ignore the contributions of all the great women science fiction writers—from Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley to Julia Verne, Alice Huxley, Georgette Orwell, Roberta Heinlein and Kate Vonnegut, Jr. Just remember, it was we who put the Gal in Galaxy!”

  I felt a surge of sympathy as she continued.

  “We are entitled to proper recognition for our work. We must dewomand it, even if we have to girlcott every publisher in the field. We must take a stand against such masculine inventions as manned space-flights and the U.S. Mail Service! Forget history—what about herstory?”

  It was all too true, and I found myself nodding in agreement. Not that nodding would help. There would have to be a more positive contribution, and suddenly the thought occurred to me—maybe I could make it. Even in this altered body of mine, I still retained certain powers. For example, if I glixxed—

  Her voice rose shrilly. “Speaking for myself, I want—I am entitled—to everything a man has!”

  She was right. I sat there, vorching, as her shrill voice continued.

  “It’s time for a change!” she said.

  So I glixxed her.

  Suddenly the shrill voice deepened. She paused in mid-sentence, staring down at herself, and I knew I’d succeeded in granting her wish.

  She knew it too—and so did the audience—as her hand went to her face and encountered the full beard.

  As the crowd stared, pointed, milled and murmured in confusion, the speaker ran out of the room—perhaps she was going to get a shave.

  I took advantage of the distraction to slip away myself. But at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I’d done one positive thing for the Woman’s Lib Movement; certainly the speaker had moved quickly enough.

  There was just one thing wrong; I still didn’t have any personal egoboo. Next time I wouldn’t be so modest about my achievements—if there was a next time.

  Wandering through the now-crowded corridor, I halted at the entrance to another meeting-room, attracted by the imposing figure of a young man wearing a metal helmet, a coat of chain-mail, and an iron truss.

  “Pardon me, sir,” I said. “What’s happening here?”

  He stared at me in surprise. “You mean you haven’t heard of our group—the Society for Anachronistic Creativity?”

  Something about the name rang a bell. “Isn’t that the organization whose members dress up in medieval costumes—young people interested in the Middle Ages? Don’t they have tourneys and trials by combat with swords?”

  He nodded. “Some of us have duel personalities,” he explained.

  “Sounds familiar,” I told him. “I must have read about one of your leaders; I think it was John Carter of Mars.”

  “You mean Lin Carter, don’t you?” He gestured towards the assemblage. “He’s inside with the others.”

  I entered, gazing in astonishment at the crowd of fans wearing knightly garb as though it were a daily occurrence. Never have I seen such an array of gorgets, tippets, nasars, bassinets, jupons, baudricks, pauldrons and pallettes; just looking at them brought on an acute case of metal-fatigue.

  It made me feel almost naked to appear here without armor, but instead of skulking in the rear of the room I took a seat right down in front before the platform. The first step towards obtaining egoboo is to be noticed, and this time I resolved to attract attention.

  But at the moment everyone gazed through their vizards at the speaker. The gentlemen on the platform proudly identified himself as an aide-de-camp to L. Sprague deCamp, and he was expounding about a literary genre known as sword-and-sorcery.

  Many of his references were unfamiliar to me—he kept mentioning characters called Fafhreds, Grey Mousers, and either an ancient hero or a modern villain whose name was Cohen the Barbarian. But I gathered that these stories dealt with combats between brawny adventurers and scrawny wizards—muscles versus magic. And something about the very phrase, sword-and-sorcery, sparked a notion of my own.

  “Of course you must remember,” the speaker continued, “that what we are dealing with here is pure fantasy, which has nothing to do with science fiction.”

  Before I realized it, my mind was made up and I was on my feet. “Not so!” I shouted.

  The speaker frowned down at me. “What do you mean?” he said. “It’s all myth and legend. Running people through with swords—using spells and incantations—surely this isn’t the scientific approach?”

  “Nothing is impossible,” I told him. “Swords exist, and so does sorcery.”

  By this time the audience was staring at me. I felt the first heady pulsations of egoboo emanating from their interest, and it intoxicated me.

  “Here!” I shouted, leaping to the platform. “Let me give you a demonstration.”

  The speaker had unbuckled his weapon—a long, two-edged, lethal-looking blade—and placed it on the table before him. Now I snatched it up and waved it.

  “This is a sword,” I said. “Now, observe!”

  And before he could move, I drove the deadly steel full-length into his chest.

  As he staggered and fell back the audience rose, screaming.

  “And now, the sorcery!”

  I was yelling at the top of my voice, but nobody heard me amidst the screams of the crowd.

  Quickly, I glixxed the speaker, pulling the blade from his chest and leaving him unharmed, without as much as a scratch to show for his ordeal.

  But no one saw my magic; the entire assemblage had turned tail and fled the room, their armor rattling in fright and flight.

  And now, as the speaker gaped at me, open-mouthed, I realized I�
�d better follow their example.

  “Help—murder—police!” he cried.

  If he was offering me a choice, I’d take help. And the best way to help myself was to flee through the small door at the rear of the platform.

  I found myself in another corridor, and quickly lost myself again around the corner, far from the madding crowd.

  Just to make certain of my escape I took the stairway up to the next floor. Here I halted and looked around, catching my breath and reassembling my scattered wits.

  This, I realized, was apparently not the way to gain egoboo. All I’d succeeded in doing was frightening those fans out of their wits. If I wanted their acclaim, I’d have to offer them something more constructive. Next time I must remember to do something helpful.

  And there had to be a next time, soon, before I got a reputation as a trouble-maker.

  With that resolve I started off down the hall. As luck would have it, I blundered into a meeting of First Fandom.

  For the benefit of those who are unfamiliar with the term, First Fandom consists of a group whose affiliation with science fiction goes back to before 1940—people like Dave Kyle, Jack Williamson, Doc Barrett and Buck and Juanita Coulson. They gather annually at the Worldcons to reminisce about the Sense of Wonder, the Golden Age of Science Fiction, and the good old days when they were young.

  As I listened to them crying into their Geritol about their misspent youth and how they wished they’d misspent more of it, I was seized with a kindly impulse.

  And two minutes later I was running down the corridor once more. Behind me I heard only boos, not egoboo.

  Somehow I’d goofed again.

  This time I didn’t stop scurrying until I was back downstairs. Here it was my intention to lose myself in the crowd, but almost immediately I sensed that several fans were eyeing me suspiciously. Apparently rumors were already flying, and—from the way they muttered and pointed—might soon be followed by fists.

  Unwilling to provoke a scene, I ducked into the nearest side-door and found myself in the Huckster Room.

  The Huckster Room, for your information, is where the dealers set up their displays of fannish merchandise for sale—artwork, sculptures, movie memorabilia, comic books, foreign reprints and rare first editions of science fiction, and old magazines, dating back to the days when Doc Smith was only an interne.

  It was fascinating to see the pulps in which science fiction started—truly a Weird, Amazing, Fantastic, Startling and Astounding array—and I couldn’t help but respond to the Thrilling Wonder of it all.

  Wandering down the aisles between the tables, I was inflamed by a desire to possess some of these goodies. Surely there could be no better souvenir of my visit than a genuine autographed copy of The Outsider and Others or a mint copy of a 1922 Mickey Mouse Comics.

  I paused before a display of old horror-pulps and gazed greedily at titles known and loved by every trufan: Spicy Mystery, Salty Terror, and Over-Seasoned Adventure. Suddenly I discovered the prize of them all—a Volume One, Number One issue of Sexy Science, with its famous cover illustration of a naked girl attacking a bug-eyed monster.

  The dealer behind the table, a bit of a bug-eyed monster himself, leered at me and drooled encouragingly.

  “That’s Warm-Hearted Walter,” whispered a teen-age fan at my side. “A hard man to do business with. He’s still got the first nickel he ever stole.”

  “I don’t care,” I told him. “I’ve got to have this magazine!”

  “I warn you,” said the fan. “It’ll cost you an arm and a leg.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  I was just starting to remove my arm when Sherry grabbed me from behind.

  “So here you are!” she panted. “Come with me!”

  “In a moment—I’ve got business to attend to—”

  “No you don’t!” Sherry tugged at my shoulder. “We know all about your business.”

  Rick and Steve moved up on either side, apprehension in their eyes, and pulled me away.

  “Hurry,” Sherry murmured. “We’ve got to get you out of here before they find you!”

  “They?”

  “Don’t try to cop out,” Steve said. “Everybody’s heard about that hairy session with the women authors, and your run-in with the sword-and-sorcery people.”

  They hustled me down the hall to the back stairs.

  “Better take these and keep out of sight,” Rick said.

  “But I haven’t done anything—”

  “Oh no? What about the First Fandom meeting?” He glared at me accusingly as we mounted the steps.

  “I can explain,” I said. “When I heard all those elderly parties saying they wished they were young again, I just decided to help—”

  “Turning them into babies was a bad idea,” Sherry told me. “I understand they’ve already had to change Sam Moskowitz’s diapers three times.”

  “Maybe I was a bit hasty.” I sighed, turning to Rick. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the room. You’ll be safe there. Besides, we’ve got to get our costumes ready for the Masquerade.”

  “The Masquerade?” I brightened. “This I’ve got to see.”

  “No way,” Steve told me. “You’re going to keep out of sight. If anyone spots you now, there’ll be real trouble.”

  “But I can’t miss the Masquerade,” I said. “It’s one of the highlights of the Convention!” I nodded at Steve. “Couldn’t I come with you if I wore a costume too? Then nobody would recognize me.”

  “That’s a thought,” he conceded. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  And we did. Once in the room, the trio donned their outfits. Sherry dressed as a witch, Rick put on a space-suit, and Steve struggled into a metallic robot costume.

  “What about me?” I said.

  Sherry yanked a sheet off the bed. “You can wear this,” she said.

  “Who am I supposed to be—a member of the Ku Klux Klan?”

  “You’re a ghost, silly! Go ahead, put it on!” She nodded approvingly. “Now you’re safe. Nobody will recognize you.”

  “But I want egoboo—”

  “Never mind that. You’re sticking with us, understand? And don’t do anything to attract attention. When your turn comes, just walk across the stage.”

  “Just wearing a ghost costume won’t win me a prize,” I protested. “I should have some kind of an act. Maybe I could speak—”

  “You don’t even say boo!” Sherry told me, firmly.

  “How about letting me sing, then?”

  “Out of the question,” Rick said. “We don’t have any sheet-music.”

  Steve glanced at his watch. “Time to go,” he said. “Now remember—you stay undercover.”

  The auditorium was crowded. We stood backstage amidst a motley crew of mummies, zombies, warlocks, galactic explorers and characters from famous science fiction epics. And as I stared through the eyeholes of my sheet, the Masquerade began. A committee-member handed each of us a number, and when it was called, its owner paraded out before the footlights.

  At first I was excited, but as the affair continued I began to feel a twinge of disappointment.

  Quite frankly, I’d expected more than this prosaic procession of armed warriors, bearded enchanters and members of the Star Trek crew. And the costumes seemed duplicated time and again. Sherry and Rick and Steve proceeded me, but I knew they didn’t stand a chance. There were a dozen other witches, a score of space-men, and a whole regiment of robots. And now, as I glanced around at those remaining to be called out, I noted a host of ghosts. I wouldn’t win a prize either, unless—

  Unless what?

  I’d given my word not to speak or sing or open my mouth in any way to attract attention. And I didn’t have a little act worked up; a routine to impress the audience.

  As a matter of fact, none of the contestants impressed me. Wenches and warlocks were all very appropriate to a fantasy festival, but this was supposed to be a Masquerade of science fiction.


  Something was missing. Where were all the aliens—the extra-terrestrials?

  Under the sheet, stupid!

  The thought hit me then—just as my number was called, and Sherry pushed me out under the glare of the lights. For a moment I stood before the crowd, debating what to do, then summoned my resolution. A vision of Sexy Science flashed before my eyes, and concentrating on it, I glixxed myself.

  Then, flinging my sheet aside, I flashed.

  Just for a second I stood revealed to the audience with my green, scaly body, my four arms, six legs, and bulging eyes covered with cockroaches. There I was, complete to the last detail—the bug-eyed monster from the magazine cover.

  Then I felt Rick and Steve lifting me from behind and hauling me offstage into the far wings.

  “Put me down!” I yelled, as I glixxed back into human form again. “Hey—where are you taking me?”

  “Away. And we’d better hurry!” Sherry was beside me, gesturing towards an exit leading into the outer corridor. As we hastened to the elevator the babble of voices from the auditorium faded.

  Rick pressed the button. As the car-doors closed and the elevator ascended, he sighed in relief, then faced me. “You did it again,” he said. “And here I thought we could trust you!”

  “I only wanted to win a prize,” I told him.

  Sherry shook her head. “Obviously you don’t know anything about Masquerades,” she said. “The judges already had made up their minds—I heard them talking backstage. Third prize goes to the girl with the plunging neckline, second prize to the girl with the bare breasts. And first prize goes to the girl who came out naked. They always win!”

  “And you’re a loser,” Steve muttered. “Unless we protect you. I can just see what will happen if we let you run around loose any longer. Next thing we know you’ll be showing up at the Count Dracula Society meeting as a vampire. You’ll go to the Burroughs Bibliophile luncheon and turn into a gorilla. And what will we do if you attend the Georgette Heyer tea and decide to turn into Georgette Heyer?”

  The elevator halted and the doors slid open.

  “Come on,” said Rick. “Let’s go.”