by Robert Bloch
I hesitated. “Where are you taking me?”
“To Suite 16,” Sherry said. “You’ll be in safe hands there.”
They led me to a door at the far end of the hall and Rick knocked.
“What’s the password?” demanded a muffled voice from within the room.
“Beam,” Rick murmured.
Instantly the door flew open and there, confronting us, was a tall, kindly-looking gentleman with a smiling face.
“Meet Bob Tucker,” said Sherry.
“Bob Tucker?” I gasped. My knees began to tremble. And well they might, for this was indeed a Big Name Fan, a true Secret Master, a veritable Elder God of Fandom. Impulsively, I dropped to my knees and kissed his hand.
Ignoring me graciously, Tucker turned and listened as Sherry whispered in his ear.
“Right.” Tucker nodded. “Leave everything to me.”
Sherry beckoned to Rick and Steve. They followed her to the door.
“Where are you going?” I cried.
“Never mind, they’ll be back,” Tucker said, closing the door behind them. “Now stop worrying. Sherry explained what happened, and I understand. There’s nothing to be afraid of—I’ll take care of you.”
“But I want to see the rest of the Convention,” I said. “Saturday night is supposed to be the time for the riots, the smoke-filled rooms—”
“We can have our own riot right here,” Tucker assured me, producing a cigar. “And I guarantee to fill this room with smoke in thirty seconds. Now come on—you and I are going to have a little drink.”
Turning, he lifted a bottle from the bureau and filled two glasses with fluid colored like darkly-shining brass.
“That’s not beer, is it?” I said. “Beer makes me sick.”
Tucker shook his head. “Have no fear, this isn’t beer.” He handed a glass to me and raised his own. “Drink up,” he said. “It’s smo-ooooo-th!”
“Smo-ooooo-th!” I echoed.
Tilting the glass to my lips, I drank.
Smo-ooooo-thly the liquor gurgled down into my stomach. Smo-oooo-thly the room spun round and round. Smo-ooooo-thly my eyes closed and I fell back upon the bed. Smo-ooooo-thly I passed out.
When I came to again, it was seven o’clock, Sunday night.
What more can I say? They’d tricked me, all of them, but I understood. It had been done with good intentions, to keep me out of further peril. I bore them no ill-will.
But now, as I opened my eyes and found myself alone in Suite 16, I was seized with a dreadful realization.
The climax of the Worldcon—the Hugo Awards Banquet—was scheduled to start promptly at six P.M. And I was missing it!
Tottering to my feet—none to smo-ooooo-thly—I staggered to the door. Nobody barred my way, and the corridor beyond was silent and deserted.
I raced to the elevator, descended to the third floor, and found myself caught up in the crowd pressing its way into the banquet-hall. Fortunately, everyone was so intent on entering that my presence passed unnoticed. But from remarks I heard, I gathered the actual banquet meal was ended. Now, as the waiters hastened to pick up the remains of the rubber chicken and took it away for retreads, the non-attendees were being allowed into the hall to hear the speeches and the award ceremonies.
Mingling with the mob, I found a place at the back of the room and stared past the audience, admiring the distinguished figures on the dais. Some of them I recognized—Joanna Russ, Harlan Ellison, A.E. van Vogt, Hal Clement—names to conjure with. As a matter of fact, the entire assemblage was packed with notables: the artists, editors, authors and fans who had created this unique phenomenon of science fiction. I felt a warm glow steal over me as I observed them—almost as warm a glow as I’d gotten from Bob Tucker’s smo-oooo-th concoction.
No doubt about it; this was an intoxicating moment.
And when the toastmaster stood up to present the Hugo Awards for the best work in the field for the past year, I found myself listening, spellbound—nodding in accord as he stressed the fact that while only one award was given in each category, all of the nominees were winners.
He began to read off names and hand out the trophies—two-foot-high metal figures of space-rockets, gleaming and sharply pointed at the end—I felt a surge of sentiment. Not just for the recipients, but for all those present here; all these wonderful fans and pros who had made this weekend memorable to me. Oh, earthlings are primitive, their ways and ceremonies are childish—but people like these, inspired infants striving to reach the stars—are truly the hope of the future.
All at once I realized that my craving for egoboo had vanished. The petty desire for personal attention was gone, and in its place was an unselfish appreciation of the whole of science fiction fandom. Maybe the so-called serious scientific world mocked their make-believe, but out of their imagination would come the reality which would raise mankind to the limits of outer space. If there was only some way I could express my gratitude—
Too late.
Something pulsed inside my human skull. A message, telling me my vacation was over. The vroob had grocceled down to the hotel roof, arriving right on schedule, and I must join it there to scrinch home.
Silently, I slipped away. Quickly, I ascended the elevator to the topmost floor where a skylight led me to the rooftop.
I entered the ship, and we got ready to go into a blik.
No time to thank Sherry and Rick and Steve for what they’d done; no time to thank all the others who’d helped to give me such a marvelous experience. Too late.
Or was it?
As we started to scrinch, inspiration seized me. I remembered what the toastmaster had said, about all the nominees deserving Hugos. Why stop there?
Suppose everyone—everyone there at the banquet—got a Hugo for their very own?
That was one way of saying thanks.
Quickly, I went into a glix. Too quickly, perhaps.
For as we swooped down past the hotel, I caught a glimpse of the banquet-hall through the windows. Everyone was screaming and jumping to their feet, as if in a standing ovation. But that wasn’t the reason.
Apparently, in my haste, I’d made a slight error. I’d glixxed everybody a Hugo under their seat—forgetting that, in English, the words “chair” and “seat” are not necessarily synonymous.
Anyway, I could only hope they got the point.
And as we scrinched off I smiled, happy with my memories of the past and hopeful with my expectations of the future. After all, they tell me these Worldcons are annual affairs.
I can hardly wait for next year . . .
Freak Show
Goober City Fairgrounds lay out in the boondocks and came to life only during the county fair. Nothing ever happened on the premises the rest of the year, aside from a few muggings and an occasional rape.
But on this particular morning, as Sheriff Higgs drove up in the patrol car, he noticed signs of other activity.
Parked right spang in the middle of the main arena was a big red van. And standing next to it was a man.
Sheriff Higgs knew every four-wheeled contraption or two-legged critter in Mayhem County, but he’d never seen this van or man before. He pulled up about fifty feet away, climbed out, and walked over slow and easy.
The van was unmarked and had an out-of-state license, so that didn’t give him much to go on. The man was nothing to write home about, either—tall, on the skinny side, dark hair and eyes—he could be young or well into middle age, depending on the face under the beard. But his shirt and pants were too clean for a hippy-type and there just wasn’t anything about him you could get a handle on.
Sheriff Higgs decided to feel his way. “Morning,” he said. “Mighty warm day and fixing to get worse. Folks say it’s so hot you can fry eggs on the sidewalk.”
“Bad for your health,” said the man. “Too much cholesterol.”
“Don’t worry about my health,” the sheriff told him. “I’m here on official business.”
The st
ranger smiled. “And what might that be?”
Sheriff Higgs held up a printed placard and squinted at its bright red lettering in the sunlight. “Carnival of Life,” he read. “The Greatest Show on Earth. Adults Only—Fairgrounds, Tonight.”
The man nodded. “Went up late last night when I arrived. You’ll find them on every telephone pole in Goober City. Forty-seven, as I recall.”
“That’s forty-seven violations,” the sheriff told him. “Law says you can’t post bills on public property without a permit.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I thought that was merely a formality. And since my stay is short I’m rather pressed for time. But I suppose law and order is the name of the game.” And he winked.
Sheriff Higgs looked him straight in the eye. “It’s not a game with me. Like I said, I’m here on business.”
“I agree,” said the stranger. “Let’s shake on it.” He stuck out his hand and Sheriff Higgs took it, feeling the crisp crackle of folding-money against his palm as he slid the bill into his trouser pocket.
The man turned away. “Now that the proprieties are observed, I must ask you to excuse me. There’s work to be done.”
“Hold it,” said the sheriff. “I got to know a little something about this carnival of yours before I give you the go-ahead.”
The man shrugged. “No problem. It’s just a mud-show. Been doing these one-night stands for years, like Dr. Lao or Cooger and Dark.”
“Never heard of them,” the sheriff said. “Or you either. Mind giving me your name?”
“Fall,” said the stranger. “Fall’s the name—though I’m a man for all seasons, so to speak.”
Sheriff Higgs cocked his head at the red van. “Where’s the rest of your outfit, Mr. Fall?”
“They’ll be along shortly. Once I get the tent up—”
“Not so fast. Suppose you tell me just what goes on inside that tent of yours. Handbill here says Adults Only. Is this here one of them sex shows?”
“Certainly not.”
“What about gambling?”
“I’m not partial to games of chance.”
“You bringing in any wild animals?”
“I have no dealings with animals.”
“Then just what do you deal with?”
“It’s a ten-in-one,” said Mr. Fall. “What you’d call a freak show.”
“What kind of freaks?”
“Come back tonight and see for yourself.” Mr. Fall smiled. “I think you and the good people of Goober City will find it a most unusual attraction.”
The good people of Goober City must have expected sex, gambling and wild animals, because they came swarming onto the fairgrounds right after dark.
Sheriff Higgs saw that just about everybody was there, from the folks who worked in the mill to the big wheels who lived on the hill—banker Fence, lawyer Tudd, even Mayor Stooldrayer. Brought their wives along, too; it wasn’t the kind of a show they’d choose for their girl-friends.
The arena lights were on and loud music blasted from an amplifier outside the tent. But that’s all Sheriff Higgs noticed—there weren’t any rides or shooting galleries or guess-your-weight outfits, no fortune-teller booths, no Keno concessions, not even a stand where you could buy a chili-burger or a Dr. Pepper.
There was just this one tent; not all that big, either. It had a platform out front and the sheriff spotted Mr. Fall standing on it with his back turned, putting up banners all along the side of the canvas wall. When he turned around, the sheriff saw he was wearing a fancy red suit that looked to be velvet, with shirt and tie to match. Even his shoes were red and he carried a red cane in the crook of his arm. He’d slicked his hair back with little puffs standing up on either side of his forehead, and with that beard of his he was a dead ringer for the label on a bottle of Pluto Water.
“Good evening,” he said, coming down to the edge of the platform. “Glad you could make it.”
“That’s some getup you’re wearing,” Sheriff Higgs told him. “You look like one o’ them oldtime stage magicians.”
“All part of the act.” Mr. Fall smiled. “If you mean to succeed in this world, you’ve got to cater to your customers’ wants. And what they want most is—illusion.”
“What kind of tricks do you do?”
“Just the basics. No complicated gimmicks, no phoney effects, no walking on water or changing water into wine. I leave cheap miracles to the opposition. Experience has shown me that most people don’t require much in order to be fooled. All they need is the opportunity for self-deception.”
Sheriff Higgs frowned. “Well, you don’t put over anything on me with that scam,” he said. “Notice you still only got one tent. Where’s the other stuff you said was coming?”
“Everything’s inside,” Mr. Fall told him. “And the show is about to begin.”
He turned away and walked to the center of the platform, pounding on the wooden planks with his cane.
The cane must have been rigged up with some kind of remote control amplifier because it made quite a racket. And Mr. Fall’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Right this way,” he called out. “Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, for the free show.”
The ladies and gentlemen began to gather around the platform, pushing and shoving and fighting for a place up front, the way people always do when they figure on getting something for free.
There was quite a bit of cussing and some of the older folks got their toes tromped on, but no one was seriously hurt from what Sheriff Higgs could see. He was right up front himself, of course; nobody gets ahead of the law.
“Good evening, one and all,” said Mr. Fall. “And welcome to the Carnival of Life.”
“Some carnival!” mumbled a voice from behind the sheriff. “Where’s the belly-dancers?”
Sheriff Higgs didn’t bother to look around; he knew who was speaking because he could smell his breath. Clay Tolliver, the mortician’s son, always got pretty well bombed by this time of evening.
Mr. Fall smiled and nodded. “In answer to the question regarding the performers, allow me to call your attention to the pictorial displays directly behind me. In the quaint jargon of the oldtime carny, they are known as ‘the bloody banners.’ Uh—if there happen to be any Englishmen in the audience, I trust they will take no offense.”
There were no Englishmen or any other foreigners present and no offense was taken; everyone peered up at the painted panel of an enormously fat woman indicated by Mr. Fall’s pointing cane.
“Big Bertha,” he said. “Five hundred pounds of pulsing pulchritude—a quarter of a ton of solid human flesh—the fattest female figure in the firmament.”
Down in front, Mrs. Agatha Crouch stood bulking before the billowing poster, one hamlike hand gripping her husband’s arm and the other encircling an open jar of garlic dills. Raising the jar to her gaping mouth, she snagged one of the pickles between her teeth and began to munch on it.
Mr. Crouch was a feisty little man and he swore a blue streak as a squirt of pickle-juice sprayed the top of his bald head.
“God-diddly-damn-it!” he yelled. “You dribbling all over me!”
“Okay, then you hold it,” said Mrs. Crouch, thrusting the jar into his hand and fishing another dill from the brine with her pudgy fingers.
Mr. Crouch scowled. “Bringing pickles to a carnival!” he muttered. “Eat, eat, eat, that’s all you ever do. Don’t you get enough food at home?”
Agatha Crouch’s chins quivered with righteous indignation as she popped the pickle into her mouth. “I don’t get me enough of anything at home, you miserable runt! Now shut up and listen to the man.”
The man was indicating another portion of the panel where a tiny figure rested on the fat woman’s lap, almost obscured by her bulging belly.
“Big Bertha’s diminutive darling,” he chanted. “Little Leo—a minuscule mite of mankind mated to a mountain—a marvel of mirth and merriment!”
“Haw!” remarked Agatha Crouch
squinting at the small shape lost in the flabby folds of the fat lady’s lap. “Sure looks funny, don’t it?”
“Yeah.” Mr. Crouch nodded as he craned his neck to see the banner. But he was staring at the picture of the fat woman.
Up on the platform Mr. Fall moved to another panel. This one depicted a strangely-garbed, grinning creature with a chinless face, pointed ears, pale skin and a shaved, oddly-pointed skull. As a fanciful touch the poster artist had added a dozen white mice crawling over the creature’s head and shoulders; a thirteenth dangled by its tail from between his teeth.
“Pooky the Pinhead!” said Mr. Fall. “Actually a microcephalic—one of Mother Nature’s little mistakes. But as you can see by his smile, he’s a cheerful fellow—doesn’t mind playing the game of life without a full deck.”
Somebody in the crowd let out a cackle and the sheriff turned to see who was responsible. But it was only Junior Dorkin; you couldn’t hardly call him responsible, seeing as how he was the village idiot and an albino to boot. He just kept laughing and pointing up at the picture, same as usual. Junior laughed just about all the time, even when he was cutting up a stray cat.
“Huh-huh-huh!” he wheezed, wiping a gob of spittle from his receding chin. “Wanna see him eat mouses—”
Now Mr. Fall was gesturing at another banner, even more lurid than the others. It showed a hulking hairy monster with ape-like features, leering down at a cowering, scantily-clad girl.
“Out of the primeval past,” he was saying. “A bestial being emerges from the misty mystery of prehistoric time. Behold the living, breathing ancestor of human kind—Horneo Porneo, the Wild Man of Borneo!”
“Man, that’s weird!”
Sheriff Higgs glanced around to see Fuzz Foskins grinning up from his place in the crowd, wearing his usual outfit of tank-top and soiled jeans. Bushy hair sprouted from his head in an enormously unnatural natural, a bushy beard tangled with the matted hair on his chest. His armpits were bushy too and from them welled a fetid scent which mingled with the reeking odor emanating from his open mouth.
Probably high on angel-dust again, the sheriff figured. If Fuzz’s father wasn’t the county judge he’d have been busted long ago.