Image of the Beast

by Philip José Farmer

  He looked through the peephole but could see nothing.

  He went back the passageway and up the other leg to the panel and opened this. His hand, thrust through the opening, felt a heavy cloth. He slid through carefully so that he would not push the cloth. It could be a drapery heavy enough to keep light on the other side from shining through. If anybody were in that room, he must not see the drapery move.

  Squatting, his shoulder to the wall and squeezing his shoulders so that he would not disturb the cloth, he duck-walked until he had come to the juncture of two walls. Here the edges of the draperies met. He turned and pulled the edges apart and looked through with one eye.

  The room was dark. He rose and stepped through and turned his flashlight on. The beam swept across a movie camera on a dolly and then stopped on a Y-shaped table.

  He was in the room, or one much like it, in which Colben and Budler had spent their--presumably--last few hours.

  There was a bed in one corner, a number of movie cameras, some devices the use of which he did not know, and a large ashtray of some dark-green material. In the center of its roughly circular dish stood a long thin statue. It looked like a nude man in the process of turning into a wolf, or vice versa. The body up to the chest was human; from there on it was hairy and the arms had become legs and the face had wolf-like ears and was caught in metamorphosis. There were about thirty cigarette stubs in the dish. Some had lipstick marks. One had a streak of dried blood, or it looked like dried blood, around the filter.

  Childe turned on the lights and with his tiny Japanese camera took twenty shots. He had what he needed now, and he should get out. But he did not know whether or not Sybil was in this house.

  And there might be other, even more impressive, evidence to get the police here.

  He turned off the lights and crawled out of the panel into the passageway. He had a choice of routes then and decided to take the right leg of the Y. This led to another hall--the horizontal bar of a T. He turned right again and came to a stairway. The treads were of a glassy substance; it would have been easy to slip on them if he had not been wearing sneakers. He walked down six steps, and then his feet slid out from under him and he fell heavily on his back.

  He struck a smooth slab and shot downward as if on a chutey-chute which, in a sense, he was on. He put out his hands against the walls to brake himself but the walls, which had not seemed vitreous, were. The flashlight showed him a trapdoor opening at the bottom of the steps--these had straightened out to fall against each other and form a smooth surface--and then he slid through the dark opening. He struck heavily but was unhurt. The trapdoor closed above him. The flashlight showed him the padded ceiling, walls, and floor of a room seven feet high, six broad, ten wide. There were no apparent doors or windows.

  He smelled nothing nor heard anything, but gas must have been let into the room. He fell asleep before he knew what was happening.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  He did not know how long he had been there. When he awoke, his flashlight, his wristwatch, his revolver, and his camera were missing. His head ached, and his mouth was as dry as if he were waking up after a three-day drunk. The gas must have had a very relaxing effect, because he had wet his shorts and pants. Or else he had wet them when the steps had dropped out from under him and he had begun his slide. He had needed to piss before the trap caught him.

  Five lights came on. Four were from floor lamps set in the corners, and one was from an iron wall-lamp shaped like a torch and set at forty-five degrees to the wall.

  He was not in the padded chamber. He was lying on a huge four-postered bed with scarlet sheets and bedspread and a scarlet black-edged canopy. The room was not one he had seen before. It was large; its black walls were hung with scarlet yellow-trimmed drapes and two sets of crossed rapiers. The floor was dark-glossy brown hardwood with a few crimson starfish-shaped thick-fibered rugs. There were some slender wrought-iron chairs with high skeletal backs and crimson cushions on the seats and a tall dresser of dense-grained brown wood.

  It was while looking around that he thought of the dread of iron and of the cross that vampires were supposed to have. There were iron objects all over the house, and, while he had seen no crucifixes, he had seen plenty of objects, such as these crossed rapiers, which made cruciforms. If Igescu was a vampire (Childe felt ridiculous even thinking this), he certainly did not object to contact with iron or sight of the cross.

  Perhaps (just perhaps), these creatures had acquired an immunity from these once-abhorred things during thousands of years. If they had ever dreaded iron and the cross, that is. What about the years before iron was used by man? Or the cross was used by man? What guards and wards did man have then against these creatures?

  Shakily, Childe got out of the bed and stood up. He had no time to search for a secret wall-exit, which he thought could exist here and which he might find before his captors returned. But the door at the far end swung open, and Glam entered, and the big room seemed much smaller. He stopped very close to Childe and looked down at him. For the first time, Childe saw that his eyes were light russet. The face was heavy and massive as a boulder, but those eyes seemed to glow as if they were rocks which had been subjected to radioactivity. Hairs hung from the cavernous nostrils like stalactites. His breath stank as if he had been eating rotten octopus.

  "The baron says you should come to dinner," he rumbled.

  "In these clothes?"

  Glam looked down at the wet patch on the front of Childe's pants. When he looked up, he smiled briefly, like a jack-o'lantern just before the candle died.

  "The baron says you can dress if you want to. There's clothes your size or near enough in the closet."

  The closet was almost big enough to be a small room. His eyebrows rose when he saw the variety of male and female clothing. Who were the owners and where were they? Were they dead? Did some of the clothes bear labels with the names of Colben and Budler, or had borne the labels, since the baron would not be stupid enough, surely, to leave such identification on.

  Perhaps he was stupid. Otherwise, why the sending of the films to the Los Angeles Police Department?

  But he did not really believe this about the baron.

  Childe, after washing his hands and face and genitals and thighs in the most luxurious bathroom he had ever been in, and after dressing in a tuxedo, followed Glam down several hallways and then downstairs. He did not recognize any of the corridors nor the dining room. He had expected to be in the dining room he had seen yesterday, but this was another. The house was truly enormous.

  The motif of this room was, in some respects, Early Grandiose Victorian-Italian, or so it seemed to him. The walls were gray black-streaked marble. A huge red marble fireplace and mantel were at one end, and above the mantel was a painting of a fierce old white-haired man with long moustachioes. He wore a wine-red coat with wide lapels and a white shirt with thick ruffles around the neck.

  The floor was of black marble with small mosaics at each of the eight corners. The furniture was massive and of a black dense-grained wood. A white damascene cloth covered the main table; it was set with massive silver dishes and goblets and tableware and tall thick silver candleholders which supported thick red candles. There were at least fifty candles, all lit. A large cut-quartz chandelier held a number of red candles, also, but these were unlit.

  Glam stopped to indicate a chair. Childe advanced slowly to it. The baron, at the head of the table, rose to greet him. His smile was broad but fleeting. He said, "Welcome, Mr. Childe, despite the circumstances. Please sit down there. Next to Mrs. Grasatchow."

  There were four men and six women at the table.

  The baron.

  Magda Holyani.

  Mrs. Grasatchow, who was almost the fattest woman he had ever seen.

  The baron's great-grandmother, who had to be at least a hundred.

  Vivienne Mabcrough, the titian-haired woman with the man-headed snake-thing in her womb.

  O'Ri
ley O'Faithair, a handsome black-haired man of about thirty-five who spoke a charming Irish brogue. And now and then a few sentences in an unknown language to the baron and the Mabcrough woman.

  Mr. Bending Grass, who had a very broad and high-cheekboned face with a huge aquiline nose and huge, slightly slanted, very dark eyes. He could have been Sitting Bull's twin, but something he said to Mrs. Grasatchow indicated that he was Crow. He spoke of the mountain man, John, Johnston, "Liver Eating Johnston," as if he had been a contemporary.

  Fred Pao, a tall slender Chinese with features that could have been carved out of teak and a Fu Manchu moustache and goatee.

  Panchita Pocyotl, a short petite and beautiful Mexican Indian.

  Rebecca Ngima, a handsome lithe black African dressed in a long white native costume.

  They were all expensively and tastefully dressed and, though their speech was not free of foreign pronunciation, their English was fluent, "correct," and rich with literary, philosophical, historical, and musical allusions. There were also references to events and persons and places that puzzled Childe, who was well-read. They seemed to have been everywhere and, here he felt cold threading the needle of his nerves, to have lived in times long dead.

  Was this for his benefit? An addition to the hoax?

  What hoax?

  It was then that he got another shock, because the baron addressed him again as Mr. Childe. With a start, he remembered the first time. He had been too dull to have realized then what that meant.

  "How did you learn my name? I carried no identification with me."

  The baron smiled "You don't really expect me to tell you?"

  Childe shrugged and began eating. There were many different dishes on the sideboard; he had been given a wide choice but had decided on New York-cut steak and baked potato. Mrs. Grasatchow, who sat on his left, had a platter with an entire bonita fish and a huge bowl of salad. She drank before, during, and after the meal from a gallon decanter of bourbon. The decanter was full when she sat down and empty when the dishes were cleared off the table.

  Glam and two short, dark, and shapely women in maid uniforms served. The women did not act like servants, however, they frequently talked with the guests and the host and several times made remarks in the foreign tongue that caused the others to laugh. Glam spoke only when his duties required. He glanced at Magda far more than his duties required.

  The baroness, seated at the opposite end from her great-grandson, bent like a living question mark, or vulture, over her soup. This was the only food she was served, and she allowed it to get cold before she finally finished it. She said very little and only looked up twice, once to stare a long time at Childe. She looked as if she had only recently been brought out of an Egyptian pyramid and as if she would just as soon go back into the crypt. Her dinner gown, high-necked, ruffle-bosomed, diamond-sequined, red velvet, looked as if she had purchased it in 1890.

  Mrs. Grasatchow, although as fat as two sows put together, had a remarkably white, flawless, and creamy skin and enormous purplish eyes. When she had been younger and thinner, she must have been a beautiful woman. She talked now as if she thought she was still beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world. She talked loudly and uninhibitedly about the men who had died--some of them literally--for her love. Halfway through the dinner, and two-thirds through the gallon of whiskey, her speech began to get slurred. Childe was awed. She had drunk enough to kill him, or most men, and she only had a little trouble with her speech.

  She had drunk far more than the Chinese, Pao, who had downed much wine during the evening, but not much relative to her. Yet nobody reprimanded her, but Igescu seemed concerned about Pao. He was speaking to him in a corner, and though Childe could not hear them, he saw Igescu's hand come down on Pao's wrist, and Igescu shook his head and then jerked the thumb of his other hand at Childe.

  Suddenly, Pao began to shake, and he ran out of the room. He was in a hurry to get out, but Childe did not think that he was about to vomit. He did not have the pale skin and desperate expression of one whose guts are ready to launch their contents.

  The dishes were cleared and cigars and brandy and wine were served. (My God! was Mrs. Grasatchow really going to smoke that ten-dollar cigar and pour down a huge snifter of brandy on top of that whiskey?)

  The baron spoke to Childe:

  "You realize, of course, that I could easily have had you killed for trespassing, for entering, for voyeurism, et cetera, but mostly for entering? Now, perhaps, you would like to tell me what you are up to?"

  Childe hesitated. The baron knew his name and must, therefore, know that he was a private investigator. And that he had been a partner of Colben. He must realize that, somehow, Childe had tracked him down, and he must be curious about what had led Childe here. He might be wondering if Childe had told anybody that he was coming out here.

  Childe decided to be frank. He also decided that he would tell the baron that the LAPD knew he was here and that if they did not hear from him at a certain time, they would come out here to find out why.

  Igescu listened with a smile that seemed amused. He said, "Of course! And what would they find if they did come out here, which they are not likely to do?"

  Perhaps they would find something Igescu did not suspect. They might find two naked people tied to each other. Igescu might have a difficult time explaining them, but they would not be a dangerous liability. Just puzzling to the police and inconvenient to Igescu.

  At that moment Vasili Chornkin and Mrs. Krautschner, fully clothed, entered. They stopped for a moment, stared at Childe, and then walked on in. The blonde stopped by Igescu to whisper in his ear; the man sat down and ordered something to eat. Igescu looked at Childe, frowned, and then smiled. He said something to Mrs. Krautschner. She laughed and sat down by Chornkin.

  Childe felt even more trapped. He could do nothing except, perhaps, make a break for it, but he doubted that he would get far. There was nothing for him to do except drift with the current of Igescu's wishes and hope that he would get a chance to escape.

  The baron, looking over the brandy snifter just below his nose, said, "Did you get a chance to read Le Garrault, Mr. Childe?"

  "No, I didn't. But I understand the UCLA library is closed because of the smog."

  The baron stood up. "Let's go into the library and talk where it's quieter."

  Mrs. Grasatchow heaved up from the chair, blowing like an alcoholic whale. She put an arm around Childe's shoulder; the flesh drooped like tangles of jungle vines. "I'll go with you, baby, you don't want to go without me."

  "You can stay here for the time being," Igescu said.

  Mrs. Grasatchow glared at the baron, but she dropped her arm from Childe and sat down.

  The library was a large dark room with leather-covered walls and massive dark-wood built-in shelves and at least five thousand books, some of them looking centuries old. The baron sat down in an overstuffed leather-covered chair with a wooden back carved in the form of a bat-winged Satan. Childe sat down in a similar chair, the back of which was a carved troll.

  "Le Garrault..." the baron said.

  "What's going on here?" Childe said. "Why the party?"

  "You aren't interested in Le Garrault?"

  "Sure, I'm interested. But I think there are things of much more interest just now. For instance, my survival."

  "That is up to you, of course. One's survival is always up to one's self. Other people only play the part that you permit. But then, that's another theory. For the present, let's pretend that you are my guest and may leave at any time you wish--which can be the true situation, for all you know. Believe me, I am not telling you about Le Garrault just to pass the time. Am I?"

  The baron continued to smile. Childe thought about Sybil and got angry. But he knew that it would do no good to ask the baron about her. If the baron had her, he would admit it only if it served some purpose of his.

  "The old Belgian scholar knew more about the occult and the super
natural and the so-called weird than any other man who ever lived. I don't mean that he knew more than anybody else. I mean that he knew more than any other man."

  The baron paused to draw in cigar smoke. Childe felt himself getting tense, although he was making an effort to relax.

  "Old Le Garrault found records which other scholars did not find or else saw in these records what other scholars missed. Or possibly he may have talked to some of the--what should I call them? unmen?--some of the unmen, the pseudo-men, and gotten his facts, which we shall theory, directly from them.

  "In any event, Le Garrault speculated that the so called vampires, werewolves, poltergeists, ghosts, and so on, might be living creatures from a parallel universe. Or a number of parallel universes. You know what a parallel universe is?"

  "It's a concept originated by some science-fiction author, I believe," Childe said. "I think that the theory is that a number, perhaps an infinite number, of universes may occupy the same space. They can do this because they are all polarized or at right angles to each other. Those terms are actually meaningless, but they do signify that some physical mechanism enables more than one cosmos to fill the same quote space unquote. The concept of parallel universes was used and is being used by science-fiction writers to depict worlds just like ours, or only slightly differing, or wildly different. Like an Earth where the South won the Civil War. That idea has been used at least three times, that I know of."

  "Very good," the baron said. "Except that your examples are not quite correct. None of the three stories you are thinking about postulated a parallel universe. Churchill's and Kantor's were what if stories, and Moore's was a time travel story. But you have the right idea. However, Le Garrault was the first to publish the theory of parallel universes, although the publication was so restricted and so obscure that very few people knew about it. And Le Garrault did not postulate a series of universes which diverged only slightly at one end of the series, that is, the end nearest to Earth's cosmos, and diverged more the further away you got from Earth's.