Image of the Beast

by Philip José Farmer

  There was one confirmation of her story, he thought. That was that Vivienne Mabcrough had left her alone.

  "And then, one afternoon, this fabulously beautiful woman, Vivienne, came to my room," she said.

  "Oh?"

  Vivienne and Sybil smoked the marijuana-like substance, with Sybil knowing well what was coming. The two made love, but the snake-thing remained within Vivienne's womb. Sybil was not aware of its existence, and Childe did not mention it.

  Vivienne came to Sybil many times after that, sometimes alone and sometimes with Panchita or Diana or Plugger or with all three. Then Fred Pao, or his twin, showed up. Both only wanted to be sucked off, but when Sybil refused unless she was given something in return, they brought Plugger in with them. While Sybil stood in the middle of the room, bent over, sucking on Pao's long slim dick, Plugger pressed his electric cock against her anus or held its tip against her cunt. Sometimes, he got down on his knees and spread the cheeks of her ass and rammed his tongue up it.

  "Every prisoner should have it so good," Childe said. He was thinking of what had happened to Colben and the others and of what might have happened to him. But, now that he considered it, Igescu's group may not have been planning on mutilation and death for him. They seemed to have been aware that he was something special, if he could believe what Hindarf and Vivienne had said in their short conversation in English.

  However, they had been trying to kill him after he had escaped and killed some of them. This could have been from self-defense only, not from a desire to murder for the pleasure of murder.

  Mysteriouser and mysteriouser, he thought, paraphrasing Alice.

  And Sybil had been a sort of Alice in Sexland. Certainly 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 dreadful 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 blindfolded 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 preparations, 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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 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 dangerous. 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 containing 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, "Hull! 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 be 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 writing 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 Period) 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 Magnificent."

  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 miserable 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. Somehow, he never knew how it worked out, he always borrowed 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 elevator 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. Halfway 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 correspondence 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 convention, 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 fathead 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 collected a monument to science-fiction and fantasy and, incidentally, 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 Horizon, only it was in reverse. Instead of the beautiful young woman wrinkling into ghastly old age, it was a case of a woman unwrinkling, 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 beginning 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 Woolston Heepish."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 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 capable 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 Earthlings for ten thousand years. But had they revealed themselves to any before? That was the important thing.

  "You're getting too excited, Forry," she said. "I know you have a thousand questions bubbling in your mind. But you'll get things straighter and quicker if you'll just listen quietly to my story. Okay? Good! Lean back and listen."

  There was a planet the size and shape of Earth rotating around a Sol-type sun on the edge of the Andromeda galaxy, which was 800,000 light years distant from Earth. The sky was a blaze of luminous gas and giant stars shining through the gas. The planet of the Tocs had no moon, hence was tideless.

  The fifth planet out had two small moons but no seas in which tides could occur. This was the dying world of the Ogs, an evil race.

  "Geeze!" Forry thought, and the extent of his excitement could be gauged by his use of the mild expletive. He abhorred the use, even in his mind, of the most dilute of expletives.

  "Geeze! This is just like Gernsback! Or Early Campbell!"

  The Tocs and the Ogs were not human beings. They were amphibious creatures who passed back and forth from a state of pure energy to that of matter. They formed configurations of bound energy in one condition and configurations of matter in the other. Their shape depended on that which they wished to imitate--or to create. But they did have limitations of size and shape. The smallest body that could be formed was about the size of a large fox or, if they took to the air, a large bat. When they existed as, the smaller animals, they carried the energy excess in an invisible form as a sort of exhaust trail. Or perhaps the analogy could be energy packed into an intangible and transparent suitcase.