Margaret St. Clair (26 page)

“No … No … But I just remembered. How can he give me the pig formula when he’s dead?”

“He’s just as likely to give it to you dead as when he was alive. Besides, think of t he humiliation of it. You, Marine, having to lower yourself to wheedle a thing like that out of Air! Why, he ought to be proud, honored, to give the formula to you.”

“Yes, he ought.” Sonya‘s lips tightened. “I won’t take any nonsense from him,” she said. “Even if the Watson works and I dight him, I’ll shoot him afterwards. Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. Any girl with spirit would.”

Major Briggs glanced at her watch. “Twenty past! I’m overdu e at the piggery right now. Thank you so much.” She beamed at him. “I’m going to take your advice.”

“I’m glad. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

She walked out of the room, humming. “From the halls of Montezuma …”

Left alone, the huxley interchanged its eyes and nose absently a couple of times. It looked up at the ceiling speculatively, as if it wondered when the bombs from Air, Infantry, and Navy were going to come crashing down. It had had interviews with twelve young women so far, and it had given them a l l the same advice it had given Major Briggs. Even a huxley with a short in its chest might have foreseen that the final result of its counseling would be catastrophic for Marine.

It sat a little while longer, repeating to itself, “Poppoff, Poppoff. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.”

Its short was sputtering loudly and cheerfully; it hunted around on the broadcast sound band until it found a program of atonal music that covered the noise successfully. Though its derangement had reached a point that was not far short of insanity, the huxley still retained a certain cunning.

Once more it repeated “Poppoff Poppoff,” to itself. Then it went to the door of its waiting room and called in its next client.

1954.
Fantastic Universe

-

Horrer Howce

Dickson-Hawes’s face had turned a delicate pea-green. He closed the shutter on the opening very quickly indeed. Nonetheless, he said in nearly his usual voice, “I’m afraid it’s a trifle literary, Freeman. Reminds of that thing of Yeats’s —‘What monstrous beast, Its time come, uh, round again, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?’ But the people who go to a horror house for amusement aren’t literary, it wouldn’t affect them the way it did me.” He giggled nervousl y.

No answering emotion disturbed the normal sullenness of Freeman’s face. “I thought there was a nice feel to it,” he said obstinately. “I wouldn’t have put so much time in on this stuff unless I thought you’d be interested. Research is more my line. I c ould have made a lot more money working on one of the government projects.”

“You didn’t have much choice, did you?” Dickson-Hawes said pleasantly. ‘A political past is such a handicap, unless one’s willing to risk prosecution for perjury.”

“I’m as loyal as anybody! For the last five years —eight, ten —all I’ve wanted to do was make a little cash. The trouble is, I always have such rotten luck.”

“Um.” Dickson Hawes wiped his forehead unobtrusively. “Well, about your little effort. There are some nice touches, certainly. The idea of the monstrous womb, alone on the seashore, slowly swelling, and …” In the folds of his handkerchief he stifled a sort of cough. “No, I’m afraid it’s too poetic. I can’t use it, old chap.”

The two men moved away from the shuttered opening. Freeman said, “Then Spring Scene is the only one you’re taking?”

“Of those of yours I’ve seen. It’s horrid enough, but not too horrid. Haven’t you anything else?” Dickson-Hawes’s voice was eager, but eagerness seemed to be mixed with other things —reluctance, perhaps, and the fear of being afraid.

Freeman fingered his lower lip. “There’s the Well,” he said after a moment. “It needs a little more work done on it, but —I guess you could look at it.”

“I’d be delighted to,” Dickson Hawes agreed heartily. “I do hope you understand, old man, that there’s quite a lot of money involved in this.”

“Yeah. You’ve really got the capital lined up? Twice before, you were sure you had big money interested. But the deals always fell through. I g ot pretty tired of it.”

“This time it’s different. The money’s already in escrow, not to mention what I’m putting in myself. We intend a coast-to-coast network of horror houses in every gayway, playland, and amusement park.”

“Yeah. Well, come along.”

They went down the corridor to another door. Freeman unlocked it. “By the way,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down. Some of the machinery in this stuff s —delicate. Sensitive.”

“By all means. Of course.”

They entered. To their right was an old brick house, not quite in ruins. To the left, a clump of blackish trees cut off the sky. Just in front of them was the moss-covered coping of an old stone well. The ground around the well was slick with moisture.

Dickson-Hawes sniffed appreciatively. “I must say you’ve paid wonderful attention to detail. It’s exactly like being out of doors. It even smells froggy and damp.”

“Thanks,” Freeman replied with a small, dour smile.

“What happens next?”

“Look down in the well.”

Rather gingerly, Dickson-Hawes approached. He leaned over. From the well came a gurgling splash.

Dickson-Hawes drew back abruptly. Now his face was not quite greenish; it was white. “My word, what a monster!” he gasped. “What is it, anyway?”

“Clockwork,” Freeman answered. “It’ll w r ithe for thirty-six hours on one winding. I couldn’t use batteries, you know, on account of the water. That greenish flash in the eyes comes from prisms. And the hair is the same thing you get on those expensive fur coats, onl y longer. I think they call it plastimink.”

“What happens if I keep leaning over? Or if I drop pebbles down on it?”

“It’ll come out at you.”

Dickson-Hawes looked disappointed. “Anything else?”

“The sky gets darker and noises come out of the house. Isn’t that enough?”

Dickson-Hawes coughed. “Well, of course we’d have to soup it up a bit. Put an electrified rail around the well coping and perhaps make the approach to the well slippery so the custo mers would have to grasp the handrail. Install a couple of air jets to blow the girls’ dress up. And naturally make it a good deal darker so couples can neck when the girl gets scared. But it’s a nice little effort, Freeman, very nice indeed. I’m almost c e rtain we can use it. Yes, we ought to have your Well in our horror house.”

Dickson-Hawes’s voice had rung out strongly on the last few words. Now there came another watery splash from the well. Freeman seemed disturbed.

“I
told
you to keep your voice d own,” he complained. “The partitions are thin. When you talk that loud, you can be heard all over the place. It isn’t good for the —machinery.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again … I don’t think the customers ought to neck in here. This isn’t the p lace for it. If they’ve got to neck, let them do it outside. In the corridor.”

“You have no idea, old chap, what people will do in a darkened corridor in a horror house. It seems to stimulate them. But you may be right. Letting them stay here to neck mig ht spoil the illusion. We’ll try to get them on out.”

“Okay. How much are you paying me for this?”

“Our lawyer will have to discuss the details,” said Dickson-Hawes. He gave Freeman a smile reeking with synthetic charm. “I assure you he can draw up a s atisfactory contract. I can’t be more definite until I know what the copyright or patent situation would be.”

“I don’t think my Well could be patented,” Freeman said. “There are details in the machinery nobody understands but me. I’d have to install each unit in your horror-house network myself. There ought to be a clause in the contract about my per diem expenses and a traveling allowance.”

“I’m sure we can work out something mutually satisfactory.’

“Uh … let’s get out of here. This is an awfully d amp place to do much talking in.’

They went out into the hall again. Freeman locked the door. “Have you anything else?” Dickson-Hawes asked.

Freeman’s eyes moved away. “No.”

“Oh, come now, old chap. Don’t be coy. As I told you before, there’s money involved.”

“What sort of thing do you want?”

“Well, horrid. Though not quite so poetically horrid as what you have behind the shutter. That’s a little too much. Perhaps something with a trifle more action. With more customer participation. Both the Wel l and Spring Scene are on the static side.”

“Uh.”

They walked along the corridor. Freeman said slowly, “I’ve been working on something. There’s action and customer participation in it, all right, but I don’t know. It’s full of bugs. I just haven’t had time to work it out yet.”

“Let’s have it, old man, by all means!”

“Not so loud! You’ve got to keep your voice down. Otherwise I can’t take you in.” Freeman himself was speaking almost in a whisper. “All right. Here.”

They had stopped before a much more substantial door than the one behind which the Well lay. There was a wide rubber flange all around it, and it was secured at top and bottom by two padlocked hasps. In the top of the door, three or four small holes had been bored, apparently to admit a i r.

“You must have something pretty hot locked up behind all that,” Dickson-Hawes remarked.

“Yeah.” Freeman got a key ring out of his pocket and began looking over it. Dickson-Hawes glanced around appraisingly.

“Somebody’s been writing on your wall,” he observed. “Rotten speller, I must say.”

Freeman raised his eyes from the key ring and looked in the direction the other man indicated. On the wall opposite the door, just under the ceiling, somebody had written horrer howce in what looked like blackis h ink.

The effect of the ill-spelled words on Freeman was remarkable. He dropped the key ring with a clatter, and when he straightened from picking it up, his hands were quivering.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. He put the key ring back in his pocket . “I always did have the damnedest luck.”

Dickson-Hawes leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles. “How do you get your ideas, Freeman?”

“Oh, all sorts of ways. Things I read, things people tell me, things I see. All sorts of ways.” Both men were speaking in low tones.

“They’re amazing. And your mechanical effects —I really don’t see how you get machinery to do the things you make it do.”

Freeman smiled meagerly. “I’ve always been good at mechanics. Particularly radio and signaling device s. Relays. Communication problems, you might say. I can communicate with anything. Started when I was a kid.”

There was silence. Dickson-Hawes kept leaning against the wall. A close observer, Freeman noticed almost a tic, a fluttering of his left eyelid.

At last Freeman said, “How much are you paying for the Well?”

Dickson-Hawes closed his eyes and opened them again. He may have been reflecting that while a verbal contract is quite as binding as a written one, it is difficult to prove the existence of a verbal contract to which there are no witnesses.

He answered, “Five thousand in a lump sum, I think, and a prorated share of the net admissions for the first three years.”

There was an even longer silence. Freeman’s face relaxed at the mention of a definite sum. He said, “How are your nerves? I need money so damned bad.”

Dickson-Hawes’s face went so blank that it would seem the other man had touched a vulnerable spot. “Pretty good, I imagine,” he said in a carefully modulated voice. “I saw a good d eal of action during the war.”

Cupidity and some other emotion contended in Freeman’s eyes. He fished out the key ring again. “Look, you must not make a noise. No yelling or anything like that, no matter what you see. They’re very —I mean the machinery’s delicate. It’s full of bugs I haven’t got rid of yet. The whole thing will be a lot less ghastly later on. I’m going to keep the basic idea, make it just as exciting as it is now, but tone it down plenty.”

“I understand.”

Freeman looked at him with a frown. Don’t make a noise,” he cautioned again. “Remember, none of this is real.” He fitted the key into the first of the padlocks on the stoutly built door.

The second padlock was a little stiff. Freeman had to fidget with it. Finally he got the door o pen. The two men stepped through it. They were outside.

There is no other way of expressing it: They were outside. If the illusion had been good in the Well, here it was perfect. They stood in a sort of safety island on the edge of a broad freeway, where traffic poured by in an unending rush eight lanes wide. It was the time of day when, though visibility is really better than at noon, a nervous motorist or two has turned on his parking lights. Besides the two men, the safety island held a new, shiny, eg g plant-colored sedan.

Dickson-Hawes turned a bewildered face on his companion. “Freeman,” he said in a whisper, “did you make all this?”

For the first time, Freeman grinned. “Pretty good, isn’t it?” he replied, also in a whisper. He opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “Get in. We’re going for a ride. Remember, no noise.”

The other man obeyed. Freeman started the car —it had a very quiet motor —and watched until a lull in the traffic gave him a chance to swing out from the curb. He st epped on the accelerator. The landscape began to move by.

Cars passed them. They passed some cars. Dickson-Hawes looked for the speedometer on the dashboard and couldn’t find it. A garage, service station, a billboard went by. The sign on the garage read : WE FIX FLATTEDS. The service station had conical pumps. The tomatoes on the billboard were purple and green.

Dickson-Hawes was breathing shallowly. He said, “Freeman —where are we?”

Once more, the other man grinned. “You’re getting just the effect I mean to give,” he retorted in a pleased whisper. “At first, the customer thinks he’s on an ordinary freeway, with ordinary people hurrying home to their dinners. Then he begins to notice all sorts of subtle differences. Everything’s a little off-key. It a dds to the uneasiness.”