ROD SERLING’S DGHT NEW JOURNEYS OF THE IMAGINATION ... IN THE TRADITION OF THE CLASSIC TELEVISION SERIES MAGAZINE OCTOBER 1981/ $2 71896 48882 ORIGINAL FICTION: MONSTERS IN MISSISSIPPI! SHOOTOUT IN THE TOY SHOP' ‘THE BEAST WITHIN’ BY ROBERT SHECKLEY FULL-COLOR FILM PREVIEW ‘OUT OF PLACE' ' BY PAMELA SARGENT ‘THE BIG TALL WISH’ 'THE TEAR COLLECTOR' CLASSIC SERLING SCRIPT BY DONALD OLSON PLUS SIX MORE NEW TALES THEODORE STURGEON ON BOOKS SHOW-BY-SHOW GUIDE GAHAN WILSON TO TV’S ‘TWILIGHT ZONE’ ON MOVIES EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW: RICHARD MATHESON SURVEYS HIS POE FILMS AND THE HORROR SCENE ■THE GREAT ELVIS PRESLEY LOOKALIKE MURDER MYSTERY OFFICES’ BY CHETWILLIAMSON F LOT W 1) r ^ I t^W^RODSERLING’S IBIJGHT PNE FEATURES October 1981 In the Twilight Zone 4 Other Dimensions: Books Theodore Sturgeon 6 Other Dimensions; Screen Gahan Wilson 10 TZ Interview: Richard Matheson (Part Two) James H. Bums 14 Screen Preview:‘The Beast Within’ Robert Martin 51 Dr. Van Helsing’s Handy Guide to Ghost Stories: Part Three Kurt Van Helsing 56 Show-by-Show Guide to TV’s ‘Twilight Zone’: Part Seven Marc Scott Zicree 86 TZ Classic Teleplay: ‘The Big, Tall Wish’ Rod Serling 92 FICTION Out of Place Pamela Sargent 22 Shootout in the Toy Shop Robert Sheckley 28 Zeke Timothy Robert Sullivan 32 The Burden of Indigo Gene O’Neill 40 Sea Change George Clayton Johnson 47 Offices Chet Williamson 61 The Tear Collectoi’ Donald Olson 66 The Great Elvis Presley Look-Alike Murder Mystery Mick Farren 72 Paintjob 0 Jay Rothbell 80 IL N T ' H T L J G Wonders never cease . . . I Olson Sullivan Rothbell Farren In this issue we welcome back : two distinguished guests, ROBERT I SHECKLEY and GEORGE CLAYTON I JOHNSON, the one contributing a private-eye yarfi that makes a sharp ; excursion into fantasy, the other a ' blood-curdling saga of the deep that was originally penned with the Tun- ; light Zone tv series in mind. It was I deemed too gruesome for family view- I ing in the early 1960s, but works marvelously for our magazine today. Johnson can be found, at present, , in Outre House’s Writing for The I Tvjilight Zone, which reprints a ■ quartet of his celebrated TZ scripts. I Sheckley, now busy with a new novel, turns up frequently in Omni (he’s form- I er fiction editor), providing dependa- ' bly imaginative prose to accompany . the magazine’s picture sections. In a . recent piece called “Tour of the Universe,’’ inspired by a collection of ; space paintings, he dreamed up such j wonders as Addier’s Planet, “where I time oscillates across a two-hour span, i making everyone late for work,’’ as well as a vanished extraterrestrial race “so alien they didn’t possess the : numbers 9 through 72.” \ Wonders never cease. Here on Earth we’ve got a plague of talking I animals (who turn out to be mankind’s ; most articulate critics) in Out of Pluce I by PAMELA SARGENT, one of I science fiction’s most consistently in- I teresting young novelists {Cloned j Lives, Watchstar) and editors (the Women of Wonder series). Two more novels. The Golden Space and The Alien Upstairs, are due out in 1982. In this issue she takes her epigraph from 4 i Roethke, but a more appropriate i source might be Robert Burns’s “To a I Louse,” dialect notwithstanding: “Oh I wad some power the giftie gie us / To i see oursels as others see us!” But what if others see us when I we’re not actually there? CHET j WILLIAMSON addresses this vital I question in Offices, his first profes- ^ sionally published fiction. Williamson, ; a former schoolteacher and actor, now j works in an office himself, producing ; industrial theater for business conven- j tions. As a member in good standing of j the Esoteric Order of Dagon, a small circle of H. P. Lovecraft devotees, each of whom publishes his own newsletter, he wrote recently: “It’s a rare horror j tale that doesn’t make one think of a 1 story read previously. . . . Another i problem with some ... is that they 1 don’t say anything. They’re content to I jump out and yell boo at the reader. I Once the initial chill has faded, there is I nothing left.” We’re pleased to report j that Williamson’s own tale is one of the ! rare ones, adroitly defying both gen- eralizations. , Speaking of originals, DONALD : OLSON, in The Tear Collector, ap- pears to have invented an entirely new fetish (which, in today’s world, is no small accomplishment). Bom, raised, and still living in Jamestown, New York, on the shores of beautiful Chau- tauqua Lake, Olson has written dozens of equally odd stories, as well as such suspense novels as If I Don’t Tell and Sleep Before Evening. He confeses, however, that he leads a life much less exciting than those he likes to write about. H T To N E I j i I t After living in such disparate ■ climes as Maine (where he was bom) I and California, TIMOTHY ROBERT | SULLIVAN now makes his home in i South Florida, the setting of his extra- ! ordinarily touching story, Zeke. An- ; thologized in Unearth, Chrysalis, and ' New Dimensions, Sullivan describes ; himself as “a physical fitness nut and fresh air fiend” who’s often seen jog- ging at two or th ree in the morning (but also, presumably, by day). When we last saw him he was tanned, muscular, and had shoulders as wide as Route 31 (where Zeke, incidentally, begins). GENE O’NEILL spins another | moving story in TheBurdjen of Indigo, a I sui generis melange of sf, fable, and i dream. O’Neill has worked throughout California and the Southwest as a geol- ogist, phys. ed. teacher, military con- tractor, and more— “a rich and varied ; background,” as he enjoys putting it— but his real love is writing, especially i children’s stories and fantasy. ! In Paint job, JAY ROTHBELL i adds what may v/ell be a new chapter in , landlord-tenant relations. She has already appeared, by her own count, in . nine literary magazines, five poetry an- ; thologies, one textbook, and eleven ' newspapers, to say nothing of Screw I and the National Lampoon. Her list of i previously held jobs is so long and | bizarre that we’ll save it for the next | time she appears; in these humbler, less ; flamboyant pages. MICK FARREN-he’s the one , with the earring— started out as a rock i musician in his native London, but he’s now writing sf novels and rock criti- i cism in lower Manhattan, where he : lives with his wife and four cats. The i first of his six novels. The Texts of . Festival, depicted a post-Bomb Britain j plunged into a new Dark Ages (shades | of Riddley Walker) with peasants ' quoting Holy Writ-the words of Jag- j ger, Dylan, and Morrison. Now, in TZ, i Farren adds Presley to his list. i Over the past few months you may J have noticed an improvement in the ' photographs accompanying our Tvji- \ light Zone scripts and the Show-by- j Show Guide; no longer are we forced to rely exclusively upon publicity stills. For this we have the Ithaca College School of Commimications to thank. Its dean and students have carefully screened the films in the college’s Ser- ling Archives, reproducing the most dramatic, informative shots— and all, dear reader, for you. — TK Photo credits: Farren/Morcla Resnlck: Sullivan/Jeff Schalles; Sargent/Georoo Zobrowski, Johnson/Mark Scott Zicroo Publisher’s Note Now that we’ve been around for six months or so, I felt it was time to pass a few more thoughts on to you. First of all, thanks for your many letters of congratulations and g'ood wishes. We haven’t started a “Letters” column yet, but I’d like to quote just a few; Frankly, I read the first issue with some trepidation, fearful of what might happen when those other than Rod attempted to walk on the magic water. Yet 1 need not have worried. As the premiere issue and subsequent ones have shown. 'Twilight Zone magazine is as handsomely done as if Rod had done it himself. And this from the mother of a young man who gets up at five A.M. to watch Twilight Zone on television (quoting her son): "Mom, the tv show was so long ago and I just found out about it and started watching it and collecting stuff about it, and now all of a sud- den they came out with the TZ magazine . . . I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. ” Thanks for giving my son something special to look forward to every month. Keep up the good work! And from a man who started a new business: The nature of the i'nieiness was easy for me to determine, but the name of my business required careful consideration. I wanted a name that means something Iwautiful and that would project happiness. My first theught, and the only one that fit my requirements, was a name and a place right in the Twilight Zone — Willoughby, a town of the past. And finally: Rod not only saw mankind for what it was, but he dared to envision what it could be, if only we would look to the light in the black, the basic decency and compassion that is within us all, if we would only recognize it. He told us, straight and honestly, we all come from the same place, we all would eventually wind up in the same place, so we should feel honored as well as obligated to kelp one another through the journey. Thank you for bringing back the memory of your late husband. I wish you all the luck in the world, this and the next, with TZ magazine. I hope that the future holds only glorious success for you and the new authors you discover. Mr. Serling’s memory deserves nothing less. Please keep the hitters and cards coming. Let us know what you’d like to see more of. The first contest is closed now, and the judges are working hard. Look for the announcement of TZ’s new contest on page 13 of this issue. TZ Publications S. Edward Orenstein, President & Chairman Sidney Z. Gellman Secretary! Treasurer Leon Garry Eric Protter Executive Vice-Presidents Executive Publisher: S. Edward Orenstein Publisher: Leon Garry Associate Publisher and Consulting Editor: Carol Serling Editorial Director: Eric Protter Editor: T.E.D. Klein Managing Editor: Jane Bayer Contributing Editors: Gahan Wilson, Theodore Sturgeon Editorial Assistant: Marc Stecker Design Director: Derek Burton Art and Studio Production: Georg the Design Group Production Director: Edward Ernest Controller: Thomas Schiff Administrative Asst.: Eve Grammatas Public Relations Manager: Jeffrey Nickora Accounting Mgr.: Chris Grossman Circulation Director: Denise Kelly Circulation Assistant: Karen Wiss Circulation Marketing Mgr.: Jerry Alexander Western Newsstand Consultant: Harry Sommer, N. Hollywood, CA Advertising Manager: Rachel Britapaja Adv. Production Mgr.: Marina Despotakis Advertising Representatives: Barney O’Hara & Associates, Inc. 105 E. 35 St., New York, NY 10016 (212) 889-8820 410 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, IL 60611 (312) 467-9494 326 W. Rosa Dr., Green Valley, AZ 85614 (602) 625-5995 9017 Placido, Reseda Blvd., North Ridge, I CA 91324 (213)701-6897 Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, 1981, Volume 1, Number 7 is published monthly in the United States and simultaneously in Canada by TZ Publications, Inc., 800 Second Avenue, New York N.Y. 10017. Telephone (212) 986-9600. Copyright © 1981 by TZ Publications, Inc. Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone Magazine is published pursiumt to license from Carolyn Serling and Viacom En- terprises, a division of Viacom Intemaional, Inc. All rights reserved. Controlled circulation postage paid at Pewaukee, WI, and at New York, NY, and at additional mailing offices. Responsiblity is not assumed for unsolic- ited materials. Return postal must accompany all unso- licited material if return is requested. All rights reserved on material accepted for publication unless otherwise specified. All letters sent to Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine or to its editors are assumed intended for publication. Nothing may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission ft-om the publishers. Any similarity between pereons appearing in fiction and reaJ persons living or dead is coincidental. Single copies $2 in U.S. and Canada. Subscriptions: U.S., U.S. possessions, Canada, and AFO— one year, 12 issues: $22 ($27 in Cana- dian curency); two years, 24 issues: $35 ($43 in Canadian currency). Postmaster: Send address changes to P.O. Box 252, Mt. Morris, IL 61054. Printed in U.S.A. S OTHER D I M E N S I O N S Books by Theodore Sturgeon The book came to me some time ago, thanks to Bantam— a very early reading copy— and it has been lying on a shelf under my desk, exuding an almost tangible fragrance of wonder, of amaze, of delight and marvel, and has filled me with eagerness to write this review. And now the time for it has come, and I have felt, for a day or more, helpless to start. I don’t want to play this note by note, the way words fall, but in chords. I understand totally the late Anthony Boucher’s feelings when for the first time he discovered Tolkten. Tony had a special passion for people who read fantasy and science fiction, and he mourned the fact that he could not present everyone he loved with those books, share them, share the love of them. There was, there is, there will be, a sense of exasperation when someone whose taste and sensibilities you know well has not yet read some special book; one must hold hard to the certainty that some day he’ll come or call and say, “I’ve read it!’’; and then the joy of sharing really happens. So then: the book. The book is Little, Big by John Crowley (Bantam, $8.95). It’s a big one, and I don’t mean merely its five hundred-odd pages of not-so-big print. It’s big in other dimensions: space, time, and profound penetrations into the human heart; and in a dimension that might be regarded, like the fourth dimension of a tesseract, as existing at right angles to each of the other three and to all of them. It’s a direction of fantasy, the feeling of a real world always in contact with your own but in many ways dissimilar, even impossible, except to those who live and love and breathe it. And I still haven’t told you about the book. Very roughly speaking, it’s about a young man named Smoky who is traveling, on foot, by a route and in a way which has been meticulously j laid out for him, through a letter from I his intended, whose name is Daily I Alice, by her Aunt Cloud, who reads | I cards. But it just begins there; it isn’t i really Smoky’s story, except that you might say, after all, that it is. (Have patience with me, will you? It’s that sort of book.) They wed and take up their lives in what is the most extraordinary house in all of literature. If you flew over it, you would look down on a floor plan shaped like a five-pointed star. Each of the ten outside walls is done in a different style. The inside is a series of floors and half-floors and long and short staircases and corridors so complicated that no one is quite sure how many rooms it has nor just how to get from one to another. And this, like everything else in the book, is what it is and is also symbolic of something or some things else. And the people— all quite different from anyone you’ve known, all quite real (and if they’re not, they will become so before you’re done). There’s dear, bumbling Smoky and tall —very tall— Daily Alice and her sister Sophie and strange old Auberon, who (like Lewis Carroll) likes to take photographs of nude little girls, and whose motivation is that, when he does, he can detect the faces of— well, of Others in the leafy backgrounds; and his young namesake who has adventures seeking his fortune on the family farm (wh ch is in the heart of the city) and los«!s, or finds, everything in a city park built by his ancestor. (Maybe the book is really his story.) And the terrifying Ariel Hawksquill, who feels herself the controlling interface between an age of Time and a coming age of Space. Through and through are the interactions of tliese people, so human, so tender, so very loving. And 6 From Terrorl [A 8t W Visual Library] 'c 1976 by Peter Haining and Pictorial Presentations I BOOKS I then there is the sudden appearance of Russell Eigenblick, who has come from nowhere to be elected President and to become dictator, who is also a resurrected despot from a thousand years ago. You see, it’s all another universe or it’s metaphor or it’s just a story; or perhaps none of this matters except that you are granted a unique experience. Crowley’s writing is vivid, rich, surprising. His images are deft and his metaphors consistent; he knows how to continue them through a scene and he knows when to stop. For example, one hot night Smoky and the towering Daily Alice lay in bed with only the sheet over them; “The long white hills and dales made by her body shifted cataclysmically and settled into a different country.’’ And further along: “He looked at the dim range of snowy mountains which Daily Alice made beside him.’’ You’ll find this kind of thing throughout the book: a vivid image and, just in the dying afterglow, another flash of it; then he drops it. He also uses what I call “audible punctuation”; he makes you hear it: “My grandfather? The one who designed the park? ...” Can’t you hear that? In addition, Crowley shows a profound intimacy with nature. He knows the names of all the trees and plants and animals, and what color leaves and blooms take on when animals are abroad or on their way to hibernation . . . together with an ancient fish who just might be Alice’s great-grandfather. More than five hundred pages, and when you reach the end, you mourn that there are no more, and you deeply envy those who have yet to read it; you wish you could be a fly on the wall to watch their surprise and delight as they turn these magic leaves. And then it will come to you that something is possible after all, something that really connects you with those who are having this experience for the first time: Yow can read it again. For this book is so full of mysteries and perplexities and multilevel learnings, that you can indeed find newness all over again. Maybe better. Stephen Englehart comes up out of nowhere, or the Bay area or some place, to explode on us with a first novel that places itself way up there with some of the finest in the genre. The Point Man (Dell, $2.95) is as exciting a slam-banger as you’ll find this year. But it’s much more than that. There are many things about being a modern combat veteran that are rough, nasty, and downright unfair. The learning gleaned from it, both planned and experiential, is, while it goes on, absolute. You learn it all well, you learn it fast, or you die. (You could die even if you do learn it; that comes with the package.) Not the most painful, but the most reprehensible of all this is that when you come back, along with the personal rejection you so often get, is the fact that skills you learned are useless to you and, if used, are unacceptable. The point man is a very special sort of soldier. He’s the guy who goes out alone, often in the dark in strange territory, to smell out the enemy. He’s followed at a distance by flankers and then by a squad, but for all that, he’s very much alone. It is he who must know, by a sixth sense, of the presence of castration mines. He has to have eyes that see in the dark, to locate snipers and ambushers. He has to hear the unaccustomed silence of insects in the presence of hidden enemies, or the unnatural silence of motionless, all but unbreathing men. He has to have an alertness akin to ESP. His is the prime personal peril; his is the immediate responsibility for the lives and safety of the men, of the friends who follow. The point man has to be good at what he does; he has to get better the more he does it. He has to know how good he is, and, knowing this, he will get to like what he is doing. It’s the tight- drawn, total joy in his life. He has no alternative; it’s his ultimate survival adaptation. Englehart’ s Max August is a point man who comes back to civilian life with all his skills intact, and he does not cease to use them .... One of my best teachers in the writing craft was the late Will F. Jenkins, whom you probably know as “Murray Leinster.” His chief resource for plot-building was to take a man who was something by birth or training or sheer stubbornness— shoemaker, teacher, sea captain, mechanic— and drop him into a situation where it was impossible for him to be that. He would then gleefully watch the person work his way out of his difficulties and dangers just by being what he was. And so it is with Max August, point man. Returning to the States does not change him. Renaming himself Barnaby Wilde, I'adio rock jockey (and, by the way, Englehart knows this trade from the inside) does not change him. Encountering a covert battle between magicians, a battle which smacks of Armageddon itself, activates every skill and talent he has acquired in war— the same sensitivities, the same decisiveness, the same implacable confrontation with personal peril— all on behalf of survival and the ultimate love for his “squad,” which is, after all, all of us. In a matrix of rock music, dizzy rock fans, the police, the Mafia, sex, betrayal, and innocent bystanders, the point man moves and performs his function. The magic is most magical, and enormous to boot, and the mystery and the tension will not release you. Or maybe this is enough: you’ll like it. There ought to be a continuing index of science fiction magazines (there has been, off and on over the years, though mostly off), and now there is one— a g(5od one. A couple of dedicated guys with impeccable fan credentials, Jerry Boyajian and Kenneth R. Johnson, have produced Index to the Science Fiction Magazines 1980 (Twaci Press, P.O. Box 87, M.I.T. Bi'anch Post Office, Cambridge, MA 02139; $3 single issue, $4 by mail) and intend to supplement it annually. This is magazines only, mind; the editors are convinced that magazines are still where the action is, and so am I. The Index is carefully drawn, with Author and Magazine and Title and Artist sections, plus an appendix listing sf in miscellaneous magazines. Twaci Press has more titles upcoming; I’ll let you know. If your thing is battle, sex, violence, and hardcore sf all at once, Karl Hansen’s tale of the “hybrid” universe and a man altered clear down | to the cells in order to steal a “timestone” that will reveal the date of his death, then War Games (PEI, $2.50) is your cookie. Warmest congratulations from us all to Donald A. Wollheim on the tenth anniversary of DAW books. • 19 s OTHER D M E S O N S i Screen by Gahan Wilson Escape from New York (Avco Embassy) Directed by John Carpenter I Screenplay by John Carpenter and Nick Castle Gotland (Ladd) j Written and directed i by Peter Hyams ^ Superman II (Warner Brothers) Directed by Richard Lester Screenplay by Mario Puzo, David Newman, and Leslie Newmatn Raiders of the Lost Ark (Paramount) Directed by Steven Spielberg Screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan Somewhere in his writings, dear I sane Heniy David Thoreau (which rhymes with furrow, which surprised me when I learned it and may surprise you) observed with gratitude that he had been bom “in the nick of time.” I | knew exactly what he meant when I read it back in high school, and I still , do— but with a good deal more force and profundity now, because extraordinarily clever people have gone to great lengths and have exhibited astonishing ingenuity in order to show me, clearly and precisely, leaving nothing to the imagination, what lies just beyond this precious, darling, nevermore-to-be- seen-again nick of time wherein you i and I, reader, have the amazing good ^ fortune to dwell. ; Look around yourself with j gratitude. Observe that there are ! green things growing, if only in a pot ' on your desk; note that the air is i breathable by humans— with some difficulty in the larger cities, , admitteiy, but breathable —and, with ' tears of joy, consider that there are at ; least some lingering fragments of humanity, some vestiges of the romantic notion that men should be considerate of other men, still to be found in the laws and regulations govOTiing this land. i It will not be so for long, reader, not long at all. If my instractors are correct (and they present their message most convincingly), it’s all going to begin coming apart in the Eighties— yes, these very Eighties; and by the time we hit the tag-end of the Nineties, the only sensible move left to any of us will be to press our laser pistols to our temples and vaporize our brains. Hints and whispers have been given us for some time past. Things to Come, filmed classily from H.G. Wells’ script, informed us that things might get a little tacky after the Great War, but made it clear that they would all work out swell in the end, thanks to Raymond Massey. The Day the Earth Stood StiU suggested, but very obliquely, that we might, in time, become a little bit too dependent on robots. Star Wars, in between those jolly fights we all enjoyed so much, demonstrated the strong possibility that advanced technology in no way assured the doing-away of scruffy architecture and general clutter, not to say an atmosphere of all-round junkiness. But these films, and others like them, were only pessimistic around the edges, so to speak; they admitted that the future might have its flaws, its little unpleasantries, but they all heartily agreed with one another that essentially the future would be good. Better, actually, as all of us, moviemakers and moviegoers alike, were still deeply immersed in the naive and childish fantasy that we were ' engaged in a process called progress and that, inevitably, everything was improving, thanks t» science and sliced bread and so on. Well, things don’t really seem to be getting better after all, now, do they? Statistical curves tend to go up when we’d like them to go down, and down when we’d much prefer seeing them go up; ecological trends are best not thought of; and the 'Third World and the Inner Cities seem, in gloomier moments, society’s avant garde. Is there any hope? Any hope at all? No, says Escape from New York, I there is not. We shall give up on one another, we humans, and we won’t take long about i t. By the late Nineties ! we shall have become so defeatist that I we will permanently jail anyone who ' transgresses oui laws. There will be no discussion of rehabilitation, reformation, or any of that crap. We will lock up criminals forever, throw ; away the keys, and the only mercy i we’ll extend (so heartless we have ! become) will be to offer to cremate them instead. Outside of tlie fact that it’s ' presenting us with the picture of a . totally defeated society. Escape from i New York is really quite a dandy i thriller, but you must be careful not to ; ponder its deeper implications while I viewing it or you may break into i racking sobs. The basic premise, ! amusing if examined with sufficient ! abstraction, is that New York City has i collapsed completely (no doubt with the ' rest of the dec^ent East Coast, all the ; decent folk having presumably retired ' to the Sun Belt), and that our government, in its wisdom, has turned all of Manhattan into one big jail— ' except that, unlilce Alcatraz and those ' other old-timey island prisons, there are no guards in the place to maintain order, there is only a sort of super ; border patrol. The prisoners, once dumped, can do with one another what they like. I assume this abominable state of affairs is the result of a bill passed by j both houses and signed by toe j President, so it is satisfymg— some nice I things will happen in toe future— when i that President, played by an j astonishingly fat Donald Pleasence, : finds himself dumped into toe middle of 1 this officially sarctioned hellhole and at I toe mercy of its understandably cranky denizens. They are led by a piratical character played with obvious enjoyment by Issiac Hayes, a fellow I usu^y associated with toe somewhat gentler field of ajul music. Here he I enjoys killing people, staging horrible 1 10 Photo by Kim Gottlieb, courtesy Avco Embassy Courtesy The Ladd Company treated with appalling cruelty by the powers that be is not the criminal element, but the workers. We are shown— with really superb attention to detail and dazzling, throw-away special effects— how entirely cruel a major corporation of the near future will be to its employees. The scene is one of the moons of Jupiter, and I can remember when, if the scene was a moon of Jupiter, everything was great! You know? Handsome heroes, and these really terrific girls wearing mostly plastic {transparent plastic), and super monsters which all got killed? Not on this moon of Jupiter! Not on your ass. On this moon of Jupiter we have a mining colony possessing a desolation and a hopelessness that Siberia has tried for but failed to achieve. The poor, exhausted bastards working here suffer conditions which indicate that the union movement came to naught after all and that there is no point to anything. Martin Bower, who built the model of the colony, was also the creator of the models for Alien, and I suspect that the producers hired him . because, whatever else it did or did not do. Alien effectively conveyed the idea that mankind’s futoe would be practically intolerable— and that’s certainly what they want to tell you in OuUand. The story is High Noon with 11 "Get It through your heads, readers: we are no good. " Sean Connery, as a two-fisted outer space lawman, Is almost done in by a knife-wielding dope smuggler In Outland. "There will be no discussion of rehabilitation, reformation, or any of that crap. " Kurt Itussell, as master criminal Snake Pllssken, is forced to undertake a one-man Presidential rescue mission in Escape from iMew York. I fights, and upsetting tlie President of I the United States by shooting at him till he whimpers and bj' slapping a I fright wig on his bald I’residential head. Hayes is assisted by a whole pack of rogues and (albeit uimeliably) by Harry Dean Stanton, doing another one of his excellent fretting criminals. This dreadful state of affairs is thoroughly disapproved of by Lee Van Cleef, an officer of the Federal Police Force. Van Cleef bullies a supercriminal called “Snake” (Kurt Russell, with a nice hissing voice and a reptilian tattoo) to slip into Manhattan and rescue the leader of our country so that the President can go on the air and save the planet— you S(«, things are even worse than you thought— from an imminent nuclear holoc.aust!!! What the heh. As I say, outside of its remarkably depressing environment. Escape is good escape, and certainly the best thing John Carpenter has done to date. There are two flaws, though. The film attempts to present us with a New York City in a state of horrendous disrepair, not only a New York abandoned for years by the Sanitation Department and Con Edison, but one which has been at the mercy of a graffiti-mad criminal class for the same length of time; yet thovigh there are scenes of spectacular demolishment, the place is really a lot tidier and less scuzzy than many sectors the adventurous tourist from Ohio can see for himself today. I also get the impression that Carpenter knows his Los Angeles better than he knows his New York. The second flaw is that, for the sake of a weak joke. Carpenter has his hero doom us all to destruction with a juvenile gesture at the end, and I find that harder to forgive because, by the time I’d gotten through the movie. I’d grown to like old “Snake” and to expect better things of him. Outland makes Escape look positively cheerful. The slogan embossed on its posters does a good job of describing its general philosophy: Even in space— the ultimate enemy is man. Get it through your heads, readers: we are no good. We are scum, and when we get through with destroying our lovely planet with vile pollution (if we don’t actually end by blowing it apart), what nasty little hordes there are left of us will go out and do what we can to violate the universe. All right? I don’t want to be harsh, but certain obvious realities must be faced. In Outland— winch, again, is a perfectly swell adventure film if only you can live with the bleakness of its core— we are once more presented with a society cynically indifferent to its own people. Here the particular group being ISCREEN “He was kindly and generous ...” In the Fortress of Solitude, his arctic hideaway, the Man of Steel (Christopher Reeve) and Lois Lane (Margot Kidder) savor the Joys of domesticity in Superman II. "... a rolling stone the size of a McDonald's stand. " Harrison Ford narrowly evades being flattened at the start of Raiders of the Lost Ark. perfectly acceptable trimmings. Sean Connery proves again that he is^e best hero in the business; Peter Boyle plays the meanie who divides his time about equally between thwarting Connery’s attempts to make the Jovian moon a decent place to live and practicing golf strokes before a simulated fairway; and Frances Stemhagen plays a brave lady doctor who decides she’ll string along with Connery against tall odds. They are all supported by a fine cast, and Peter Hyams has done a first-rate job of writing and directing this depressingly convincing movie. Superman. Indeed, 1 suspect that they hate him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie go to such lengths to cheapen and humiliate its hero. Something about nobility and high aspiration really seems to bug these guys, and there is an all-pervading lack of sensibility to the film, a sort of numb crudeness, which I found disturbing. It is, for example, very important that the violence in Superman be essentially unreal, because if that sort of mythic strength— the hero-god come to earth to right wings— is depicted in terms of an ordinary flesh-and-blood fight, the whole essence of it is hopelessly skewed. In Superman 11 we have nas^ violence with blood, and people re^y hurting with damaging blows to the guts. Humans get kicked out of the screen, and you hear the foot crush the flesh. It’s a mixing of mental sets which sickens. Supose the Wicked Witch in Hansel and Gretel devoured the children as Wood and muscle instead of as gingerbread men? Another examine of Superman II’s ham-handedness, though more on the lighter side, is the business of wigs. The main human villain in this thing is bald and wears various wig;s, and many leaden attempts at humor are based on this point. Very well. But then we bring in E. G. Marshal as the President of the United States, a President which the film, I think, is trying to present as a dignified and worthy man; but they .show him, close up and cruelly lit, wearing one of the most obviously phony hairpieces I’ve ever seen on the screen. Why, for (jod’s sake? It looks a little as if it was intended to mimic Reagan’s styling;, so maybe it’s some oafish, badly exe cuted joke along those lines. 'That would be a^ut Superman IPs speed. Another escape from the future to the past. Raiders of the Lost Ark, is a good deal more successful, but that should not come as a complete surprise, since the guiding; hands belong to Messrs. George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. It is an entirely unserious film (Spielberg and Lucas are much their best when tmserious), and if you liked movie serials or the Superman of the comic books or any of that other greasy kid stuff, you’ll have a fine time. Of course, you’ll have to put up with an Egyptian tomb full of sn^es and mummies, and Nazi fiends, and horrible Mayan death traps, including a rolling stone the size of a McDonald’s stand; and I hope you haven’t got a thing about tarantulas, or ancient curses, or that sort of stuff. Harrison Ford comes across as the sort of h^o you were afraid you’d never see again, Karen Allen is the gamest little girlfriend in the world, and I hope they’ll give Denholm Elliott, as the hero’s scholarly mentor, more to do in the sequels— of which I hope there will be plenty. Raiders of the Lost Ark is not really a return to the past, of course— there never was such a, past, outside the heads of demented moviemakers or mad cartoonists— but it’s something that’s been away too long, and I’m delighted to see it return. And maybe, after all, those other films are not about the future. & There is a strong reaction on the nation’s screens to these awful glimpses of where we may be drifting, a firm kick in the reverse direction, a determined attempt to go the other way. Superman II is one such. They have seen the future and they don’t like it— so it’s back to the comic books, back to when we were kids, and all that sort of thing. The public seems to want that very much; Superman II broke all sorts of lx)x-office records at its start, and who knows what Superman III, TV, and V will make? I liked Superman, the one in the comic books; I liked him very much. He was a great help to kids, me included. He was power well used, he was kindly and generous, and he was proof, at least to kids, that justice could triumph. I don’t like Superman II, and I think the main reason I don’t is that the people who built it don’t like Courtesy Warrier Brothers Courtesy Paramount Pictures Z 1 INTI E R V 1 1 E Richard Matheson: Spinning Last month Richard Matheson talked to interviewer James H. Burns about his early days cis a novelist and screen- writer, and about his now-classic con- tributions to Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone television show. In the following pages, concluding this two-part TZ In- terview, Matheson looks back to some of the highlights of his career, offers a veteran’s-eye-view of the present-day horror scene, and discusses writing projects still to come. TZ: You produced some of your best- known work in the 1960s, adapting the tales of Edgar Allan Poe for Roger Gor- man and American International Pic- tures. How did you get involved with this project? Matheson: Roger must have known about me, because he got in touch with me about doing the first of his Poe films. The House of Usher. I didn’t know about AIP— Sam Arkoff and Jim Nich- olson— at that point. For a long time, I thought that I was working directly for Roger. I did the first script and they all liked it, so we continued from there. One funny thing is that they always told me to cut my scripts; they thought my screenplays were too long. Then, when they’d film the pictures, they’d always ask me to add stuff on because the shooting scripts were too short! TZ: Were the Poe films your first as- signments to do pure horror? Matheson: Unless you consider The Incredible Shrinking Man horror. A guy having to fight a spider that’s standing over him is pretty horrible! TZ: With work of this sort, from Shrinking Man to Poe films, you must have thought quite a lot about what would scare audiences. Matheson: I think I was aware of that when I was writing The House of Usher. I A local critic said that the film started I slowly, but that, by the time it reached i its peak, it was the first time that he fantasy from way to do film horror is to build it up gradually, so that it will draw you in more and more. I don’t think that axes buried in people’s heads or heads ex- ploding are what scare audiences. That’s the sort of stuff that kids see and say, “Oh, gross!” What I think is scary, and what I use to scare people, is the unknown— when you don’t know what’s going to happen and you’re waiting to see. TZ: A lot of present-day directors feel that there’s no longer an audience for pure psychological thrillers. They say you have to show some gore for the film to be effective. Matheson: They may be right. There’s been a glut of gory films, and people have become jaded. God knows where it will end. I think that’s why, in our naivete, we thought that Somewhere in Time would be successful; we figured that people would be looking for some- thing different. Apparently, though, you have to give them the same thing all the time, only making it more grotesque and horrible than the last wave of films. TZ: When you adapted The House of Usher and the subsequent Poe films, were you ever worried that people might feel you weren’t doing justice to the original stories? Matheson: I knew from the beginning that I couldn ’t do justice to Poe. Most of his fiction was extremely short; there wasn’t much in his work that was easily adaptable to a full-length motion pic- ture. I used as much from the original story in House of Usher as I possibly could. Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum was just the scene where the guy’s be- ing tortured with the possibility of someone coming to rescue him. Since I had to build a motion picture around that, it would be absurd to think that I could have remained completely faith- ful to Edgar Allan Poe. TZ : How happy were you with the way daily life tures, mainly because I always felt that they were badly cast. Karloff, Lorre, and Price were all wonderful, but Roger ran into problems with his younger actors. Roger’s main talent was that he was a good visual director. When it came to jgiving his actors direc- tions, he’d just tell them to do whatever they wanted. That was fine when it came to the movie veterans, but the young actors wei'e left not really know- ing what to do. TZ: Were Karloff, Lorre, and Price good to work wi th? Matheson: Oh, yes. It was great fun getting to knov' them and watching them perform. I think that they also had great fun making those films, espe- cially The Comedy of Terrors. TZ: Wasn’t that one based on an original script of yours? Matheson: That’s right. The Poe pic- tures had all been so grim that once we got to Tales of Terror [an anthology film based on four Poe stories], I new that one of the segments had to be humorous. Then, when they wanted to make a film out of The Raven— a poem! —I knew that humor was really the on- ly way to go witli it. TZ: I’ve heard that Lorre liked to make up his own. lines. Matheson: Yes. He told me that he used to drive Sidney Greenstreet crazy when they were making films together, because Greenstreet was a purist. In the pictures I wrote, Lorre would always go around in circles with his own stuff and then finally come back to something that I was trying to say. Or- dinarily that would have infuriated me, I because I work very hard on dialogue. I I say the lines to myself to make sure that they sound right. Peter was so charming, though, that there was no I way that I could get mad at him. I TZ: Wasn’t Lorre rather sick by then? I Matheson: I think so. He was pretty i overweight. Karloff, however, was in ; had ever heard genuine female screams | the films came out? in an audience. I believe that the best ■ Matheson: I didn’t like the Poe pic- much worse health. He was supposed to play Basil Rjithbone’s part in The 14 Matheson Photos by Marc Scott Zicree Comedy of Terrors, but he was in such terrible shape that he asked Basil if he would mind if they switched parts. Karloff even got tired doing that one scene in The Raven where he had to walk down the steps. Basil himself was wonderful to know, because he’d been in one of my favorite pictures from my childhood, Robin Hood. He was a few years older than Karloff, but he still looked great. Basil would reflect on how they were shoot- ing those AIP pictunjs in two weeks, and how, in the old 'lays, he used to have three days to shoot just one duel scene. TZ: Did you ever wish, while doing the AIP films, that you could be involved with something mere mainstream and perhaps more “re spectable”? Matheson: Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got- ten the feeling for liOrd knows how many years, whenever I see a “re- spected” film, that I could have done just as well— and in most cases better— than its screenwriter. That’s been a constant lament of mine, because I think that, in most films, craftsmanship has gone right down tire tubes. But you can’t get around the I'act that film is a wonderful form. I hrue movies— and when fantasy films are done well, noth- ing can touch them. TZ: Wasn’t one “resjrectable” picture that you almost worked on around that time Alfred Hitchcock ’s The Birds'! Matheson: Yes. I got called in to a meeting on that with Hitchcock. Now, I had been told that he' was a very shy man, so what happens but some of the other people who were supposed to be at the conference couldn’t show up for some reason. Hitchcock got stuck with me all by himself! I had barely set my foot inside his office when I screwed myself out of the job. I told him, “I don’t think that you should show the birds too much, Mr. Hitchcock.” He looked at me in horror and said, “Oh, no, no, no.” Our meeting went on a lit- tle longer, but that was essentially the end of the possibility of my scripting The Birds. I still thinlic, though, that I was right. The best scene in The Birds is when the characters are in the house and you hear all of the birds outside. The film started off wth Hitchcock’s usual stuff with a pretty blonde. By the time he got to that scene on the boat where the bird pecks her on the head, I was bored. The film had some good scenes, but structurally, I really didn’t think that it was that welfdone. I don’t find masses of birds frightening. TZ: In 1966 you were reunited with William Shatner in the Star Trek epi- sode “The Enemy Within.” Did you recognize Trek as a particularly good forum for sf and fantasy? Matheson: Gene Roddenberry [the show’s creator and producer] wanted to get all of the top science fiction peo- ple to work on Star Trek, which was a nice idea. I think that what he discov- ered was that however talented those prose writers were, an awful lot of them couldn’t do scripts. I was not oveijoyed with what Roddenberry and his people did with “The Enemy Within.” They did rewrites on it without my consultation. TZ: How did the aired version differ from your original? Matheson: I went into much more in- tricate detail about what I was most in- terested in: the dividing of Kirk’s good and evil self. Side stories, which they [a TV movie starring Dick Van Dyke], which has been called the definitive study of an alcoholic. TZ: Your Star Trek story seems typical of your work in that its plot de- rives from a relatively simple premise. Matheson: Yes, my stories don’t go way out. They have to be contempo- rary. Very rarely do my stories not t^e place in the present; Star Trek was an exception. I only find fantasy intrigu- ing when it springs out of a recogniz- able situation. George Clayton Johnson once said that the typical Richard Matheson story is where a husband and wife are sitting down to have coffee and cake when something strange pops out of the sugar bowl. I just think that peo- ple identify with fantasy more if you can get the story closer to their daily lives. TZ: A short while before you did “The Enemy Within,” you did Die! Die! My Darling— one of several adaptations "People Identify with fantasy more If you can get the story closer to their dally lives. George Clayton Johnson once said that the typical Richard Matheson story Is where a hustxind and wife are sitting down to have coffee and cake when something strange pops out of the sugar bowl. " always seemed to have, bore me. I know that I must have had the subplot with Sulu and some others being trapped down on the planet, but prob- ably not as much as was featured in the filmed episode. TZ: Roddenberry has said many times that ever since “The Enemy Within” was aired, it’s been used by psychia- trists to show mental patients the dif- ference between good and evil. Matheson: I didn’t know that, but it also happened with The Morning After that you’ve done in your career. Since you had used a novel. The Shrinking Man, as your ticket to Hollywood, did you ever feel guilty about possibly de- priving another writer of the same chance? Matheson: If I had ever thought of that, I would have just assumed that the original writer had either written a script that wasn’t acceptable or didn’t care to write one. The Devil Rides Out’s author, Dennis Wheatley, was so well known that if he had wanted to do the 15 Tlichard Matheson | ; i i I script for its film version [also known as I The Devil’s Bride], I’m sure that he could have. In fact, Wheatley is one of the writers who wrote me to tell me how pleased he was with my adapta- tion, because it stuck very close to his book. I take it as a responsibility when I’m adapting somebody’s work to stay as close to it as possible and not throw my own ego into it or change it unless it’s absolutely necessary. Generally that’s never happened, because I won’t accept an adaptation job unless I think that the original source can essentially remain unchanged. If it’s one of those situations where the producers say, “We’re going to throw everything out and just use the basic idea,” I won’t take the assignment. I don’t see the point in buying a book unless it can be adapted almost per se. With The Morn- ing After, I made considerable changes in the main character because jp the book he was really a son of a bitch. The book was more clinical and devasta- ting. I knew that no audience would be able to identify and care for the character if I left him that way. I made the character as nice as he could be, with the one flaw that he was an alcoholic — which is, of course, very often the case. TZ: Maybe one of the reasons Dick Van Dyke was so effective in the role was that he’d actually been an alcoholic himself. Matheson: Nobody knew it at the time. I spoke to him on the set and he said that he was astounded when my script was sent to him, because he had kept his alcoholism a secret except from those immediately around him. He wondered if people had been look- ing through his window. TZ: I notice, in looking over your career, that there seems to be a period in the middle sixties when you weren’t doing Einything. Matheson: Well, I never took a vaca- tion, because I had a family to support. I was either working on projects that never got produced or writing a book. It took me ten years to finish Hell House. Ray Russell told me that Hell House read like it was written by three different writers. It probably was, considering how long I took to com- plete it. TZ: A lot of people have often wondered if Hell House was influenced by Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. Matheson: I didn’t realize at the time how close my title or basic concept of having four people go to a haunted house was to her book’s. I think I was aware that I didn’t want the mysterious happenings to wind up be- ing the result of someone’s screwed-up psyche. In HiM House, the whole thing is the result of one of the character’s subconscious. TZ: Were you happy with the film ver- sion, The Legend of Hell Housel Matheson: 1110 first time I saw it, I was horrified, which is usually the case with my films. After a while, my reac- tion sort of mellowed. The Legend of Hell House has never really knocked me out, though. Much of that, however, was my own fault. After all, it was my script. I eliminated a lot of the novel’s strong, meaty stuff. I mean, in the book, I was writing about a house that was a really terrible place where horri- ble people had done horrible things: murder, cannibalism. . . Hell House was also the only really sexy book that I ever wrote. For me, it was extraordi- narily explicit. Of course, I wouldn’t have included any of those factors unless I thought that they were essen- tial to Hell House’s story, but for the movie, I left most of them out. Then again, at the time, we didn’t have much of a choice. For one thing, back then, there was censorship in movies. On the other hand, it was Stanley Chase who felt that we shouldn’t use the sexual stuff. He told me that if “in these enlightened times” The Legend of Hell House tried to say that sex orgies and things like that contributed to the house’s horrors, we’d be hooted out of the theater. Another problem with The Legend of Hell House is that it was— as often happens— too short; there wasn’t enough story. Hell House had been referred to as “the Mount Everest” of haunted houses, but in the picture the characters solved its mystery so simply that it seemed barely an anthill. TZ: A lot of Hell House’s fans were disappointed by the film version. Matheson: I can understand that. Another element that might have both- ered them, as it did me, was that the movie turned most of HeU House’s characters into kids. In my book, the leading characters are in their forties. My original dream for Hell House’s film version was to have Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor— they were still married at the time— as the male and female mediums, and Rod Steiger and Claire Bloom— who were also still together— as the scientist and wife— in a really class production. 'That might have worked extremely well. The Legend of Hell House’s cast did a nice acting job, but, for example, Pamela Franklin looked extremely young. I guess, though, that the main reason why the book’s readers might not have taken a shine to the movie was because so much of my story had been left out. I must say again that this was equally my fault. TZ: How did you feel about Roddy McDowall’s beinjj cast in the picture? Matheson: Age- wise he was all right, but he still looked young. Maybe that man will start looking old when he’s ninety. McDowall’s just one of those people who’s perennially young. TZ: The first Night Gallery that you did was “The Big; Surprise.” Was it fun working with Rod Serling again? Matheson: I didn’t even see Rod, because I don’t think that Rod was par- ticularly happy 'vith Night Galleiy. I also don’t think he had the control over the show that he’d had on Twilight Zone. I only dealt with the series’s pro- ducer, Jack Laird. I did a few shows for him, including a total shooting script that was never used. It concerned a psychiatrist who had a patient whose dreams were taldng material form. I was watching the other two shows that I did, “The Funeral” and “The Big Sur- prise,” on tape iJie other night. “The Funeral’s” first part is kind of cute, but it falls apart in the end. I’m glad to say, though, that “The Big Surprise” holds up pretty well. In fact, I hadn’t remem- bered that Jeaniiot Szwarc [its direc- tor] added a circular ending, which was a nice touch. TZ : How satisfied were you with the tv movie The Stranger Within, which was based on yom* very powerful story “Mother by Protest” [also known as ‘"rrespass”]? Matheson: I didn’t like it. I thought the film’s casting was bad. Barbara Eden didn’t have enough bite in her, and the neighbor couple was played by comedy actors! George Grizzard was the only one I crired for. I don’t think that Lee Phillips, its director, who has done some good stuff, really cared for the story. TZ: Was it difficult to adapt your work for tv? Matheson: No, probably because my stories were done in a format very simi- lar to that of scripts: description and then dialogue. 1 i I 16 TZ: Did you ever mind being limited to the subject matter that tv could cover? Matheson: No. Maylxi that was be- cause of the subject matter that I was handling. I didn’t realhse it at the time that I was writing the telefilms, but the scripts that I enjoyed working on hit right on the nose of what was being suc- cessful on tv: women-in-jeopardy stor- ies. I was always able to stick within the Standards and Practices list of things you couldn’t say, without having to j alter the basic content of my scripts, j My only lament has always been that : the material wasn’t usually well ‘ handled. !TZ: In the 1970s your forte was ■writing the made-for-tv films. Your ■ first, of course, was Lhisl, perhaps the i most famous tv movie <3ver made. Matheson: Universal also made a lot of money with it as a thieatrical release outside of America. TZ: Didn’t the origins of the original short story “Duel” ha\'e something to do with Charles Beaum ont? Matheson: No. I was playing golf with Jerry Sohl one day when we found out that Kennedy had been assassinated. We broke off our game and headed for home. As we were driving, muttering and moaning about the assassination, a truck started tailgating us on the nar- row pass we were driving through. This went on for miles and miles with us screaming infuriatedly, until we finally pulled over to the side of the road and let the son of a bitch pass us. While we were stopped, I wrote the idea for “Duel” down on the b8.ck of a piece of I mail that Jerry had in iche car. I didn’t -write the story, though, until a few I years later. |TZ: IVas the production of Dtiel smooth going? Matheson: It was one of those things that worked out in a strange kind of backwards way. Initially Universal got excited by my script, and for a while they were going to do jDicel as a major theatrical motion picture. Then they couldn’t get a major star or director. Shortly before the commencement of shooting, George Eckstein, Duel’s pro- ducer, said, “Well, so far we’ve cast the I truck.” They finally had to shut down McCloud and put Dennis Weaver in it because they couldn’t get any other ac- j tor. As it turned out, that was fortui- ' tous, because Weaver was marvelous. One funny thing that involved my con- tribution to Duel was that I had been worried that my story was too short Matheson on the set of Somewhere In Time, filmed at a Michigan resort. "When fantasy films are done well, nothing can touch them. " and that it might have to be padded by bringing in the man’s wife. Fortunate- ly, George Eckstein turned me down on that one. TZ: What did you think when they named as director this young, imknown guy named Steven Spielberg [who has since helmed Jaws, Close Encounters, and Raiders of the Lost ArkJ! Matheson: I think that George Eck- stein was the first person that I dis- cussed that with at all. He said some- thing like, “Well, they’ve given me this young hotshot director.” I only met Spielberg one day on the set. Luckily Steven was shooting Duel out in the desert, well away from the studio exec- utives. Days went by before they really knew what he was doing. Steven was well into shooting by the time the ex- ecutives found out about his approach. At that point, they really couldn’t change it. It’s quite possible that they wouldn’t have let him tell his story the way he did if they had been aware of what he was doing. The entire produc- tion of Duel was a happy cluster of cir- cumstances that made it work out as well as it did. TZ: There’s been a rumor for a long time that you were in the desert for Duel’s shooting and, at one point, took over its directing. Matheson: (Laughter.) Where do these rumors start? I was only out in the desert for one day when Steven was shooting the cafe sequence. The casting was so wonderful that I thought the producers had just rented the use of the cafe and that Steven was using real people. They looked so authentic I didn’t realize they were actors. There was another rumor, here in Los Angeles for a while, that I never do re- writes. If there’s anything I do, it’s rewrite interminably for anybody I’m working for, as long as it makes the script better. All that these rumors need to get started is for one person to say something false. Then it gets all blown out of proportion. TZ: Like many of the filmmakers who came into prominence in the early and mid-seventies, Steven Spielberg is said to hold a special fondness for people who helped him out early in his career. Since Duel really pushed him over* the top, what with its success in Europe and on tv, it’s always surprised me that he hasn’t in later years gone back to you. Matheson: As I recall, I was asked to do a rewrite on Jaws and I couldn’t do it because I was involved with something else. Then I remember going to see Julia and Michael Phillips, the produc- ers, and they asked me if I’d like to do a screenplay about flying saucers. I told them that I wasn’t really interested in UFOs. That film became, naturally, ' Close Encounters of the Third Kind. . More recently, Steven called me about : making a film out of “Little Girl Lost,” though I haven’t heard from him again on that. I’m sure he’s still aware of me. I was over at Universal doing some writing on Somewhere in Time when Verna Fields [a Universal vice presi- dent] suggested that I work in Steven’s a little aggravated when I read about “Steven Spielberg’s Duel,” because I wrote a very precise and detailed script that Steven followed closely. He, of course, did a wonderful job directing it. He has a great eye. TZ: The man whom you did most of your tv movies with was Dan Curtis. How did you first get to know him? Matheson: That’s kind of an amusing story. Dan had tried to purchase the film rights to Hell House for a ridicu- lously low sum of money. I had some- how acquired an intense irritation for him because of that. Subsequently, when they asked me to do an adapta- tion of The Night Stalker and told me that it would be for Curtis, I said, “No way.” I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. They finally talked me into it, but I told them that I didn’t want to Jiave any dealings with Curtis on it— which was absurd on my part, since he | was The Night Stalker’s producer. ! Somehow, I finally met with Dan. I was s terribly cold to him, and, finding out j later what kind of a volcanic personali- | ty he has. I’m amazed that he didn’t j 17 Richard Matheson leap across his desk and rip my throat out. Dan has an incredible temper. Ap- parently he had so much respect for me as a writer that he endur^ my cold reaction to him. We eventually made ! our peace and went on to become j j friends. j j TZ: I’ve heard that the book which T/ie i I Night Stalker was based on, Jeff Rice’s The Kolchak Tapes, was pretty horren- dous. Is that true? ! Matheson: The Kolchak Tapes wasn’t i : too bad; it got published. I used all of its ■ : action sequences as they originally ' ' were. The only main thing I changed was its characterization. In the book, ^ i Kolchak was a very heavy, sloppy | ‘ European type who already believed in j ' vampires. I just went back to the old | ' Front Paye type character of the brash ^ reporter who believes in his story, ; period. TZ: Did you envision Kolchak as a comical character? Matheson: Sure. I always envision ’ most of my characters that way. That’s the way life is. People just don’t walk through life in a state of total gloom, no ; matter what’s going on. They want to | have a laugh once in a while. I’ve never felt that I’m a “pure” writer in the ' sense that, creatively, the only “pure” ; literature is that which ignores reality ' : and all of its ramifications. I think that , this belief of mine has to do with , Mahler, my favorite composer. He said ; that he did not write what could be con- sidered pure music because he threw in elements right out of life, some of which were nice and some of which were tasteless. Mahler did that delib- erately, because he wanted to create a full musical picture of the world the way he saw it. I guess that that’s the sort of thing I do. TZ: Then you felt Darren McGavin was okay for Kolchak? Matheson: He was perfect. I’ve | ! always liked his acting. j TZ: The Night Stalker became one of ! I the highest-rated tv movies of all time i I when it was aired. Did it surprise you? i ' Matheson: I never expected it. I ! I mean. The Night Stalker was up there ; with Ben-Hur! > ' TZ: Because of that success, ABC ; ' commissioned a sequel. The Night Strangler, about a murderous doctor. ; Matheson: I had wanted to make The Night Strangler’s killer turn out to be i Jack the Ripper, but because of my friend Robert Bloch’s classic story, “Yours 'Truly, Jack the Ripper”— which is deals with a similar theme— we decided not to do that. Before we reached that decision, though, I called Bob to ask if it would disturb him if we used Jack the Ripper. I could tell from his tone of voice that it would have bothered him. We wound up making the killer a crazy scientist. I still think that it would have been better for Kolchak to find out, once he got down to the nitty-gritty, that the murderer was Jack the Ripper. TZ: Why didn’t you ever get involved with The Night Stalker tv series? Matheson: I had enough trouble com- ing up with the sequel! I was offered the job of story editor on it, as I was with Night Gallery, but I couldn’t see how they could come up with a new monster every week. It would have been terribly boring to me. And it turned out that Dan Curtis hadn’t made an arrange- ment, so he didn’t end up producing the series anyway. I think that if Dan had produced The Night Stalker, he would have used the third Kolchak movie that Bill Nolan and I wrote, TheNightkiller. It took place in Hawaii. TZ: Was that the thing with the robots? Matheson: Yes. It was about high- powered politicians in Hawaii being re- placed by androids. When we wrote it, that concept hadn’t been used as it has been in recent years. I don’t know why they didn’t make The Nightkiller, because it was a great script. They were going to make it. We were all set to go to Hawaii when they decided to do the series instead. TZ: Was The Night Stalker series proof to you that you cannot do a con- tinuing character weekly horror pro- gram? Matheson: Yes. I think that the series became labored. Occasionally it came up with a good episode; generally, how- ever, that type of continuing character horror series is just too hard to do. TZ: Another tv film you did with Dan Curtis was Trilogy of Terror, an adap- tation of three of your stories. I’ve always wondered why, since they were all your stories, you only adapted the last one, “Prey,” and William Nolan did the other two. Matheson: For one, I thought that “The Likeness of Julie” [about a home- ly teacher— in reality a succubus— who seduces her students and then kills them] was kind of sensational; I didn’t care for it too much. “Millicent and Therese” [about two sisters who don’t like each other] was based on a story only a page and a half long. I thought, “Oh, God. I can’t get ahalf-hour script out of that!” Bill Nolan, of course, did a wonderful job ivith both of them. He came to them with a fresh eye and I made them work. Being the bad guy | that I am, I kept the best story, “Prey” ; [produced as “Amelia”], for myself! j TZ: “Amelia” is perhaps one of the j most terrifying stories ever done on tv. 1 Matheson: Bill’s always said that he , I did these two wonderful adaptations ' ■ and nobody remembers them! I was I just watching “Amelia” on tape about a ; i week ago. It re:dly holds up well. 1 i TZ: Because the story was so intense, | i was there a problem with the censor, or i j did we just think we were seeing more ; i than we were? I Matheson: Dan Curtis once showed ^ ; me the first cut of “ Amelia, ” and it was '' more intense. He had to cut it down. TZ: Do you think it’s just as well that it wasn’t more bloody? i Matheson: Yes, “Amelia” works fine the way that it is. I think that Dan may ; have gotten carried away with the I blood when he was first shooting it. • TZ: I guess that one thing that you believe with horror stories is that less is . very often more. Matheson: Absolutely. In fact, that’s one of the things that Universal agrees with me about on Jaws III. They don’t want to have too many killings. They want to avoid a total bloodfest, which is , fine by me. TZ: Plus, Universal needs the PG rating! * Matheson: I gjess so. It seems that unless you have frontal nudity or cer- tain bad words in a picture, you always , get the PG. You think that the sight of a shark swallowing a kid would immedi- : ately earn you an R, but that’s not the ; Way the MPAA works. : TZ: With Trihgy of Terror and i another telefilm. Dead of Night, you ; ! and Dan were trying to launch a new i ! horror antholoj^ series. Is the an- i j thology form the only way that you can , I see a continuing: horror series work? ‘ Matheson: Sure. I also think that an ! ! anthology series like that can only work I in the half-hour format. All of the ' stories in Trilogy of Terror and Dead of Night fit into hialf-hour slots. I think that the hour length for anthology pro- grams is a bastard form. It’s too long to do the type of story that you could on Twilight Zone aad too short for a story that has any more substence. The hour format is terribly in-between. Twilight Zone is so popular that I don’t know why the networks have become con- vinced that the half-hour form is only suitable for comedy. I don’t know why they haven’t gone back and tried to do a show with the Twiligh t Zone format. TZ: Karen Black starred in Trilogy of Terror and appeared in another tele- film of yours, The Strange Possession, of Mrs. Oliver. Is she, like William Shatner, someone whose acting you ad- mire? Matheson: Yes, Karen Black is a very interesting actress. Shie has a tendency to go off the deep end once in a while, but when she’s on, sh(j’s really great. TZ: So then, you generally liked the films you did with Dan Curtis? Matheson: Yeah, but they were often hurt by bad casting— which wasn’t Dan’s fault, because he’s extraor- dinarily good at casting. It was just that the network had this rule where a producer was required to use certain actors because they had a high profile in the public eye. TZ: Did you like Cloris Leachman in Dying Room Only"! Matheson: She was fantastic! Dying Room Only is the only script I’ve ever done that I thought got better treat- ment than it deserved. My teleplay was just an imitative suspense stoiy. Allan Epstein was Dying Room Only’s pro- ducer, and he put Philip Leacock on it as director. Every single thing about the film was wonderful. TZ: As a writer, you’ve collaborated with the late Charles Beaumont, with William F. Nolan, and most recently with your son, Richard Christian Matheson. Do you fir d that there’s an advantage to collaborating? Matheson: Yes— from an idea stand- point. Collaborating is valuable if each person involved provides something that the other one doesn’t have. But if you’re both equally strong in the same areas, then you’re really vitiating your abilities. I used to belong to a corpora- tion called The Green Hand, with George Clayton Johnson as its presi- dent and Theodore Sturgeon and Jerry Sohl as its other tw'O members. We were going to be a creative company that wrote entire tek^vision series. We had a suite of offices in Beverly Hills and were meeting with all of the top ex- ecutives around town and making deals. On the idea level, we were really clicking— but when it came to four disparate minds putting something I "/ guess rm sort of a private person. I live In a place called Hidden Hills, which should give you an Idea of my type of personality." down on paper, it didn’t work. I generally do much better when I’m writing by myself. TZ: Considering all that you’ve done in your career, if you wanted to, you probably could have become a pro- ducer. Matheson: I suppose I could have. I did turn down many story editor jobs. I guess I’m sort of a private person. I live in a place called Hidden Hills, which should give you an idea of my type of personality. I enjoy writing’s isolation. I could see becoming a producer merely to protect what I’ve written— which, come to think of it, really isn’t that bad of an idea. I actu^ly think I might be better as a producer than as a director, because the temperament of a producer is closer to that of a writer. TZ: In the early 1970s, when you were working on all of those horror projects, you were also writing Bid Time Return. Was one of the reasons that you chose to do Bid Time Return, a very gentle fantasy— so that you could get a break from all of the horror stuff? Matheson: I don’t think that it was as simple as that. I had gotten the idea for Bid Time Return on a trip with my wife. I think I first started working on it in 1971, because the book chapters that take place in the first part are dated in 1971, which is when I was writing them down at the Coronado Hotel. The second part of Bid Time Return, which takes place in the past, was harder to write than the first because it required a lot of research. It took me three to four years to finish Bid Time Return, because I was also in- volved with all of the other stuff. TZ: A lot of critics have accused you of borrowing concepts for the novel from Jack Finney’s Time and Again. Matheson: I don’t really think that there were all that many similarities. I was very aware of trying to avoid copy- ing Time and Again. I even wrote to Jack when I was planning the book, asking him if he minded if I used his name in the story for the master of the time-travel method Richard Collier uses. He told me that of course I could use it. Jack actually read my manuscript before it was published, and he liked it a lot. Time and Again, of course, is absolutely marvelous. I’ve discovered, consequently, that Jack wrote it over a vast amount of time. He started it when he was quite young. The only element I inissed in Time and Again was a more complete examina- tion of Jack’s main character’s relation- ship with the girl. I wanted to make that my approach. I’ve written science fiction where the hero time-travels for- ward, but I really didn’t find that too in- teresting. In fact, the only instance where I find time-travel stories really interesting is when they involve a romance. Otherwise, for me, there’s really no point to it. TZ: Were you familiar with Finney’s other writing? Matheson: Yes. As I’ve said many times before. Jack Finney’s my favorite fantasy writer. In fact, he’s written a lot of books that aren’t fan- tasy at all. Jack’s simply a very good writer. TZ: Your last novel was What Dreams May Come, about the hereafter. Was your portrayal of the afterlife a product of your imagination? Matheson: No. I really think that that’s what will happen to you after you die. TZ: Aren’t you trying to get a film made out of What Dreams May Come? Matheson: I did a script on it, and Steven Deutsch, Somewhere in Time’s producer, is trying to get financing for it. He’s not having an easy time, though. The book didn’t really sell that well, either. I’m beginning to think that for all of the public’s interest in books about the afterlife, they’re really not ready to think about death in any con- sistent way. Mostly, they want to drink a can of beer, watch the ballgame, and forget about dying. That’s proven by the banal conversations that take place when people visit someone who’s ter- minally ill. Those talks border on the obscene. That’s not to say that I go charging into a dying man’s room and say, “Listen, let me tell you all about what will happen to you.’’ In the past few years, though, when that t^e of situation has involved a close friend, I 19 Richard Matheson have made discreet inquiries of them as to what it feels like to be dying. If I found out that they weren’t infuriated or terrified by the idea of death, very often I gave them a copy of What Dreams May Come, because I believe that it’s a totally accurate picture of what someone can expect after living on this planet. TZ: What Dreams May Come reads almost as if it were written to be given to someone who was terminally ill so that he’d feel better about his fate. Matheson: As a matter of fact, a woman wrote me telling me that she gave a copy of What Dreams May Come to her father, who was dying. He had never been a churchgoer, but the book made him feel much better. There were other cases like that, which was much more important to me than whatever financial success What Dreams May Come could have had. ^ TZ: Your most recent television work was the three-part miniseries based on Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chron- icles. I know that your original script for its second installment was nominated by the Writers Guild for an award, so what went wrong with your teleplay’s transition to film? Matheson: Well, I wasn’t completely satisfied with the direction, and a lot of its casting was off. Although Chuck Fries Productions spent a lot of money on the project, they didn’t spend enough money. The technicians that the miniseries used probably could have done something better visually with a bigger budget. Mostly, though, I think that The Martian Chronicles’ biggest problem was its direction. TZ: Did they change much of ybur teleplay during shooting? Matheson: In Part Two, they shifted things around, but it didn’t really make that much difference. For the third in- stallment, there was an adaptation of one of Ray’s stories that I didn’t write and had never even thought of using. Adding that story was strange, because the filmmakers had told me that my original script was too long, and I’d had to cut two other Bradbury stories that I had adapted. Then, apparently, they discovered that Part Three was too short, so they had somebody adapt that extra segment. TZ: Since many people believe that The Martian Chronicles’ beauty is really in its words, wasn’t it perhaps dangerous to try turning it into a visual presentation? Matheson: No, because there are times in the miniseries when its visuals did' capture the book’s atmosphere. Ob- viously it was possible. The story about the fire balloons worked well, I thought. TZ: It must have been nice, after the disappointment of seeing how your teleplay had been filmed, to get the Writers Guild nomination. Matheson: Yeah. The odd thing was that I didn’t even submit my script for the awards, because I hadn’t liked the way that the miniseries turned out. I had also become so imbued with the Emmys’ and Oscars’ philosophy where what is on the screen determines what the award-voters think of the script, that I guess I had kind of forgotten that the Writers Guild judges original scripts solely on their own merits. In- terestingly, it was the same second two hours of live Martian Chronicles that turned out best on screen as well. The only other nominee for the award that I was up for was Ernest Tidyman for CBS’s Jonestown film, but I lost. TZ: Has your experience with The Martian Chronicles turned you off tv writing? Matheson: No. I’d actually like to try to do another miniseries. You have to remember that the two best things I’ve ever had were done on tv: Duel and The Morning After— so I have nothing against television. For a while there, with the miniseries, tv was doing better things than the movies. TZ: Your son, Richard Christian, is now trying to make a name for himself in films and television, and he’s also written fantasy and horror tales. Do you think it’s hard for him, as your son, to forge his own writing career? Matheson: It would only be hard for Richard if he tries to do exactly the same things that I’ve done. When he writes a short story, there’s bound to be a comparison, but he doesn’t usually write in exactly the same areas that I do. TZ: On the other hand, I guess that you’ve been able to open up certain doors for him. Matheson: Only in a limited way. What I have been able to do is help give Richard certain shortcuts in the sense that he grew up having an editor in the house. TZ: Even his name itself might open up some doors for him. Matheson: Giving him my name was a mistake on my part. No one should ever name their son after themselves. It’s a horrible thing to do to somebody. TZ: With your own career, I under- stand that you’re trying to move into writing for the stage. I know that you’ve just finished a play; what’s it called? Matheson: The title that I gave it, which I hope is kept, is Now You See It. It’s too soon for me to publicly synop- size it, but basically Now YouSeelt is a mystery/suspense story in the style of Sleuth and Deathtrap. Its main character is a miigician, which is what inspired the play’s title. TZ: Has the play been picked up? Matheson: Yes, it’s been optioned by Gabe Katzka. It will be produced by Jules Fisher and directed by Frank Dxmlop for Broadway. We’re just look- ing now for an actor for the part of the magician before its production really gets going. I had originally envisioned his being played by Christopher Plum mer, but the character’s age will vary in accordance to v'ho portrays him. If some great forly-five-year-old stage actor who can pull in a lot of people plays the part, then the magician will be forty-five years old. TZ: Are you a little nervous about see- ing your first Broadway play produced? Matheson: No. I’m just a little nerv- ous about when ^ve’re going to get an actor and get the play on the boards. TZ: Now You See It could open up a whole new career for you. Matheson: I hope so. My wife and I like the theater a lot. I didn’t use to like the stage, but over the years I’ve ac- quired a taste for it. One of the nice things about it is the power it gives the writer, which I’ve never had in films and television. I also like the fact that theater reduces a story to its basics: idea, character, and dialogue. You can’t do a lot of tricks in theater like you can in a film like Altered States where, after seemg it, you don’t know if you’ve watched, a movie or a special- effects display. TZ: Would you fly out to New York for Now You See It's rehearsals? Matheson: Yes. I’d be living in New York for a while. TZ: Do you know when this might take place? Matheson: They say they hope to go into rehearsal late this year. TZ: Aren’t you also working on a new novel? Matheson: No, but I have a new one coming out from Playboy Press called 20 Courtesy James H, Burns Matheson costumed for his cameo role In Somewhere In Time. "There's been a glut of gory films, and people have become Jaded. We figured fhaf people would be looking for somefhing different " Earthhound, a psychological ghost story. I wrote it about twelve years ago and then recently did a lot of rewriting on it. This is the first time Earthbound’s been published. TZ: With the current, interest in hor- ror fiction, witnessiid by Stephen King’s popularity, you could probably sit down to write a new novel in the style that seems to b<i successful now and probably make a I’ortune. Matheson: I have a feeling that although horror is quite popular at the moment, it’s played itself out for now. Fantasy films are going into the direc- tion of make-believe— dragons and the like— and I think that, the same thing will happen with novels; there are cer- tain connections between the public’s taste in different media. Besides, I did that kind of horror/fantasy writing twenty years ago. Thfsre’d really be no point in my retreading old ground. Un- fortunately, I also thi nk that most of the fantasy ideas that I had and am cur- rently coming up with are— in light of what’s going on in the world today— ir- relevant. I must admit , however, that I sometimes think about what would have happened if I had written The Shrinking Man and I Am Legend in the past few years. TZ: What do you think of the current horror and fantasy scene? Matheson: I really d(3n’t read all that much of it, so I don’t know if I’m really in a position to say. Stephen King, however, does seem to have the whole field pretty much to himself. I like his Writing very much. Fartly by design, partly by his background, partly by his talent, and partly by his timing. King’s been able to get to the top of the moun- tain. Of course, all of us “old-time” fan- tasy writers helped build that moun- tain. TZ: Didn’t you once say that when you walk into a bookstore, you often become amazed at some of the gory covers that you see on horror books? Matheson: Yes. In fact, the covers on the English editions of my Shock an- thology series were pretty grotesque, which didn’t please me. One of them had a demon biting a guy’s head off. Another one had a man screaming with an axe buried in his skull. I’ve never liked gore. TZ: It’s interesting that you like King’s work, because gore is a very im- portant part of his writing. Matheson: Gore in a novel or short story is much different than when it’s in a visual form. I guess that when you’re reading, your mind can tune out whatever part of a story you don’t like. There’s a large contrast between see- ing someone get his head chopped off and reading about it. TZ: Concerning your own writing, when Carol Serling first found out that I was going to be interviewing you, she said, “God, I wish that Richard would do another short story.” Matheson: It’s been a long time since I’ve written one. TZ: How come? Matheson: I’m not sure. I guess that they just lost interest for me. A writer goes through phases concerning what , he likes to do. First I did short stories, then novels, then movies, then televi- sion, then back to movies, then I returned to television, and now I’m into plays. I just don’t like to stand still. If I were to write a new fantasy or horror short story, it would be like going backwards. If I were to do one, it would probably be just because someone wanted me to do it/ In that kind of situation, I probably wouldn’t even do it well. TZ: I would think that, at this point in time, you could stop writing altogether. You must be well off financially. Matheson: I’m not. I don’t know of any writers in the fantasy field who could stop writing and still live comfortably, except for maybe Steve King, who happened to hit the jackpot. It’s very expensive to live in the world today. Actors have that problem, too. People see actors in one or two movies and they think, “Oh, boy. He must be loaded.” But actors ^ like writers, have to keep on going because of .their house payments, college for their children, and all the other bills. TZ: Beyond Jaws III, is there any other future film or tv work that you have planned? Matheson: No. Actually, one of the reasons that I’m not more financially soluble is that during the past few years. I’ve turned down several poten- tially lucrative offers because I just didn’t like them. I was all set to write a remalje of Fantastic Voyage, but then I lost interest in it. So instead of taking the studio’s money and not giving my all for a screenplay, I just backed out. That project was one of many where that happened. TZ: Then at this point in your life, you’ve decided that unless you’re really hot on a property, you don’t want to do it? Matheson: Right. Even though it may be to my financial detriment. TZ: It must be nice to have reached that plateau. Matheson: I think I’ve always been that way. I don’t recall ever having taken a job— although the finished film or tv show might have suggested other- wise-just for the money. At least ninety-nine percent of the time. I’d take an assignment only if I really thought it was interesting. TZ: One television project that you might be very good at is hosting a Tunlight Zone type show. Matheson: I would love to, if it could be in the half-hour form. In fact, I have loads of Twilight Zone episode ideas left over from when I was working on it. Hosting a fantasy series would be a lot of fun. Actually, that’s not a bad idea at all . . . IS 21 ol pucc 'TO SEE OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US' CAN BE PRETTY DISCONCERTING - ESPECIALLY WHEN IT'S THROUGH THE EYES OF YOUR OWN PET CAT! “For something is amiss or out of place When mice with wings can wear a human face.” —Theodore Roethke, “The Bat” arcia was washing the breakfast dishes when she first heard her cat thinking. “I’m thirsty, why doesn’t she give me more water, there’s dried food on the sides of my bowl.” There was a pause. “I wonder how she catches the food. She can’t stalk anything, she always scares the birds away. She never catches any when I’m nearby. Why does she put it into those squares and round things when she just has to take it out again? What is food, anyway? What is water?” Very slowly, Marcia put down the cup she was washing, turned off the water, and faced the cat. Pearl, a slim Siamese, was sitting by her plastic bowls. She 22 swatted the newspaper under them with one paw, then stretched out on her side. “I want to be combed, I want my stomach scratched. Why isn’t he here? He always goes away. They should both be here, they’re supposed to serve me.” Pearl’s mouth did not move, but Marcia knew the words were hers. For omi thing, there was no one else in the house. For another, the disembodied voice had a feline whine to it, as if the words were almost, but not quite, meows. Oh, God, Marcia thought. I’m going crazy. Still eyeing the cat, she crept to the back door and opened it. She inhaled some fresh air and felt better. A robin was pecking at the grass. “Earth, yield your treasures to me. I hunger, my young ciy out for food.” This voice had a musical lilt. Marcia leaned against the door frame. “I create space.” The next voice was deep and sluggish, ‘"rhe universe parts befoire me. It is .solid and Illustration by Annie Alleman dark and damp, it covers all, but I create space. I ap- proach the infinite. Who has created it? A giant of massive dimensions must have moved through the world, leaving the infinite. It is before me now. The warmth— ah!” The voice broke off. The robin had caught a worm. Marcia slammed the door shut. Help, she thought, and then: 1 wonder what Dr. Leroy would say. A year of transactional analysis and weekly group- therapy sessions had assured her that she was only a mildly depressed neurotic; though she had never been able to scream and jjoimd her pOlow in front of others in her group and could not bring herself to call Dr. Leroy BUI, as his other clients did, the therapy had at least diminished the; frequency of her migraines, and the psychiatrist had been pleased with her progress. Now she was sure that she was becoming psychotic; only psychotics heard voices. There was some satis- faction in knowing Dr. Leroy had been wrong. Pearl had wandered away. Marcia struggled to stay calm. If I can hear her thoughts, she reasoned, can she hear mine? She shivered. “Pearl,” she called out in a wavering voice. “Here, kitty. Nice Pearl.” She walked into the hall and toward the stairs. The cat was on the top step, crouching. Her taU twitched. Marcia concentrated,, trying to transmit a message to Pearl. If you come to' the kitchen right now, she thought. I’ll give you a whole can of Super Supper. The cat did not move. If you don’t come down immediately, Marcia went on, I won’t feed you at all. Pearl was still. She doesn’t hear me, Marcia thought, relieved. She was now beginning to feel a bit silly. She had im- agined it all; she would have to ask Dr. Leroy what it meant. “I could leap from here,” Pearl thought, “and land on my feet. I could leap and sink my claws in flesh, but then Fd be punished.” Marcia backed away. The telephone rang. Marcia hurried to the kit- chen to answer it, huddling against the wall as she clung to the receiver. “Hello.” “Marcia?” “Hi, Paula.” “Marcia, I don’t know what to do, you’re going to think I’m crazy.” “Are you at vrork?” “I called in sick. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. I heard the Baron this morning, I mean I heard what he was thinking. I heard him very clearly. He was thinking, ‘I’hey’re stealing everything again, they’re stealing it,’ and then he said, ‘But the other man will catch them and bring some of it back, and I’ll bark at him and he’ll be afraid even though I’m only be- ing friendly.’ I finally figured it out. He thinks the gar- bage men are thieves and the mailman catches them later.” “Does he think in German?” “What?” “German shepherds should know German, shouldn’t they?” Marcia laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Paula. I heard Pearl, too. I also overheard a bird and a worm.” “I was afraid the Baron could hear my thoughts, too. But he doesn’t seem to.” Paula paused. “Jesus. The Baron just came in. He thinks my perfume ruins my smell. His idea of a good time is sniffing around to see which dogs pissed on his favorite telephone poles. What are we going to do?” “I don’t know.” Marcia looked down. Pearl was rubbing against her legs. “Why doesn’t she comb me,” the cat thought. “Why doesn’t she pay attention to me? She’s always talking to that thing. I’m much prettier.” Marcia said, “I’ll call you back later.” Doug was sitting at the kitchen table when Marcia came up from the laundry room. “You’re home early.” Doug looked up, frowning under his beard. “Jim- my Barzini brought his hamster to Show and Tell, and the damn thing started to talk. We all heard it. That was the end of any order in the classroom. The kids started crowding around and asking it questions, but it just kept babbling, as if it couldn’t understand them. Its mouth wasn’t moving, though. I thought at first that Jimmy was throwing his voice, but he wasn’t. Then I figured out thatVe must be hearing the ham- ster’s thoughts somehow, and then Mrs. Price came in and told me the white rats in her class’s science project were talking, too, and after that Tallman got on the P.A. system and said school would close early.” “Then I’m not crazy,” Marcia said. “Or else we all are. I heard Pearl. Then Paula called up and said Baron von Ribbentrop was doing it.” They were both silent for a few moments. Then Marcia asked, “What did it say? The hamster, I mean.” “It said, ‘I want to get out of this cage.’ ” id cats owned by Russians speak Russian? Marcia had wondered. Did dogs in France transmit in French? Either animals were mul- tilingual or one heard their thoughts in one’s native tongue; she had gathered this much from the news. Press coverage and television news programs were now given over almost entirely to this phenome- non. Did it mean that animals had in fact become in- telligent, or were people simply hearing, for the first time, the thoughts that had always been there? Or was the world in the midst of a mass psychosis? It was now almost impossible to take a walk without hearing birds and other people’s pets ex- pressing themselves at length. Marcia had discovered that the cocker spaniel down the street thought she had a nice body odor, while Mr. Sampson’s poodle next 23 0<^ door longed to take a nip out of her leg. Cries of “In- vader approaching!” had kept her from stepping on an anthill. She was ^aid to spend time in her yard since listening to a small snake: “I slither. The sun is warm. I coil. I strike. Strike or be struck. That is the way of it. My fangs are ready.” Marcia found herself hiding from this cacophony by staying indoors, listening instead to the babble on the radio and television as animal behaviorists, zoo of- ficials, dog breeders, farmers, psychiatrists, and a few cranks offered their views. A Presidential commission was to study the matter; an advisor to the President had spoken of training migratory birds as observers to assure arms control. Marcia had heard many theories. People were picking up the thoughts of animals and somehow translating them into terms they could understand. They were picking up their own thoughts and projecting them onto the nearest creatures. The animals’ thoughts were a manifestation of hu- mankind’s guilt over having treated other living, sen- tient beings as slaves and objects. They were all racists — or “speciesists,” as one philosopher had put it on “Good Morning America”; the word had gained wide currency. Marcia had begun to follow Pearl around the house, hoping for some insight into the cat’s character; it had occurred to her that understanding a cat’s point of view might yield some wisdom. Pearl, however, had disappointed her. The cat’s mind was almost purely as- sociative; she thought of food, of being scratched behind the ears, of sex, of sharpening her claws on the furniture. “I want to stalk those birds in the yard,” she would think. “I like to feel the grass on my paws but it tickles my nose, when I scratched that dog next door on the nose, he yipped, I hate him, why did my people scream at me when I caught a mouse and put it on their pillow for them. I’m thirsty, why don’t they ever give me any tuna fish instead of keeping it all to them- selves?” Pearl reminded Marcia, more than anything, of her mother-in-law, whose conversations were a weakly linked chain. Yet she supposed she still loved the cat, in spite of it. In the evening. Pearl would hop on her lap as she watched television with Doug, and Marcia would stroke her fur, and Pearl would say, “That feels good,” and begin to purr. At night, before going to bed, Mar- cia had always closed the bedroom door, feeling that sex should be private, even from cats. Now she was glad she had done so. She was not sure she wanted to know what Pearl would have had to say about that subject. The President had gone on television to urge the nation to return to its daily tasks, and Doug’s school had reopened. Marcia, alone again for the day, vacuumed the living room while thinking guiltily tiiat she had to start looking for another job. The months at hom(; had made her lazy; she had too easily settled into a homemaker’s routine and wondered if this meant she was unintelligent. Per- sisting in her dull-wittedness, she decided to do some grocery shopping instead of making a trip to the em- ployment agency. Doug had taken the bus to Avork, leaving her the car. She felt foolish as she drove down the street. An- ton’s Market was only a block awsiy and she could have taken her shopping cart, but she could not face the neighborhood’s animals. It was all too evident that Mr. Sampson’s poodle and a mixed-breed down the road bore her ill will because she was Pearl’s owner. She had heard a report from India on the morning news. Few people there were disturbed by recent events, since audible animal contemplation h^ only confirmed what many had already believed; that animals had souls. Several people there had in fact identified cer- tain creatures as dead relatives or ancestors. As she parked behind Anton’s Market and got out of the car, she noticed a colli(j pawing at Mr. An- ton’s garbage cans. “Bones,” the dog was thinking. “I know there are bones in there. I v^ant to gnaw on one. What a wonderful day! I smell a bitch close by.” The collie barked. “Why do they make it so hard for me to get the bones?” The dog’s mood was growing darker. It turned toward Marcia’s car. “I hate them, I hate those shiny rolling carapaces, I s:iw it, one rolled and growled as it went down the street and it didn’t even see her, she barked and whined and then she died, and the thing’s side opened and a man got out, and the thing just sat there on its wheels and purred. I hate them.” The dog barked again. When Marcia entered the store, she saw Mr. An- ton behind the cash register. “Wliere’s Jeannie?” she asked. Mr. Anton usually seemed cheerful, as if three decades of waiting on his customtirs had set his round face in a perpetual smile. But today his brown eyes stared at her morosely. “I had to let her go, Mrs. Bochner,” he replied. “I had to let the other butchers go, too. 'Thirty years, and I don’t Icnow how long I can keep going. My supplier won’t be able to get me any more meat. There’s a run on it now in the big cities, but after that—” He shrugged. “May I help you?” he went on, and smiled, as if old habits were reasserting themselves. Marcia, peering down the aisle of canned goods, noticed that the meat counter was almost empty. Another customer, a big-shoulder(;d, gray-haired man, wandered over with a six-pack of beer. “I don’t know yhat things are coming to,” the man said as he fum- bled for his wallet. “I was out in the country with my buddy last weekend. You can’t hardly sleep with aU the noise. I heard one of them coyotes out there. You know what it said? It said, T must be\irare the two-legged stalker.’ And you know who it meant. Then it.howl^.” 24 Medical researchers were abandoning animal studies and turning to computer models. Racing tracks were closing because too many horseplayers were getting inside information from the horses. “You should hsive seen ‘60 Minutes,’ ’’ Mr. Anton said. “They did a story about the tuna fishermen, and how they’re going out of business. They showed one of the last runs. They shouldn’t have stuff like that on when kids are watching. My grandson was crying all night.” He draped an arm over the register. “A guy has a farm,” he said. “How does he know it’s actually a concentration camp? All the cows are bitching, that’s what they say. You can’t go into a bam now without hearing their complaints.” He sighed. “At least we can still get milk— the cows can’t wander around with swollen udders. But what the hell happens later? They want bigger stalls, they want better feed, they want more pasture. What if they want to keep all the milk for their calves?” “I don’t know,” Marcia said, at a loss. “The government should do something,” the gray-haired man muttered. “The chickens. They’re all crazy from being crowded. It’s like a nuthouse, a chicken farm. The pigs— they’re the worst, because they’re the smartest. You know what I fetl like? I feel like a murderer— I’ve got blood on my hands. I feel like a cannibal.” Marcia had left the house with thoughts of ham- burgers and slices of baked Virginia ham. Now she had lost her appetite. “'V^Tiat are you going to do?” “I don’t know,” Mr. Anton replied. “I’m trying to get into legumesi, vegetables, fresh produce, but that puts me in competition with John Ramey’s fruit and vegetable market. I’m going to have to get a vegetarian advisor, so I’ll know what to stock. There’s this vegetarian college kid down the street from me. She’s thinking of setting up a consulting firm.” “Well,” Marcia said, looking down at the floor. “I can give you some potato salad, my wife made it up fresh. At least potatoes don’t talk. Not yet.” Doug nibbled at his dinner of bean curd and vegetables. “Have you noticed? People are getting thinner.” “Not everybody. Some people are eating more starch.” “I guess so,” Doug said. “Still, it’s probably bet- ter for us in the long run. We’ll live longer. I know I feel better.” “I suppose. I don’t know what we’re going to do when Pearl’s cat food runs out.” Marcia lowered her voice when she spoke of Pearl. After supper, they watched the evening news. Normality, of a sort, had returned to the network broadcast; the first part of the program consisted of the usual assortment of international crises. Congres- sional hearings, and press conferences. Halfway through the broadcast, it was announced that the President’s Labrador retriever had died; the Washington Post was claiming that the Secret Service had disposed of the dog as a security risk. “My God,” Marcia said. There was more animal news toward the end of the program. Family therapists in California were ask- ing their clients to bring their pets to sessions. Animal shelters all over the country were crowded with dogs and cats that workers refused to put to sleep. Medical researchers were abandoning animal studies and turn- ing to computer models. Racing tracks were closing because too many horseplayers were getting inside in- formation from the horses. There were rumors in Moscow that the Kremlin had been secretly and exten- sively fumigated, and that there were thousands of dead mice in the city’s sewers. There was a story about a man named MacDonald, whose column, “Mac- Donald’s Farm,” was made up of sayings and aphorisms he picked up from his barnyard animals. His column had been syndicjited and was being published in several major newspapers, putting him in direct competition with Farmer Bob, a “Today” show com- mentator who also had a column. Marcia suspected editorial tampering on the part of both men, since Mac- Donald’s animals sounded like Will Rogers, while Farmer Bob’s reminded her of Oscar Wilde. Pearl entered the room as the news was ending and began to claw at the rug. “I saw an interesting cat on Phil Donahue this morning,” Marcia said. “A Per- sian. Kind of a philosopher. His owner said that he has a theory of life after death and thinks cats live on in a parallel world. The cat thinks that all those strange sounds you sometimes hear in the night are actually the spirits of cats. What’s interesting is that he doesn’t think birds or mice have souls.” “Why don’t you look for a job instead of watch- ing the tube all day?” “I don’t watch it all day. I have to spend a lot of time on meals, you know. Vegetarian cooking is very time-consuming when you’re not used to it.” “That’s no excuse. You know I’ll do my share when you’re working.” “I’m afrai(i>to leave Pearl alone all day.” “That never bothered you before.” “I never heard what she was thinking before.” Pearl was stretching, front legs straight out, back arched. “I want to sleep on the bed tonight,” the cat was thinking. “Why can’t I sleep on it at night, I 2S 0<^ sleep there during the day. They keep it all to themselves. They let that woman with the red fur on her head sleep there at night, but not me.” Doug sucked in his breath. Marcia sat up. “He pushed her on it,” the cat went on, “and they shed their outer skins, and he rolled around and rubbed her, but when I jumped up on the bed, he shooed me away.” Marcia said, “You bastard.” Doug was pulling at his beard. “When did this happen?” He did not answer. “It must have been when I was visiting my sister, wasn’t it? You son of a bitch.” She got to her feet, feel- ing as though someone had punched her in the stomach. ‘“Red fur on her head. It must have been Emma. I always thought she was after you. Jesus Christ, you couldn’t even go to a motel.” “I went out with some friends for a few beerg,” Doug said in a low voice. “She drove me home. I didn’t expect anything to happen. It didn’t mean anything. I would have told you if I thought it was important, but it wasn’t, so why bother you with it? I don’t even like Emma that much.” He was ^ent for a moment. “You haven’t exactly been showing a lot of interest in sex, you know. And ever since you stopped working, you don’t seem to care about anything. At least Emma talks about something besides housework and gossip and Phil Donahue.” “You didn’t even close the door,” Marcia said, making fists of her hands. “You didn’t even think of Pearl.” “For God’s sake, Marcia, do you think normal people care if a cat sees them?” “They do now.” “I’m thirsty,” Pearl said. “I want some food. Why doesn’t anybody clean my box? It stinks all the time. I wish I could piss where I like.” Doug said, “I’m going to kill that cat.” He started to lunge .across the room. “No, you’re not.” Marcia stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Pearl scurried off. “Let me by.” “No.” She struggled with him. He knocked her aside and she screamed, swung at him, and began to cry. They both sat down on the floor. Marcia cursed at him between sobs while he kept saying he was sorry. The television set blared at them until Doug turned it off and got out some wine. They drank for a while and Marcia thought of throwing him out, then remembered that she didn’t have a job and would be alone with Pearl. Doug went to bed early, exhausted by his apol- ogizing. Marcia glared at the sofa resentfully; it was Doug who should sleep there, not she. Before she went to sleep, she called Pearl. The cat crept up from the cellar while Marcia took out some cat food. “Your favorite,” she whispered to the cat. “Chicken livers. Your reward. Good kitty.” arcia had heard a sharp crack early that morning. The poodle next door was dead, ly- ing in the road. When Mr. Sampson found out, he strode across the street and started shouting at Mr. Hornig’s door. “Come out, you murderer,” he hollered. “You come out here and tell me why you shot my dog. You bastard, get out here!” Marcia stood in her front yard, watching; Doug was staring out the bay windov/ at the scene. The Novaks’ cocker spaniel sat on the edge of Marcia’s lawn. “I smell death,” the spaniel thought. “I smell rage. What is the matter? We are the friends of man, but must we die to prove our loyalty? We are not friends, we are slaves. We die licking our masters’ hands.” Mr. Homig opened his door; he was holding a ri- fle. “Get the hell off my lawn, Sampson.” “You shot my dog.” Mr. Sampson was still wear- ing his pajamas; his bald pate glttamed in the sun. “I want to know why. I want an answer right now before I call the cops.” Mr. Hornig walked out on his porch and down the steps; Mrs. Hornig came to the door, gasped, and went after her husband, wresting the weapon from him. He pulled away from her and moved toward Mr. Sampson. “Why?” Mr. Sampson cried. “Why did you do it?” “I’ll tell you why. I can live with your damn dog yapping all the time, even though I hate yappy dogs. I don’t even care about him leaving turds all over my yard and running around loose. But I won’t put up with his spying and his goddamn insults. That dog of yours has a dirty mind.” “Had,” Mr. Sampson shouted. “He’s dead now. You killed him and left him in the street.” “He insulted my wife. He was laughing at her tits. He was right outside our bedroom window, and he was making fun of her tits.” Mrs. Hornig retreated with the rifle. “He says we stink. That’s what he said. He said we smell like something that’s been lying out- side too long. I take a shower every day, and he says I stink. And he said some other things I won’t repeat.” Mr. Sampson leaned forward. “You fool. He didn’t understand. How the hell could he help what he thought? You didn’t have to listen.” “I’ll bet I know where h(‘ got his ideas. He wouldn’t have thought them up all by himself. I shot him and I’m glad. What do you think of that, Sampson?” Mr. Sampson answered with his fist. Soon the two pudgy men were rolling in the grass, trading pun- ches. A few neighborhood children gathered to watch the display. A police car appeared; Marcia looked on as the officers pidled the two men av/ay from each other. “My God,” Marcia said as she went inade. “The 26 police came,” she said to Doug, who was now stretched out on the sofa with: the Sunday New York Times. She heard Pearl in the next room, scratching at the dining room table. “Good and sharp,” Pearl was saying. “I have them good and sharp. My claws are so pretty. Pm shedding. Why doesn’t somebody comb me?” “Pve let you down,” Doug said suddenly. Marcia tensed. “I don’t mean just with Emma, I mean gener- ally.” They had not spoken of that incident since the night of Pearl’s revelation. “No, you haven’t,” Marcia said. “I have. Mayhie we should have had a kid. I don’t know.” “You know I don’t want kids now. Anyway, we can’t afford it yet.” “That isn’t the only reason,” Doug said, staring at the dining room entrance, where Pearl now sat, lick- ing a paw, silent for once. “You know how possessive Siamese cats are. If we had a kid. Pearl would hate it. The kid would have to listen to mean remarks all day. He’d probably be neurotic.” Pearl gazed at them calmly. Her eyes seemed to glow. “Maybe we should get rid of her,” Doug went on. “Oh, no. You’re just mad at her still. Anyway, she loves you.” “No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t love anyone.” “Pet me,” Pearl said. “Somebody better scratch me behind the ears, and do it nicely.” We have chickens today,” Mr. Anton said as Marcia entered the store. “I’ll be getting beef in next week.” He leaned against the counter, glancing at the clock on the wall; it was almost closing time. “Jeannie’s coming back on Tues- day. Things’ll be normal again.” “I suppose,” Marcia said. “You’ll probably be seeing me on Saturdays from now on. I finally found a job. Nothing special, just office work.” She paused. “Doesn’t it make you feel funny?” She waved a hand at the chickens. “It did at first. But you have to look at it this way. First of all, chickens are stupid. I guess nobody really knew how stupid until they could hear them thinking. And cows— well, it’s like my supplier said. No one’s going to hurt some nice animal, but a lot of them don’t have nice things to say about people, and some of them sound like real troublemakers. You know who’s going to get the axe, so to speak. It’s a good thing they don’t know we can hear them.” Mr. Anton lowered his voice. “And the pigs. Think they’re better than we are, that’s what they say. Sitting around in a pen all day, and thinking they’re better. They’ll be sorry.” As Marcia walked home with her chicken and eggs, the street seemed quieter that evening. The birds still babbled: “My eggs are warm.” “The wind lifts me, and carries me to my love.” “The wires hum under my feet.” “I am strong, my nest is sound, I want a mate.” A squirrel darted up a tree. “Tuck them away, tuck them away. I have many acorns in my secret place. Save, save, save. I am prepared.” She did not hear the neighborhood pets. Some were inside; others were all too evident. She passed the bodies of two gray cats, then detoured around a dead mutt. Her eyes stung. We’ve always killed ani- mals, she thought. Why should this be different? Louise Novak was standing by her dead cocker spaniel, crying. “Louise?” Marcia said as she ap- proached the child. Louise looked up, sniffing. Marcia gazed at the spaniel, remembering that the dog had liked her. “Dad killed her,’*' the girl said. “Mrs. Jones overheard her and told everybody Dad hits Mom. Dad said she liked Mom and me best, he heard her think it. He said she hated him and chewed his slippers on pur- pose and she wanted to tear out his throat because he’s mean. I wish she had. I hate him. I hope he dies.” When Marcia reached her own house, she saw the car in the driveway; Doug was home. She heard him moving around upstairs as she unpacked her groceries and put them away. Pearl came into the kit- chen and meowed, then scampered to the door, still meowing. “I want to go outside. Why doesn’t she let me out? I want to stalk birds, I want to play.” Pearl was so unaware, so insistent, so perfect in her otherness. You’d better be careful, Marcia thought violently. You’d better keep your mind quiet when our friends are here if you know what’s good for you, or you’ll stay in the cellar. And you’d better watch what you think about me. Appalled, she suddenly realized that under the right circumstances, she could dash the cat’s brains out against the wall. “I want to go outside.” “Pearl,” Marcia said, leaning over the cat. “Pearl, listen to me. Try to understand. I know you can’t, but try anyway. You can’t go outside, it’s dan-, gerous. You have to stay here. You have to stay inside for your own good. I know what’s best. You have to stay inside from now on.” iS 27 Illustration by Randy Jones BAXTER WAS BIG, HARD-BOILED, AND HARD TO SCARE. BUT HE FINALLY MET HIS MATCH IN THE . . . Shootout in the Toy Shop by Robopt Sheokley The meeting took place in the taproom of the Beaux Arts Club of Camden, New Jersey. It was the sort of uptight saloon that Baxter usually avoided— Tiffany lamp shades, tables of dark polished wood, discreet lighting. His potential cus- tomer, Mr. Arnold Conabee, was in a booth waiting for him. Conabee was a soft-faced, fragile-looking man, and Baxter took care to shake his hand gently. After squeezing his bulk into the red leatherette booth, Baxter asked for a vodka martini, very dry, because that was the sort of thing people ordered in a joint like this. Conabee crossed him up by asking for a margarita straight up. It was Baxter’s first job in nearly a month, and he was determined not to blow it. His breath was kissing sweet, and he had powdered his heavy jowls with talcum powder. His glen plaid suit was freshly pressed and concealed his gut pretty well, and his black police shoes gleamed. Looking good, baby. But he had forgotten to clean his fingernails, and now he saw that they were black-rimmed. He wanted to keep his hands in his lap, but then he couldn’t smoke. Conabee wasn’t interested in his hands, how- ever. Conabee had a problem, and that was why he had arranged this meeting with Baxter, a private de- tective who listed himself in the Yellow Pages as the Acme Investigative Service. “Somebody is stealing from me,” Conabee was saying, “but I don’t know who.” “Just fill me in on the details,” Baxter said. His voice was the best part of him, a deep, manly drawl, exactly the right voice for a private investigator. “My shop is over at the South Camden Mall,” Conabee said. “ ‘Conabee’s Toys for Children of All Ages.’ Tm beginning to acquire an international reputation.” “Right,” Baxter said, although he had never heard of Conabee’s scam. “The trouble started two weeks ago,” Conabee said. “I had just completed an experimental doll, the most advanced of its kind in the world. The prototype utilized a new optical switching circuit and a syn- thetic protein memory with a thousand times the order of density previously achieved. It was stolen on the first night of its display. Various pieces of equip- ment and a quantity of precious metals were also taken. Since then, there have been thefts almost every night.” “No chance of a break-in?” “The locks are never tampered with. And the thief always seems to know when we have anything worth stealing.” Baxter grunted and Conabee said, “It seems to be an inside job. But I can’t believe it. I have only four employees. The most recent has been with me six years. I trust them all implicitly.” “Then you gotta be hooking the stuff yourself,” Baxter said, winking, “because somebody’s sure cart- ing it off.” Conabee stiffened and looked at Baxter oddly, then laughed. “I almost wish it were me,” he said. “My employees are all my friends.” “Hell,” Baxter said, “anybody’ll rip off the boss if he thinks he can get away with it.” Conabee looked at him oddly again, and Bax- ter realized that he wasn’t talking genteel enough and that a sure seventy-five dollars was about to vanish. He forced himself to b^ cool and to say, in his deep, competent, no-nonsense voice, “I could hide myself in your shop tonight, Mr. Conabee. You could be rid of this annoyance once and for all.” “Yes,” Conabee said, “it has been annoying. It’s not so much the loss of income as . . .” He let the thought trail away.''“Today we got in a shipment of gold filigree from Germany worth eight hundred dol- lars. I’ve brought an extra key.” Baxter took a bus downtown to Courthouse Square. He had about three hours before he was to stake himself out in Conabee’s shop. He’d been tempted to ask for an advance, but had decided against it. It didn’t pay to look hungry, and this job could be a fresh start for him. Down the street he saw Stretch Jones holding up a lamp post on Fountain and Clinton. Stretch was a tall, skinny, very black man wearing a sharply cut white linen suit, white moccasins, and a tan Stetson. Stretch said, “Hey, baby.” “Hi,” Baxter said sourly. “You got that bread for my man?” “I told Dinny I’d have it Monday.” “He told me I should remind you, ’cause he don’t want you should forget.” “I’ll have it Monday,” Baxter said, and walked on. It was a lousy hundred dollars which he owed to Dinny Welles, Stretch’s boss. Baxter resented being 29 braced for it, especially by an insolent black bastard in an ice-cream suit. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. At the Clinton Cut-Rate Liquor Store he or- dered a bottle of Haig and Haig Pinch to cel- ebrate his new job, and Terry Turner, the clerk, had the nerve to say, “Uh, Charlie, I can’t do this no more.” “What in hell are you talking about?” Baxter demanded. “It ain’t me,” Turner said. “You know I just work here. It’s Mrs. Chednik. She said not to give you any more credit.” “Take it out of this,” Baxter said, coming across with his last twenty. Turner rang up the sale, then said, “But your tab-” “I’ll settle it direct with Mrs. Chednik, and you can tell her I said so.” “Well, all right, Charlie,” Turner said, giving him the change. “But you’re going to get into a lot of trouble.” They looked at each other. Baxter knew that Turner was part owner of the Clinton and that he and Mrs. Chednik had decided to cut him off until he paid up. And Turner knew that he knew this. The bastard! The next stop was the furnished efficiency he called home over on River Road Extension. Baxter walked up the stairs to the twilight gloom of his liv- ing room. A small black and white television glowed faintly in a corner. Betsy was in the bedroom, pack- ing. Her eye had swollen badly. “And just where do you think you’re going?” Baxter demanded. “I’m going to stay with my brother.” “Forget it,” Baxter said, “it was only an argu- ment.” She went on packing. “You’re staying right here,” Baxter told her. He pushed her out of the way and looked through her suitcase. He came up with his onyx cuff links, his tie clasp with the gold nugget, his Series E savings bonds, and damned if she hadn’t also tucked away his Smith & Wesson .38. “Now you’re really going to get it,” he told her. She looked at him levelly. “Charlie, I warn you, never touch me again if you know what’s good for you.” Baxter took a step toward her, bulky and im- posing in his newly pressed suit. But suddenly he remembered that her brother Amos worked in the D.A.’s office. Would Betsy blow the whistle on him? He really couldn’t risk finding out, even though she was bugging him beyond human endurance. Just then the doorbell rang sharply, three times — McGorty’s ring— and Baxter had ten dollars with McGorty on today’s number. He opened the door, but it wasn’t McGorty, it was a tiny Chinese woman pitching some religious pamphlet. She wouldn’t shut up and go away, not even when he told her nice; she just kept at him, and Baxter was sud- denly filled with the desire to kick her downstairs, along with her knapsack of tracts. And then Betsy slipped past him. She had managed to get the suitcase closed, and it all hap- pened so fast that Baxter couldn’t do a thing. He fi- nally got rid of the Chinese lady and poured himself a tumblerful of whisky. Then he remembered the bonds and looked around, but that damned Betsy had whipped everything away, including his gold nugget tie clasp. His Smith & Wesson was still on the bed under a fold of blanket, so he ])ut it into his suit pocket and poured another drink. He ate the knockwurst special at the Sham- rock, had a quick beer and a shot at the White Rose, and got to the South Camden Shopping Mall just be- fore closing. He sat in a luncheonette, had a coffee, and watched Conabee and his (Employees leave at seven-thirty. He sat for another half hour, then let himself into the shop. It was dark inside, and Baxter stood very still, getting the feel of the place. He could hear a lot of clocks going at different rates, and there was a high-pitched sound like crickets, and other sounds he couldn’t identify. He listened for a while, then took out his pocket flashlight and looked around. His light picked out curious details: a scale- model Spad biplane with ten-fcot wings, hanging from the ceiling and tilted as if to attack; a fat plastic beetle almost underfoot; a model Centurion tank nearly five feet long. He was standing in the dark in the midst of motionless toys, and beyond them he could make out the dim shapes of large dolls, stuffed animals, and, to one side, a silent jungle made of deli- cate shiny metal. 30 It was an uncanny sort of place, but Baxter was not easily intimidated. He got ready for a long night. He found a pile of cushions, laid them out, found an ashtray, took off his overcoat, and lay down. Then he sat up and took a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich, slightly squashed, from one pocket, a can of beer from the other. He got a cigarette going, lay back, and chewed, drank, and smoked against a background of sounds too faint to be identified. One of the many clocks struck the hour, then the others chimed in, and they kept going for a long time. He sat up with a start. He realized that he had dozed off. Everything seemed, exactly the same. Nobody could have unlocked the door and slipped in past him, yet there seemed to be more light. A dim spotlight had come on, and he could hear spooky organ music, but faintly, faintly, as though from very far away. Baxter rubbed his nose and stood up. Something moved beside his left shoul- der, and he turned the flashlight on it. It was a life- size puppet of Long John Silver. Baxter laughed uncertainly. More lights came on, and a spotlight picked out a group of thrtie big dolls sitting at a table in a corner of the room. The papa doll was smoking a pipe and letting out clouds of real smoke, the mama doll was crocheting a shawl, and the baby doll was crawl- ing on the floor and gurgling. Then a group of doll people danced out in front of him. There were little shoemakers and tiny bal- lerinas and a miniature lion that roared and shook its mane. The metal jungle came to life, and great me- chanical orchids opened and closed. There was a squirrel with blinking golden eyes; it cracked and ate silver walnuts. The organ music swelled up loud and sweet. Fluffy white doves settled on Baxter’s shoul- ders, and a bright-eyed fawn licked at his fingers. The toys danced around him, and for a moment Bax- ter found himself in the splendid lost world of child- hood. Suddenly he heard a woman’s laughter. “Who’s there?” he called out. She stepped forward, followed by a silvery spotlight. She was Dorothy of Oz, she was Snow White, she was Gretel, she was Helen of Troy, she was Rapunzel; she was exquisitely formed, almost five feet tall, with crisp blond curls clustered around an elfin face. Her slight figure was set off by a frilly white shift tied around the waist with a red ribbon. “You’re that missing doll!” Baxter exclaimed. “So you know about me,” she said. “I would have liked a little more time, so that I could have gotten all the toys performing. But it doesn’t matter.” Baxter, mouth agape, couldn’t answer. She said, “The night Conabee assembled me, I found that I had the gift of life. I was more than a mere automaton — I lived, I thought, I desired. But I was not complete. So I hid in the ventilator shaft and stole materials in order to become as I am now, and to build this wonderland for my creator. Do you think he will be proud of me?” “You’re beautiful,” Baxter said at last. “But do you think Mr. Conabee will like me?” “Forget about Conabee,” Baxter said. “What do you mean?” “It’s crazy,” Baxter said, “but I can’t live with- out you. We’ll get away from here, work it out some- how. I’ll make you happy, babe, I swear it!” “Never” she said. “Conabee created me and I belong to him.” “You’re coming with me,” Baxter said. He seized her hand and she pulled away from him. He yanked her toward him and her hand came off in his grip. Baxter gaped at it, then threw it from him. “Goddamn you!” he screamed. “Come here!” She ran from him. He took out his .38 and fol- lowed. The organ music began to wander erratically, and the lights were flickering. He saw her run be- hind a set of great alphabet blocks. He hurried after her— And then the toys attacked. The tank rumbled into action. It came at him slow and heavy. Baxter put two slugs into it, tum- bling it across the room. He caught a glimpse of the Spad diving toward hwn, and he shot it in midair, squashing it against the wall like a giant moth. A squad of little mechanical soldiers discharged their cork bullets at him, and he kicked them out of the way. Long John Silver lunged at him, and his cutlass caught Baxter under the rib cage. But it was only a rubber sword; Baxter pushed the pirate aside and had her cornered behind the Punch and Judy. She said, “Please don’t hurt me.” He said, “Come with me!” She shook her head and tried to dodge him. He grabbed her as she went past, catching her by the blond curls. She fell, and he felt her head twist in his hands, twist around in a full, impossible circle, so that her body was turned away from him while her pretty blue eyes still stared into his face. “Never!” she said. In a spasm of rage and revulsion, Baxter yanked at her head. It came off in his hands. In the neck stump he could see bits of glass winking in a gray matrix. The mama and papa and baby dolls stopped in midmotion. Long John Silver collapsed. The broken doll’s blue eyes btinked three times; then she died. The rest of the toys stopped. The organ faded, the spotlight went out, and the last jungle flower clinked to the floor. In the darkness, a weeping fat man knelt beside a busted doll and wondered what he was going to tell Conabee in the morning. |0 31 AN ALIENATED MAN CONFRONTS 'THE WORLD'S SLEAZIEST ROADSIDE ATTRACTION'- AND ENDS UP SHAKING HANDS WITH . . . by Timothy Robert Sullivan Along Route 31, from the Georgia border to Key West, much of the old Florida remains. There one can still spend the night in a roach-infested “motor court,” visit a roadside spiritu- alist, or marvel at the lethargic denizens of an al- ligator farm. This is the Florida of Indian-head coconuts, cracked swimming pools, and concrete fountains claimed by their exhibitors to be the very ones for which Ponce de Leon searched. It was the third time I had traversed old Highway 31, though I’d never done it alone before. After spending a childhood of miserable solitude, I had discovered in my teens that I could exploit my freakishness, that I could even use it to get girls. I’d gone dow'n that sultry road for the first time with a busload of free-wheeling hippies back in the smoky days of fall, 1968. The “family” had been smaller on my second trip in 1974; a blue Toyota had carried me and Joannie, a girl who saw in me all the weird and w'onderful things she’d never dared to do herself. The results of that romantic interlude had been preg- nancy, marriage, and a boy we named Danny. A real family. So for masochism’s sake— all by myself, just like when I was a kid — I w'as heading down that sel- dom-traveled road before long-distance driving be- came too exorbitant. Besides, I had an expense ac- count; I’d been attending an exporters’ convention in Atlanta and had left a day early, on a Thursday morn- ing. That way I could make a leisurely, bittersweet trek down memory lane. I wasn’t planning to get back to work until Monday morning, so I had called to clear it with my boss. Okay, he had said, take your time, George. Not a bad guy, Mr. Noloff, but twenty- five years of selling heavy road e([uipment to banana republics had instilled in him a certain dictatorial air. I often dreamed, when he was being particularly im- perious, of telling him off and chucking my job at Coastal Trading, Inc. —but there was always the rent, the payments on my year-old Plymouth Hori- zon, the alimony, and, of course, the child support, at a time when the price of a loaf of bread approached a buck. The grinding white blues guitar of Johnny Winter vibrated through a loose tweeter. I turned it up anyway, cruising over the rolling hills of central Florida, orange groves sliding by on either side of the pot-holed two-lane blacktop. A curved damask strip of late afternoon sunlight melted into the treetops as I passed a tattered sign announcing, “Monsters, Beasts, Freaks of Nature, Just Ahead, SR 74,” in pastel colors that had once been lurid. “This,” I said over Johnny’s melodic growls, “has got to be the world’s sleazit^st roadside attrac- tion.” My tank was almost empty, and there weren’t any open gas stations in sight, but I wasn’t worried. There hadn’t been a lit neon No in front of Vacancy on any of these fleabags’ signs in years; they were all dying for business. I would spend the night in this 32 Illustration by Chris Pelletiere next town— whatever tow-n it was— and search for fuel in the morning. The Horizon turned easily into the parking lot of the Azalea Motel, a low, pink building with rust stains bleeding through the walls from the reinforc- ing steel rods beneath the concrete. Such establish- ments rarely have lobbies, and the Azalea was no ex- ception. Inside the cramped manager’s office, a fat woman sat in the arctic gale of a Fedders air con- ditioner, watching Hee-Haw. She couldn’t hear me over the motor’s throb and the laugh track, but soon subdued strains of sweet country music replaced the canned yoks, making conversation barely possible. I negotiated a room key, but she didn’t let it go at that. “You look like the type might wanna see the freak show,” she said. It had been some time since an adult had made such a reference to my albinism. I always explain to children about the lack of pigmentation that makes my skin so white, but this woman was no child. I glared at her . . . and she glared right back until I lowered, my eyes to the guest book. “I’m Mrs. Nickerson,” she said as I signed my name. “Bump— that’s my husband — ain’t here right now.” She eyed my suitcase as if it were a dangerous animal. “Oh.” I assumed she was trying to tell me she wasn’t taking my bag to my room for me. “Just point me in the right direction.” “Ain’t but one direction.” She gestured to her left. “Uh, thank you, Mrs. Nickerson.” I hefted my bag, key dangling from my free hand, and went back out into the still considerable heat like a good boy. Sunset had now created a peach-colored world, ex- cept for blood red ixora, yellow hibiscus, and purple bougainvillea whose roots snaked into the broken walk alongside the motel. I didn’t see any azaleas. The room wasn’t as bad as I expected: ply- board walls; a reasonably unlumpy mattress sheathed in fresh linen; a lamp shade emblazoned with a horse’s head, the animal’s sensitive eyes gazing longingly to- ward the alcove harboring the sink (Why don’t motels ever have sinks in the bathrooms?); clean white to- wels; a color tv with a sick tube, making the actors look a little bilious; a slightly musty smell; and a shower, which I promptly tried out. After cleaning up, I decided to go for a walk. There were three vehicles besides mine in the park- ing lot. One was a green Ford pickup loaded with sacks of peat moss. A big man, fat, fiftyish, and sun- burned, was finishing the loading. He wore a white undershirt, the kind with shoulder straps, and his few remaining hairs were plastered to his creased skull with hair cream. Once he noticed me and nod- ded, I asked him if he was by any chance Bump Nick- erson. 34 “None other,” he replied, wiping sweat from his brow. He shook my hand, and then leaned against the tailgate while I asked him what went on in these parts. “Florabella Tavern’s closed for renovations. There’s a movie in Apopka, but that’s twenty-five mile. Ain’t much in Boca Blanca nowadays.” “I guess there wouldn’t be.” So that was the name of this burg: Boca Blanca or “the White Mouth,” if my rudimentary Spanish didn’t fail me. Funny, I thought, 6oca— “mouth” — always refers to a bay or inlet, but this hoca is nowhere near the Atlantic or Gulf coasts ... “No sir,” Bump agreed. “No sir.” “Apopka’s got the closest entertainment, huh?” No place to lose myself here, like there was in Miami when my loneliness became intolerable. “What about the freak show?” “’At’s the on’y thing till t he Florabella opens up agin.” Bump shrugged. “Course, it’s a little off the beaten path.” “Oh, yeah?” I’d always had a penchant for the bizarre, and this seemed a sufficiently mysterious di- version to cure my melancholy. “How do I get there?” “South two mile, then a left jis’ past the canal bridge. She’s down the jog road there another mile or so.” I thanked Bump, got into the Horizon, and set out to see the Fat Lady, the Dog-faced Boy, or what- ever exotic creatures might infest Boca Blanca’s ver- sion of the big top. Odd that it was located off the main road, I thought. As the stars brightened over the darkening orange groves, I e.xpected to hear the pizzicato guitar that used to preface The Twilight Zone. “George Hallahan,” Rod Serling’s gravelly voice intoned inside my skull, “thirty-two years old. A rather peculiar-looking idealist who once foolishly thought he could help fashion a better world out of a cloud of cannabis smoke. George found that he couldn’t even hold his own life together, much less an ailing society. Now, driving on a back road in Florida, the disillusioned albino ex-hippie exporter is headed straight toward— ’’Straight toward a tacky freak show’. Appropriate. The stigma of albinism hadn’t been quite so bad in the New England tow'n where I’d spent the first eight years of my life. A bout of rheumatic fever had made me unable to tolerate the cold weather, however, and my father, a civil ser- vant, had taken a job in Miami at my mom’s instiga- tion. So for my sake the family had gone south, and I’d grown up a ghostly exile among the bronzed gods and goddesses. Then came the Summer of Love. I’d grown my white hair long, and wasted people had thought I was / sef out to see the Fat Lady, the Dog -faced Boy, or whatever exotic creatures might infest Boca Blanca's version of the big top. Odd that it was located off the main road . . . far out. There hadn’t been a cynical bone in my body the first time I’d dropped acid, at a rock festival near Orlando (even aftei’ I’d recovered from the severe case of sun poisoning I got from dancing naked under the blazing sun), but reality had intruded during my radical college days. The tear gas and truncheons the cops wielded at the Miami Beach conventions in ’72 had taught me a valuable lesson about the way things are as opposed to the way I thought they ought to be. Then fhere’d been the courtship of Joannie, culminating at the Saturn Motor Lodge on good ol’ Route 31. Love? I don’t know; looking back, I think I just had to have her because she was such a nice girl. Cute, brunette, upper middle class background — what more could I have asked for? Not that she was guiltless in this bizarre misalliance of woman and freak. How neat it must have seemed to her murky, developing social consciousness to miscegenate with a misfit. Shortly thereafter, Danny’s birth had squelched that particular fantasy, forcing my capitu- lation to the ogre of capitalism in the bargain. Every single one of these misadventures had been a failure in some painfully essential way, each taking a bigger chunk of my soul than the last. By the time I got to the canal bridge, I couldn’t stop thinking of Danny. I hadn’t wanted a child, judging the two of us as far too immature for such a responsibility, but Joannie had refused to con- sider abortion. I’d never told her how scared I was that the child would be a freak like me. But when I saw that normal, beautiful baby, I was happy for the one and only time in my life. At first Danry had been kind of a novelty, but when he got a little older and we started to get to know each other, I think we were more than father and son. We were friends. Still, the bickering be- tween Joannie and me had gotten worse — and oh, she always had a sharpi tongue. When we’d finally de- cided to split, there’d never been any doubt about who was better suited to bring up Danny. I was an aging albino hippie earning a shaky income from the exporting trade. She was solidly establishment; she’d never touched a drug, never even smoked a cigarette. I knew it was only right, and yet I resented her for the way things had turned out. A year had passed since she’d taken my son away from me. He’d been only five when his home fell apart. On Sunday he’d be celebrating his sixth birth- day, and his father was too scared of a verbal whip- ping (“Why don’t you get a job where you can make enough money to provide the things Danny needs?’’) to come help Danny blow out the candles. I’d have to mail the boy a present in the morning. Would it get to Miami in time? The jog road was dusty and bumpy as the night descended. On the other side of the canal there were no orange -groves, just pal- metto clumps and Florida pines. Down the road was a building made of cinder blocks, one story high with no windows in the front, like a porn parlor. The build- ing was flanked by two sago palms in the terminal stages of the region’s lethal yellowing disease, their drooping fronds like black spiders’ legs in the deepen- ing gloom. I parked in front, the Horizon bogging down in the sugary sand. I wondered if its wheels would be able to spin free, and, if not, whether Boca Blanca had a wrecker. As I walked toward the building, I reflected that mine had not always been such a de- featist attitude. A light around the building’s side threw a patch of amber on the sand. There was a screen door and what looked like a» kitchen beyond it. I took a whiff of jasmine-scented air and rapped. From within came a stirring, a rustling of paper, the creak of a chair sliding across the floor, footsteps; there was no television or radio to dilute these intimate sounds, only the chirruping of crick- ets. A shadow appeared on the screen, followed by a thin, stooped old man in baggy pants. He was smiling. “I’ve, uh, come to see the freak show,” I said. He nodded and unhooked the screen door. “Through here,” he said, leading me through a room filled with books and magazines, literary and scien- tific journals, in a state of disarray on tables, sofa, and floor. Curiouser and curiouser. The back door opened into a dark shed, and the old man pulled a dangling string, illuminating a naked hundred-watt bulb that cast swinging shadows on four small cages and something draped with a greasy cloth. The cages were of pine and chicken wire. In them were four unfortunate animals — not the usual circus freaks, but strange enough in their various ways. How do you define a freak, anyway? The word is used to hurt more often than to inform or amuse. At least these creatures would never know what people called them. The most striking of the animals was a two- headed calf. One of the heads was a shrunken, lolling 35 ZEKE I appendage with dead eyes and flaccid lips, but the I rest of the calf looked healthy enough. In spite of the terrible stench, I moved closer to the cages. Next to the calf, so help me, was a snake with legs. Spindly little useless things,, but four limbs nonetheless. It was asleep oh a pile of hay in- side its two-foot-square prison. Then there was a “giant lizard,” as the old man called it— nothing but an iguana. The fourth cage held a featherless chicken, its hideously pocked flesh a repulsive sight. In its nakedness, the fowl resembled a scrawny old man. It stared at me so murderously that it must have thought I’d plucked it myself. “Donations appreciated,” my host said as he shuffled toward the door. ’ “Uh, fine. But I don’t think I’ve seen every- * thing yet, have I?” I turned toward the thing under ; the greasy cloth; the cage beneath appeared to be i circular at the top, unlike the others. I Hitching up his troupers, the old man looked ! from me to the covered object and back again. ; “Well...” ■ I waited. The old man clearly didn’t want to : show me what was under that cloth, which naturally ! made me want to see it all the more. I “He’s asleep, I think.” ! “He?” The old man didn’t seem to hear me. He lifted a corner of the cloth and peeked under it. “No, it’s all right ... if you’re sure you want to see him.” “Yes.” Without ceremony, he undraped a large glass terrarium, standing back with the greasy cloth in his gnarled farmer’s hands. I don’t know how long I stood there with my mouth open, staring at that incredible sight. I re- member the old man speaking to me as if in a dream: “That’s the way most folks act when they see him.” j The thing was an albino monkey . . . No, the white fur was flesh . . . bald, like the chicken . . . I arms and legs bent at ridiculous angles, as stooped as ; the old man ... j No, not stooped. The impossible thing stood I erect on a bed of dark chips. Its joints suggested a Rube Goldberg cartoon in their complexity. With del- icate, hinged hands much too large for its eighteen- inch body, it grasped the lip of the terrarium, gazing at me from between its pipe-stem arms with crimson i eyes. It was a mockery, an image from a fun-house mirror in a nightmare. As if to imitate my gape, the creature opened its mouth, revealing a ribbed white- ness inside, a furrowed snowfield here in the stifling ■ Florida summer. No sound came from it. The chicken clucked, the sound bringing me a little closer to reality. Without taking my eyes off the 36 creature, I whispered: “What is it?” “He,” the old man corrected me. “He’s a per- son. Might look and act a little different, but he’s folks. Just like me . . . Just like you.” “What?” I glanced at him to see if he was goad- ing me as Mrs. Nickerson had at the motel. But there was no malice in his weather-beaten face. He nodded at the strange creature. “Ain’t he sum’p’n?” “Where did you get him?” “Well, he’s been livin’ with me since I was, let’s see . . . twenty-six. Before that he stayed with ol’ Bo Wadley till Bo passed away, and Bo told me his daddy kept him ’fore Bo was born, (haimed he was livin’ I around here ’fore white men ever come to Florida.” “Boca Blanca,” I said. A revelation. Perhaps the Spanish had named their set tlement for this crea- ture four centuries ago. “But how could he have been around so long?” The old man sucked on his false teeth. “Jis’ longer lived than us, I guess.” “What does he eat?” i “Dead plants, rotten wood, peat moss. Takes a j little water with it.” I could make out the baroque pattern of the ribs, a surrealist structure beneath striated bands of muscle and smooth, milky flesh. The physique was vaguely humanoid, but the gleaming red eyes were j unfathomable. The features were grotesque enough, but that mouth twisted the ridged skull into a painful prognathous expression that opened like a funnel— a scream of silence that touched a chord inside me. "Not ever' body knows what they seein' when they come in here" the old man said, frowning. "Bump's wife thinks to this day he's /if s' some kinda hairless monkey." “Why do you keep him in this shed with these deformed animals?” I demanded. “Why, it was his idea,” the old man said re- proachfully. “We got to have money to git along on, so he come up with the idea of a freak show some years back. After a while, he got in the habit of sleepin’ out here, sorta keepin’ a eye on things.” “His idea? Did I hear you right?” “Yup. He’s smart as a whip. Showed me where to find these critters — ’cept for the lizard. Him we bought from a pet shop in Orlando.” “This is beyond belief.” I shook my head. “He’s, he’s . . .” “Sum’p’n, ain’t he?” It was Bump, carrying a sack of peat moss through the shed door. “You’re in on this, too?” I asked. “In on what?” Bump said. “I run a garden s’ply ever since the interstate highway and Disneyworld pulled the rug out from under the motel bidness. Once a week I bring Zeke out some peat moss.” “Zeke!” I laughed, remembering the old gospel song about Ezekiel’s “dry bones,” an image that per- fectly suggested the creature in the terrarium. “Got to call him sum’p’n,” Bump said, and he laughed too. “Never did tell us what his right name is.” “Prob’ly where he come from,” the old man said, “they don’t have names same as we do.” “Where he comes from. . .” The thought in- spired awe, wonder. “A long ways away,” Bump said softly. “A long ways.” “Another world,” I said, even more quietly. The old man was grave, and none of us spoke while we considered the implications of what we’d just said. After a while Bump tore open the sack, scoop- ing out some peat moss with a meaty hand and drop- ping it into the terrarium. Zeke’s twiglike fingers, catching the offering, were nearly as long as Bump’s. Instead of eating in front o'f us, Zeke set the peat moss chips among those already spread on the floor of his terrarium. “Not ever’body knows what they seein’ when they come in here,” the old man said, frowning. “Bump’s wife now, she don’t care for things that are . . . different.” “So I noticed,” I said. “She thinks to this day he’s jis’ some kinda hairless monkey.” “Hell, Levon,” Bump said, “she never stuck around long enough to see him read and write, and she never would believe me. Rayette can’t hardly read herself, and she don’t want to nohow'. It’s all she can do to set in front of that damn teevee all day long.” Having vented his spleen. Bump stuck his hand inside the terrarium. Grasping tw'o fingers, Zeke allowed himself to be lifted out and set on the straw-covered shed floor. He was wearing a tiny pair of beige shorts. It seemed wrong for Zeke to be here. My fitful sense of social morality awakened briefly as I consid- ered our Duty to Mankind. “Kennedy Space Center’s not far,” I said. “Why don’t you let somebody over there have a look at him?” “Let him ’splain about things hisself,” Levon said. The diminutive alien led us inside the house in a jerkily articulated walk, the calf lowing as Levon closed the shed door. The adjoining room was littered with reading material. Next to a battered old sofa, a slate leaned against one of the cinder block w'alls. Zeke picked up a piece of chalk and WTote: “I have no desire to go anywhere.” “Maybe they could get you back home some- day,” I said. “By the time your spacecraft are able to go that far,” he wrote in carefully blocked-in letters, “I will no longer be living.” “But the things you must know!” I protested. “Don’t you want to share them with us? Help us?” Zeke bowed, showing two pinpricks on top of his snowy skull that I took to be his ears. The chalk squeaked in the still room as he wrote: “My technological expertise is limited, but even if it weren’t, there would be difficulties.” “Difficulties?” “In bypassing so many levels of technical sophistication.” “I see.” I had skipped third grade. Adjusting to life in fourth grade had been hell, intellectually and emo- tionally. At least the kids my age had been used to “Whitey,” as I’d come to be called. The bigger kids had really put me through the meat grinder, and I’d had trouble with my math, too. I, too, had found it difficult to bypass a level of sophistication, and a very small level at that: Taking an eraser caked wdth chalk dust, Zeke wdped the slate clean and wrote: “How well does the average human being understand the principle behind a machine he or she uses every day?” “Like television?” I was amused to think of 37 ZEKE Rayette Nickerson contributing to our discussion. “Yes, television,” Zeke wrote, “or even an au- tomobile? Our machines were autonomous. They built themselves, maintained themselves, but were still slaves to do our bidding. I couldn’t begin to show you how to make even the simplest of them.” So much for saviors from the stars. Still, there was wonder enough here, even without miracles. “But how did you end up on Earth?” I asked. “Where did you come from?” Instead of answering, Zeke beckoned for me to follow him through the kitchen. With both hands, he pushed open the groaning screen door and went out- side. The stars gleamed like ice and the night breeze was cool, drying the sweat on my forehead. It took me a moment to identify a pungent odor wafting over the jasmine as Zeke. I hadn’t noticed his exotic smell inside the house because of the animals, whose odor persisted even into the living room. His aroma sur- surprised me because I had already come to regard him as human, perhaps more like me than anyone I’d ever known. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was just . . . different. With a little flourish, Zeke indicated the heav- ens. Overhead were Venus and Mars, and in the west was Jupiter. The Pleiades were peripherally visible, hard to see when I looked directly at them. Just to the north were Perseus and Cassiopeia, frozen in an eternal marital spat— like Joannie and me. Happiness seemed as unattainable as Zeke’s planet. “He never tells how he come here,” Levon said, “or why. And you can ask him till you’re blue in the face. When he don’t want to talk about sum’p’n, he jis’ don’t talk.” We stood in the moonlight by two sickly palms. Zeke’s crimson eyes were dispassionate. Had my ini- tial impression of anguish been nothing more than a distorted projection of my own pain? Then Zeke’s mouth jutted forward, widening once again into that terrible silent scream. As though in sympathetic reaction, the night sounds of insects and hoot owls quieted. Zeke lifted a hand, opening his fingers as if to grasp the stars and pull them to the earth. His entire body trembled while he stretched onto the tips of his splayed feet. Then he slumped so close to the sand that I thought he would fall, but he managed to stay on his feet. He stood there staring down at the crabgrass. My face felt flushed; a drop of perspiration rolled down my forehead in spite of the cool breeze. This painful vision had touched something in me, and I had to look away. I said goodbye to Bump and Levon. I could see, from their homely faces, that they understood their friend’s anguish. Taking a five-dollar bill from my wallet, I slipped it to Levon as a donation. “He gits tired,” Levon said. 3S I nodded and, without turning back, walked the few yards to my car. I felt, rather than heard, Zeke behind me. My hand on the open car door, I turned to him and squat- ted so that we were more or less on eye level. In the dim illumination from the car’s dome light, Zeke raised his fragile hands to touch mine. I stretched out my fingers and their tips met his. His fingers were warm, and I seemed to feel emotion pass from them to me. Something passed from me, too. Something sour and ugly I had been carrying around far too long. Zeke absorbed it like a sponge. I won’t say that I was suddenly whole, like the laying on of hands is supposed to make you. I was just relieved. Not a revelation or a cleansing, but an exchange, a sharing. Zeke shared my pain . . . and I shared his. It took only an instant, and then our fingertips parted. I stood, still transfixed by Zeke’s ruby eyes. They no longer seemed dispassionate; I had, for a moment, seen through them. There was no sudden, transcendent image of an alien v orld, only the feeling of a loss so great that acceptance had been the only alternative to death. My problems seemed so insignif- icant next to Zeke’s that I felt ashamed of myself for wallowing in self-pity. “So long, Zeke,” I said, “and thanks.” I got in the car and shut the door, the dome light winking out and leaving Zeke a vague, pale shape in the darkness. I started the motor and backed out of the sand with no problem. As I headed toward Route 31, there were three shrinking silhouettes in the rearview mir- ror, two men and the small figure of a being from another world. Was he an exile, a fugitive, a lost traveler? He would die on this planet, yet he’d made the best of things. Next morning, as I walked down to the office to pay my bill, I noticed that Bump’s pickup wasn’t in the parking lot . Maybe he had spent the night at Levon’s, or maybe he was just out early, delivering garden supplies to some of his more con- ventional customers. Mrs. Nickerson’s manners hadn’t improved. She was watching Bowling for Dollars , but turned grudgingly away to take my money. While I signed my check, she asked: “So you seen the freak?” I looked straight at her, masking my hostility. “Yes, I did. Don’t you think we look a lot alike?” The smirk vanished from her puffy face; of- fended, she turned stiffly back to her television program. I smiled. My question hadn’t been a joke. It was already sweltering and muggy at half past eight, but I walked out of that air-conditioned office whistling. After all, I still had plenty of time to make it back for Danny’s birthday party. @ HE WORE THE HATED BADGE OF THE PARIAH. WHY SHOULD THE WORLD CARE WHAT WAS IN HIS HEART? The road was a relic of the past: a six-lane highway complete with a wide, planted me- dian. Overgrown, most of the median plants had died; only a few stubborn oleanders survived, battling the weeds, crabgrass, and summer drought. The lane-divider stripes had faded to a dull gray, and, poking through cracks in the asphalt, bunches of golden field grass decorated the pavement. 40 Bypassing the village, the highway stretched to the western horizon, separating fields of yellow hay, cutting between rolling hills dotted with black oak. Framed by the orange-pink sky, a dark figure walked beside the median. It was a man. He was burdened with a backpack and v/as ambling in the en- ergy-conserving gait of an experienced wanderer. Nearing the outskirts of the village, the man Illustration by Jos6 Reyes stopped. Shading his eyes, he glanced back, watching the sun disappear; then he turned and walked across the three lanes. He stopped on the road shoulder, looking down the main street— the only real street— of the village. His shoulders were rounded and slumped as if he carried a much heavier load than the backpack. He carried a carved and polished walking stick, his only adornment— except for his color. Clothes, backpack, hair, beard, all exposed skin from head to foot: the man was the color of dark blue ink. Indigo. The indigo man saw no one on the village street, not even a dog: supper time. Cautiously he walked into the village, inspect- ing the buildings as he moved down the center of the street. His search v/as specific, not the unmotivated curiosity of an idler. Above the general store a faded sign read. Enjoy Coca-Cola. He’d seen the red- and-white signs in many villages, advertising a bev- erage that was no longer made. On both sides of the street, the houses v'ere identical, square boxes peel- ing a grayish paint. He stepped around the hummer- pad at the center of the town. The circular disc of concrete with steps, ramps, and railings was well maintained, at odds with the general appearance of other structures. Continuing down the street, the indigo man passed a school, the post office, a few more houses, and finally paused at the edge of town before a small, dirty building. Yes, there was the sign over the door, dusty but legible: C. P. Hostel. Sighing, the indigo man stepped to the heavy oaken door; he placed the palm of his hand against a metallic sensor inset in the door and waited, knowing that somewhere a computer recorded his identity and noted his location. A whirr and a click. The door swung in. Taking one tentative step inside, the indigo man looked about the large single room. It looked and smelled like a barracks: neat and clean. At the far end, arranged in a row across the hall, were five old- style military bunks, all made up, with hospital folds. Behind the bunks Vv'ere two doors labeled M and W. Immediately in front of him was a heavy wooden din- ing table w’ith ten chairs of matching black oak. To his right was a recreation area: a card table with sev- eral open books and a half circle of folding chairs, ringing a blank holoview bowl. As his gaze moved around the room, the wrinkles on the indigo man’s forehead deepened into a frown. He was alone! Setting his pack and stick at the head of the dining table, he stepped to a bank of machines along the left wall. Near the selector buttons on each ma- chine was a sensor identical to the door plate. He palmed the sensor on the food machine and waited. Whirr. After receiving his selections, he returned to the table. He ate mechanically, chewing each mouth- ful of stew' thoroughly before washing it down wdth the w'eak ale. Finished with the meal, he stepped back to the machine bank and returned to his place with a cap- sule of Shadowsmok. Breaking the ampule, he in- haled the shadowy blue smoke. Immediately he felt a grabbing at the base of his skull; then a w'arm, almost liquid sensation spread down his spine, relaxing him and w’ashing away his fatigue. He took another deep breath and dug through his pack, finding a small blue journal and pen. LA-Couver Zone: June .5, 20Jt.9. I begin this journal today because something strange is happening to my color. I was assigned in- digo on January 19, 2027. Recently the indigo has begun to change. It is fading! For some time I have suspected the change, but only last week discovered a way to check. I cut a lock of my hair for a standard and each day I compare it to a new hair-snip. The mdigo color is slowly fadbig each day. The change just noticeable. So I will keep this log to record the progress of this strange color transition. Twenty-two years wandering. Never closer than a kilometer— as the law proscribes — to any of the regional urban domes; but I have visited the un- domed villages of the Seaboard, the Gulf Zone, and the LA-Couver Area. And even once, long ago, I traversed the great heartland of the'country, walking ten, eleven, twelve days between hostels. I saw the floating fishing villages on the Great Lakes. But the interior is for the young. Now I must find a hostel each night, to eat and rest. Never, during this wandering, have 1 heard of anyone losing their color. Perhaps my experience is unique? It has occurred to me that I may be sick. Years ago I was sick and saw strange things. I had been wandering the Southeast, near the old rocket depar- ture sites, and developed a fever and congestion in yny lungs — viral pneumonia. As the law alloivs dur- ing illness, I stayed more than one night in the local hostel. But the severity of the illness required that I be moved to the regional medcenter, where I re- mained for several weeks. I hallucinated, forgetting my color, even believhig that I was a freeman. I don’t think I’m sick this time. As I walk each day, I have considered a num- ber of possible explanations. One recurs. It makes my heart race, my throat tighten. At this very mo- ment, my hand shakes at the thought. The theory: I am getting better, perhaps cured! Is it possible? Could I once again be rid of the color? Able to stay in one place — to work, to play, to read — to be a living 41 “I said get up, colored man,” the towhead repeated. He motioned threateningly with the rifle, a .22 automatic. “Get your hands behind your head.” part of that place? To once again be free? Is this pos- sible? I do not know. It seems a dream. I am lonely and need someone to talk with. Directly overhead, the sun was a fireball, the air heavy and hot; heat waves shimmered off the road’s pavement. Only a Cooper’s hawk defied the summer heat, circling over the fields of freshly mown and wind-rowed alfalfa. Feeling dizzy, the indigo man rested under a giant eucalyptus, the tree towering over the shoulder of the road, shedding strips of sandy outer bark^ exposing its blanched trunk. Out of breath, he inhaled deeply and felt re- vived slightly by the pungent, medicinal odor of the tree. Nearby he heard a dog bark. Too hot to chase rabbits, he thought, closing his eyes. “Okay, colored man, up!” Flinching at the unexpected sound, the indigo man snapped open his eyes. He stared into the bore of a rifle. Sighting dowm the barrel of the gun was a towheaded youngster of fifteen or sixteen with cold, blanched-blue eyes. Beside him stood another boy, grinning an empty smile and holding a huge black dog. The boy’s grin exposed two missing front teeth. The dog grow’led menacingly. Swallowing, the indigo man tried to work up saliva in his dry mouth. “Hush up. Midnight,” the boy holding the dog said, giving the animal a vicious jerk on its collar. His speech was slow, the words slurred. “I said get up, colored man,” the towhead re- peated; his words w'ere cold and precise. He mo- tioned threateningly with the rifle, a .22 automatic. Stiffly, the indigo man stood up. “Get your hands behind your head,” the towhead ordered, snapping off the words. “Ain’t he a prize, Jeff?” Jeff giggled. The indigo man eyed the dog, which drooled saliva and continued to strain against its collar. “Dirty c-c-colored man,” Jeff said, and shud- dered. Blushing, he glanced at his friend, then spat on the ground. The indigo man had heard the derisive term many times. “W-what’re you going to do with him, Tyler?” Jeff stared at the boy holding the gun, eyebrows raised. For the first time, a wry grin broke at the corners of Tyler’s mouth. But his eyes remained cold. not matching the smile. “Well now, that depends,” he said, jacking a round into the chamber of the .22. The indigo man’s stomach churned, but he didn’t move. “Think I’ll shoot him”— the boy sighted down the rifle again, pointing it at the indigo man’s heart — “unless . . . unless he cooperates.” Midnight whined. “Don’t shoot him, Tyler,” Jeff pleaded, his voice rising in pitch. “H-h-he’ll cooperate.” He turned to the indigo man, nodding. “Won’t you?” Tyler flashed Jeff a reassuring smile. “You know. I’ve always wondered if these guys were painted all over . . .” Jeff frowned, struggling to understand his friend. The indigo man understood, and his heart raced. Tyler’s grin dissolved into a scowl. He fingered his own shirt. “Under his clothes, dummy,” he said impatiently. Slowly the wrinkles disappeared from Jeffs forehead as he caught on. “Oh . . . Me, too.” “Strip” Tyler whispered at the indigo man. He took off his clothes, watching the rifle carefully. The dog lunged, barking at the indigo man’s movement. “Come on, come on, hurry up,” Tyler ordered, “we got to get home for lunch soon.” The boys both giggled as the indigo man stripped off his shorts. He stood up, naked. The boys laughed hard, tears rolling down their cheeks. The dog howled, joining in. Catching his breath, Tyler said: “Now that’s what I call a prize, a real prize.” He wiped his eyes. “Turn around, colored man.” The laughter grew louder, but it was forced. The indigo man felt sweat roll down his ribs. He could barely breathe. “Now' that’s really a cold, blue ass. Did you ever see anything like it, Jeff? Bend over!” The indigo man heard a strange sound — a growling groan. He knew it wasn’t the dog. Before he turned, he realized that the sound had come from Jeff. Cautiously turning, he saw Tyler kneeling over his prostrate friend. Jeff moaned. His face was red, neck muscles knotted, his limbs and body stiff— convulsed by seizure. The indigo man took one step toward the boys. Looking back over his shoulder, Tyler shouted, “Hold it!” He picked up the rifle and made a shooing gesture at the indigo man. “Get! Move it, old man.” He fired a round near the indigo man’s feet. “Now!” the boy screamed, and his eyes were murderous. Sweeping up his clothes, pack, and stick, the indigo man stumbled across the loose shoulder of the highway, hurrying down the road. 42 empty highway ami stopped to dress. But he was shaking too hard. Finally his breathing slowed and his shivering stopped. He dressed. His fear dis- solved, replaced by relief. Exhausted, he massaged the numb fingers of his left hand. For a moment, he thought of Jeff, but felt no compassion. LA-Couver Zone: June 6, 20^9 The color continues to fade. Today I had a terrifying experience with two freemen boys. I should have been outraged, humiliated, shamed. But I felt none of these emo- tions. At the time I was simply afraid. When it was over and I was safe, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing else. I have forgotten how to feel anger, pride— the others. Perhaps they are luxuries of freemen. One of the boys I met today u/ill wear color soon. From his eyes, I would guess he will be as- signed scarlet. I am tired. Very, very tired. Again this hostel is empty. No one to talk to. The next day the indigo man stopped early to get out of the heat. The hostel was a Quonset hut. He palmed the sensor and waited. Whirr. Click. Pushing the metal door inward, the indigo man entered the hostel and stopped. A man, eating at the dining table, looked up. Even seated, his size was im- pressive—a giant. He was beardless, in his forties, and the color of bright, fresh blood: scarlet. The scar- let man nodded shyly and shifted his gaze back to his food. “Hello,” the indigo man said, acknowledging the giant’s silent greeting. He placed his pack and stick by the table, glancing about the hut. An air conditioner filled the air with a low hum. He wiped his sweaty head with the back of his hand and sniffed. “The stew smells good.” Smiling, the scarlet man spooned up another steamy mouthful. He nodded toward the bank of ma- chines behind the indigo man, next to the door. As was customary, they ate in silence. Finished, the two men talked— tentatively, at first, like shy children. “Hot.” The indigo man gestured to the door and outside. “Yes,” the giant said, nodding slowly. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to in sev- eral weeks.” “H-m-m.” “In fact, you’re the first C-P I’ve seen in that time.” The scarlet man’s brow wrinkled slightly. He nodded. “It’s a lonely time.” His voice was gentle and soft, at odds with his huge frame and violent color. “Have you wandered long?” asked the indigo man. “Yes. Ten years . . .” He stared into his ale mug. Raising his head, he asked: “And yourself?” “Longer. Twenty-two years.” After reflecting for a moment, the scarlet man said: “Three days ago I met an amber woman—” “Excuse me,” the indigo man interrupted. “Amber? I am not familiar with the offense.” “Oh, amber,” the scarlet man murmured, “yes ... it is a new one. I don’t think it is major like the darker colors, but I don’t know exactly.” For a minute neither man spoke, both sipping their remaining ale. Presently the scarlet man cleared his throat. “The lack of C-Ps reminded me of the amber woman. She’d been recently assigned the color, and her mind was full of philosophy about the law and such.” The giant paused, watching the indigo man’s face for en- couragement to continue. Smiling wryly, the indigo man tried to re- member his thoughts after being assigned indigo. He couldn’t recall specifically, but he doubted they were philosophical. “Continue, please. You were saying the amber woman discussed thoughts about legal philosophy?” “Well, I don’t remember it all, and some I didn’t understand. But I recall the gist of it. She mentioned a long-term research project — social biol- ogy? Anyhow, she said the judgments of color were having a deterrent effect on social offenses. The re- sult is that there are less and less C-Ps, especially major offenders like you and I.” The indigo man nodded; he had suspected something like that was happening. Probably been working from the start, gradually reducing the number of offends. “Smoke?” the scarlet man asked, rising to his full height, over two meters. “Yes.” The indigo man accompanied the giant to the machines near the door. In turn they each palmed the sensor on the Shadowsmok dispenser. Re- 43 turning to their seats, both men were silent; they broke the ampules, sniffing the blue smoke. Since he was already tired, the narcotic made the indigo man feel limp, completely worn out. But he couldn’t go to bed yet. He still hadn’t brought up the color loss. Try as he might, he could think of no easy way to open the conversation. The scarlet man was difficult to talk with. Finally he blurted out, “Have you ever met a C-P who was losing his color?” Raising his eyebrows, the giant mumbled, “I’m not sure what you mean.” “I’ll show you.” Reaching into his pack, the in- digo man withdrew the lock of hair and a tiny pair of scissors. He clipped off a snip from his head and laid the two on the table side by side. “Which is darker?” he asked, gesturing at the two tufts of hair. Studying the samples, the scarlet man said, “I-I-I’m not certain.” He looked qiiestioningly into the indigo man’s eyes. “I think my color is fading,” the indigo man ex- plained. * The scarlet man shook his head, confused. “Well,” the indigo man continued, unable to keep the excitement down in his rising voice, “several weeks ago, I noticed a change in my color. A fading! So I cut this sample as a standard for comparison—” He pointed to the older clipping, “—and I check each day. I’ve never heard of anyone losing their color . . . but I am.” Again he indicated the proof on the table. “Have you heard of it happening?” Shaking his head, the giant leaned over and examined the two locks of hair very closely. He looked back at the indigo man. “No. No, I’ve never heard of anyone’s color changing.” Gently he rested a large hand on the indigo man’s shoulder. “But you are probably right,” he said, his voice louder. “Fm not a good judge, but I think I see the color difference.” He shifted his gaze to the empty mug. The indigo man smiled at the obvious lie. A kind man, he thought, difficult to imagine him harming anyone seriously. Then he looked at the two locks and frowned. He put the darker lock back in his pack. “Strange,” the scarlet man said softly, “in all the years. I’ve never even thought of the possibility. Why, the significance — ” “Freedom!” The indigo man wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. His heart thumped rapidly; he had trouble catching his breath. With a slightly awed expression, the scarlet man asked: “But what could cause it? A problem with the coloring implant?” “No, I don’t think so.” He had calmed himself. “A malfunction in the implant would be picked up by one of the palm sensors in a door or food machine and conveyed back to Central Control. By now. I’d have been visited by a Caretaker. No, that’s not the cause.” “Well, for God’s sake, what—?” “I think I’m cured ... or almost.” LA-Couver Zone: June 7, 204.9. Today I met a scarlet man . . . Again, blistering heat. I’he indigo man was soaked with sweat, exhausted before noon. He left the highway, stumbling down a slope over the road shoulder. He listened, hearing water splashing over rocks. Then he caught the reflections of the creek flowing through the mottled shadowing of large black oaks. He moved, attracted by the cool shade of the trees and the sound of the brook. Sud- denly he stopped, a gasp frozen in his throat. A freeman child. Highlighted by a shaft of sunlight, the young boy sat on a rock outcrop, flipping tiny wads of dough into the water, watching trout strike the bread balls. But it was the boy’s appearance that had stolen the indigo man’s breath. The child’s head was covered by an unruly mass of blond ringlets; the light playing through the hair made it fuzzy-white like a dandelion puffball. His cheeks were flushed by the heat and excitement of his play, the pink contrasting sharply with his fair skin. The stillness was disturbed by the boy’s laugh as a fish leaped from the water, splashing back into the brook. The lad’s dark blue eyes sparkled with joy. His dress was typical for the area: brown leather shorts held up by crossed shoulder straps. No shirt, no shoes. His body, chubby with baby fat, was fair, slightly tanned— the color of a walnut shell. But it was the boy’s arms and hands that caught the indigo man’s attention. They seemed to be in perpetual mo- tion: tossing, scratching, clapping, rubbing pants, fingers shaking with glee. And the arms were cov- ered with downy hair that glittered golden in the sun- light. The beautiful child reminded the indigo man of an old-fashioned religious postcard that he had seen, except that the boy lacked a halo. As he spied on the lad, his exhaustion drained away, replaced by a tin- gling excitement. The boy laughed again. A melodious sound. He had used up the bread, but the fish still struck at tiny pebbles that he tossed into the water. Carefully the indigo man moved closer, afraid of disturbing the beauty of the scene but nevertheless drawn closer to the child. The boy’s arms stopped throwing and rested in his lap; he cocked his head, listening. Pausing within arm’s reach, the indigo man stared down on the dan- delion fuzz. A vein throbbed in his throat. The woman looked down on the indigo man. From the gentleness of motherly concern, her features hardened into a mask of rage and disgust. “You . . . you dirty, dirty old—” She stopped, her face deepening in color, “—pervert!” The boy faced toward the indigo man, blinded by the sun but sensing a presence. He smiled. “Mama-?” Kneeling, the indigo man reached out slowly and stroked the fine golden hair on the boy’s arm. His throat tightened, preventing a moan of delight. So soft, he thought. The child’s fresh, babylike scent was overpowering. The indigo man was dizzy. Then he felt the lad stiffen under his stroking. Jerking away, the boy tumbled backward into the shade. He looked up into the face of the indigo man, and his eyes widened with terror. “Ah, ah, ah-” Alarmed, the indigo man raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. His heart jumped erratically in his chest. He swallowed, trying to relieve the tightness in his throat. Beyond reassurance, the child cried hoarsely, “C-c-colored, colored . . .” He made choking sounds, finally bursting into sobs of panic. “Mama, Mama!” he screamed, edging away. The indigo man stood frozen, trying to calm the hysterical child with the right gesture, putting his forefinger to his lips. Nothing worked. Suddenly: “Davy boy! Oh, Davy boy! Run! Run! Davy!” The v/oman stood on the slope of the shoulder, screaming at the lad. “Come here, Davy!” He scrambled up the slope, blubbering, “Mama, Mama.” She swooped him up and smothered him to her chest. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe.” Her voice was soft, a coo. After a few moments, the boy’s sobs quieted down. The woman looked down on the indigo man. From the gentleness of motherly concern, her fea- tures hardened into a mask of rage and disgust. She tried to speak, but no sound came out; she only spewed white flecks of dry spittle. Finally she man- aged: “You . . . you dirty, dirty old—” She stopped, her face deepening in color. “ — pervert!” Coughing violently, she strangled on the force and effort of her exclamation. Setting the boy down, she stammered, “You, you—” The indigo man shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I meant no harm to the boy.” Eyes widening with surprise, the woman shouted, “You dare break silence?” Her fists balled. “I should have you shot!” Instead, she reached down and gathered a handful of stones. The boy imitated his mother. The two showered the indigo man with pebbles. At first, he shielded his face with his arms. No, he thought, I couldn't harm the boy. I'm well. But deep in his chest he felt a twinge of uncer- tainty. He shook his head, denying the feeling. No, no it was only the child's beauty. I meant no harm . . . But he wasn’t sure. And he was swept by a feel- ing of guilt. His arms dropped, suddenly heavy with his uncertainty. Only a few stones actually struck his face, and they seemed no more significant than raindrops. “Take that, you t^rible, terrible—” “Colored man!” the boy added hatefully. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his forehead; but still he stood unmoving, rooted to the spot. Breathless, the woman finally stopped throw- ing stones. She stomped the ground, then led the lit- tle boy up the slope and out of sight. The indigo man stood still, a heavy feeling in his chest. Time passed. Eventually he slumped, dropping to the ground where he’d stood during the stoning. The sun crept overhead; then it dropped. A cricket chirped, answered by the croak of a bullfrog. Dazed, the indigo man touched the cuts on his face and forehead, the aching dried crusts. He felt weary. Taking off his pack, he lay down and curled into a ball. His dream was troubled: He was a boy again, chased by a naked man covered with smears of color— a rainbow man. He ran and ran, finally drop- ping exhausted in a field of flowers. He sank down in the reds, blues, yellows, and oranges, smothered by color. He couldn’^atch his breath . . . Off and on during the night, pains in his left arm woke the indigo man. LA-Couver Zone: June 9, 20^9. There is no entry for yesterday. I slept in the 45 woods. My joints are stiff and sore, but my thoughts more painful. A few minutes ago I made a compari- son of hair to the old standard. I think the fresh lock is lighter, but I am not positive. If the color is fading, my theory really does not explain it. Why should my being cured have any influence on the coloring implant? I cannot re- member my original reasoning. 1 can only recall ex- citement at the idea — but the scientific basis? Perhaps it was nothing more than wishful thinking. I am not sure that the compulsive urge that led to my assignment of indigo is gone. So in the future I will make careful, honest comparisons of the hair samples. And I will reexam- ine my heart for traces of the evil urge. Perhaps, if I find that my color is really changing, I will meet other C-Ps who can suggest realistic explanations for the loss. But I am changing in some ways. Age is sap- ping my stamina and something is wrong with my hand and arm — circulation or something? I am afraid to go to the medcenter.^ Nausea. Dizziness. Headache. Pins and needles in his left arm. He had awakened sick. After a few minutes on the road, he sat down on the curb of the median to rest, to catch his breath. Staring up the highway, he saw the air dance and shimmer; but it’s too early for heat ivaves, he thought. He blinked, but his vision remained blurry. He tried to rub feeling into his dead arm — Suddenly a tremendous pain slammed into his chest, as if he had been struck with a sledgehammer. He straightened up, stunned, paralyzed by the pain; then he gasped and vomited violently. The pain had changed to a sharp stabbing sensation, each thrust taking away his breath. In agony, he rolled over and inched himself under the shade of an oleander. He lay on his back, gasping for air. Again the invisible sledgehammer slammed into his chest. His vision tunneled, his ears rang, and a numbness crept over him. Blackness. Coolness. A flicking coolness across his face. It was a good feeling, drawing his attention from the dull ache in his chest. With great effort he forced open his eyes. The brightness brought another wave of nausea that made him moan. Everything was fuzzy. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. A man leaned over him. “Wh-?” He gagged, his throat raw and vile with the taste of his own juices; he coughed, closing his eyes, fighting the dizziness and nausea. Again he felt the cooling sensation across his brow. He reopened his eyes, but didn’t try to talk. The man was naked. His body was covered only with smears and dabs of color. All over. His hair, even his eyes were flecked with multicolor. The indigo man shuddered with the recognition. It was the rainbow man! The man in his dream! Breathing deeply in and out, the indigo man felt better. He looked more closely at the rainbow man. He wasn’t completely nude; around his waist he wore a wide leather belt. Hooked to the belt were many brushes of different sizes and shapes— artists’ brushes. Brush in hand, the painter dabbed at the in- digo man’s face. The flicking coolness. He brought the brush back and wiped a smear of indigo on his chest. Each time the painter dabbed with the cooling brush, he wiped it off somewhere on his body, leaving a fresh streak of indigo. Am I dead? the indigo man wondered. The pain in his chest reminded him that he was still alive. Hand and brush a blur, the painter worked on the indigo man’s face. Dab, dab, dab. Then he stroked the indigo man’s arms. And everywhere he touched, the painter wiped away a patch of indigo. Finally the rainbow man stopped. He stared for a moment, admiring his work; then he bent down again and gently flicked the indigo man’s nose. The touch was cool, almost icy. The painter nodded and grinned, his flecked eyes glitter- ing like a kaleidoscope. The indigo man clutched his chest with his right hand as his heart beat erratically, each thump sending a wave of new pain. He’d never felt so tired. It was an effort to breathe. He closed his eyes. Then it occurred to the indigo man that the painter was only a fantasy, that he was really lying on the median all alone, hallucinating. A dream. In- wardly he smiled; it didn’t really matter. He’d been alone for the last twenty-two years. With an effort, he opened his eyes, focusing again on the rainbow man. The painter reached to the back of his belt and held up an object. The indigo man blinked. It was a mirror. He squeezed his eyelids together tightly, clear- ing his vision, and stared into the mirror. He saw a stranger, a man. An old man with hair whiter than the cleanest cloud, with a beard the color of fresh- fallen snow, with thick, cottony eyebrows. Nowhere on the old man’s freshly scrubbed face was there even a speck of color. The indigo man watched as a tiny tear trickled down the old man’s cheek. Heavy now, the indigo man’s eyelids sagged. He forced them open. The rainbow man had disappeared. He looked up into the sky at the fleecy white clouds and smiled. Then he closed his eyes and rest- ed, relieved of his burden at last. IQ 46 Illustration by Robert Morello Imagine, if you will . . . The white mis ts roll in like solid things and bump gently against the tropic coasts. The heavy gulf waters suck at the planking of a small launch that lies at anchor near the shore. Doc Howard squints anxiously toward the land and wipes his sweaty palms on his dirty dungarees before taking a quick pull at a pint whiskey bottle. “Come on,” he mutters. “What’s keeping you?” Doc is a thin wisp of a man with a gray complex- ion and the shaking hands of a chronic drunk. Life hasn’t been good to him; it has eaten away at his confidence and dignity until only the shell of the man is left. There is a. -610111 squawk, and Doc starts up. His eyes swivel wildly to the small cage that hangs from the superstructure near the entrance to the cabin. In the cage sits a brightly colored parrot. Seeing the source of the sound. Doc lets out his pent-up breath. The parrot claws at the cage and clucks noisily. 47 A1 screams as the moving chain catches him and slams him against the gunwale. He writhes from side to side. “My hand! It hurts!” “You haven’t got a hand anymore, Al. The chain took it off.” “Water alive with police cutters, and Al ashore with a load of guns, and me stuck here with you,” mutters Doc. “What do I know about boats and run- ning guns?” The parrot screams shrilly, and Doc wipes at his damp forehead with his sleeve. “Come on, Al. Come <m!’’ Suddenly he stiffens. There is a sound of distant rifle fire and a crashing in the brush near the moored boat. Doc leans over the sid^. “Al?” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Al? That you?” Legs chum water; there is a thump against the side of the boat. Assisted by Doc, Al Lucho, small-time hoodlum, climbs noisily over the rail onto the deck. “Get that anchor up!” he commands sharply. “I’ll start the engine. Move!” Doc casts him a frightened look and leaps for the anchor chain. With the aid of a small winch he begins to pull anchor. The chain piles up on the deck as the anchor rises. The engine bursts to life, and the launch begins to pull away from the shore. Over the sounds of the engine echo several rifle shots; small, ugly holes appear in the side of the boat above the water line. The parrot squawks loudly as the rifle fire grows distant. The craft safely under way, their pursuers left behind, Al locks the wheel in position and comes on deck. He sees the parrot in its cage, and a wide smile breaks over his pinched face. He chuckles. “What’s the matter, Conchita? Things get too rough for you?” He sticks his finger through the wire bars of the cage and strokes the parrot’s head. It slashes at his finger. He jerks his hand back and puts the injured finger in his mouth. Doc joins him. “One of these days that bird is going to t^e that finger off you. Ever hear of parrot fever?” Al spins to face him, his face ugly. “She’s my bird, ain’t she?” Doc becomes conciliatory. “Sure, Al. Sure.” “I want to let her bite me, it’s my business. I been bit before, and it always healed fast enough.” As Doc turns away, Al reaches out and grabs him. He looks at Doc’s trembling hands, then leans for- ward suspiciously and sniffs Doc’s breath. “Now Al. . .” “You been at the bottle again!” “It was just a little one, Al.” “I risk my neck leaving you here to cover for me, and you hit the bottle the minute I’m out of sight.” He cuffs Doc roughly and shoves him against the rail. “Where’s the bottle?” “Please, Al. . .” He twists Doc’s arm. “Come on, rumdum. Where?” Doc cries out in pain and gestures toward a pile of rope. Al shoves him aside, finds the bottle, and raises his arm to throw it over the side. Doc is abject. “Please, Al. You know how I get when I need a drink ...” Al looks at him contemptuously. “Suffer!” he says harshly. He flings the bottle into the mist. Ignor- ing Doc, who clings weakly to the rail, he goes to the parrot’s cage. “See what I’m saddled with, Conchita? A human sponge. He smells the cork of a bottle and he comes apart. I’m lucky the boat was waiting at all.” Talking to the parrot setjms to cheer him somewhat. He grins a gargoyle grin and begins to play with the bird. He purses his lips and makes cooing, clucking sounds. Carefully he pets the brightly colored head and is delighted when the bird suffers his attentions. Doc raises his head. “Al?” he says softly. “Yeah? What do you want?” Doc’s voice has a slight whine to it. “Did you get the money?” Al’s laugh is without humor. “See what I mean, Conchita? A booze-hound with no j?uts, but he’s ready at the payoff.” He mimics Doc’s voice. “Did you get the money? You want a laugh, Conchita? He may look like a human whiskey bottle to you, but our brave partner here used to be a doctor. Yeah. A regular doctor with a white coat. To hear him tell it, he was a regular Mayo Clinic until he started drinking up the medicinal alcohol.” His tone has turned ugly, and now he shifts to face Doc. Concealed by the movement of his body, his hand curls around a marlin spike racked near the rail. As he takes a step forward. Doc sees the weapon and draws back apprehensively. “The way I figure it, rumdum, you’re more of a liability than an asset. Why should I split with you? It was me that located the guns and set up the deal.” Stalked by Al, Doc scrambles toward the fantail of the boat. “Please, Al, please ...” Al smiles murderously and lunges forward, the spike raised to strike. Doc covers his head with his arms and dodges to the side. His legs make contact with the anchor-release lever. With a loud rattle, the chairi begins to pay out, whipping the deck like a great iron snake. Carried by his own momentum, unable to stop, Al is hit by it and loses his balance. His arms flail out as he goes down. He screams as the moving chain catches him and slams him against the gunwale. He screams, again. Shocked, Doc looks at A1 lying there on the deck. A1 writhes from side to side, his arm cradled against his chest. “My hand! It hurts!” “You haven’t got a hand anymore, Al. The chain took it off.” Al’s eyes widen. “No! . . .No!” He collapses. For a long moment. Doc looks at the still form at his feet. The parrot claws the cage and squawks shrilly. “You tried to kill me, Al. If I was half smart I’d put you over the side. You’re an animal. A savage. I’ve never heard you give anybody a kind word. You like hurting people. You hate everyone and everything. You haven’t a single redeeming feature, unless it’s the way you feel about that ugly bird. Only . . . only I can’t do it. What you said a while ago is true. I was a doctor. Not a very good one, maybe, but it was my job to save lives, not to take thtim. You wouldn’t understand that, would you, Al?” The parrot screams harshly as Doc begins to drag Al toward the cabin. Once inside the tiny com- partment, he levers Al onto the single cot. He rum- ages underneath and brings out a black bag full of shiny instruments and bottles. Fumbling in the bottom of the bag, he takes out a pint of whiskey, breaks the seal, takes a healthy belt, and recaps the bottle. He goes through Al’s pockets, takes the thick wad of money, and puts it in his own jacket pocket. Then, tak- ing a hypo from the bag, he fills it from one of the small bottles and injects it in Al’s arm before setting to the job of cleaning and bandaging. When Al is resting easily. Doc goes topside. For a time he looks off at the shifting mists that obscure the water from view. He listens to the drum of the engines, and after a while he sleeps. Time passes. How long it has been Doc doesn’t know. Something wakens him. He sits up quickly and looks about, but sees nothing. He listens. There is only the sound of engines, water, and the screams of the parrot. Blinking, Doc rises and goes forward to have a look at Al. As he bends over the still form on the bed, Al opens his eyes. “Easy,” says Doc. “You haven’t got a right hand anymore, but if you take care of yourself till we get to shore, you’ll be all right.” As he pulls back the blanket to have a look, his face goes pale. His eyes widen with horror. “What is it?” Al asks fearfully. Doc’s voice is full of shocked disbelief. “Your hand . . . ” Al tries to rise. “It’s impossible!” says Doc huskily. “Your hand. It’s grown back!” And so it has. Except for a light white line around Al’s right wrist, his hands are whole and perfect. A miracle has occurred, and Doc is slow to recover from his wonderment. He examines the hand. “Flex your fingers.” Al, not quite comprehending what is going on, does as he is told. “Fantastic,” saysi)oc. “I saw it severed myself. I trimmed the flesh and put on the bandage.” Al has never seen Doc like this before. “Maybe you were seeing things. They say that’s what the juice does to you when you drink too much of it.” “I know what I saw,” says Doc. “When you came at me with that marlin spike . . . ” He breaks off, remembering that Al has tried to kill him. Al stirs un- comfortably, but now Doc’s attention is centered on the miracle. “Look,” he says. “This has never happened before in medical history. There are certain worms that have the ability to regrow lost portions of them- selves. You can cut one of them in two pieces, and each piece will become a separate worm. They’re called Planaria. Certain forms of marine life have it, too— but never a human.” He looks at Al wildly. “Do you know what this means? Do you know what a secret like this is worth?” At the mention of money, Al becomes attentive. “If this thing could be isolated— if it could be reduced to formula and synthesized, it would be worth a fortune. The man who could grow back arms and legs and fingers could. name his own price.” “What are you getting at. Doc?” “Somewhere inside your blood or your genes is a secret. The man who pries it loose ■will make medical history. I could be that man.” “Now wait a minute ...” *9 SEA CHANGE “I could take samples of your blood and run a series of tests. And if it isn’t in the blood—” “If you think I’m going to let a rumdum like you stick knives in me, you’re out of your mind.” Doc is fired by the vision. He can see himself dressed in white, surrounded by admiring medical men, a figure to command respect and awe. “You would have killed me if it wasn’t for the anchor chain,” he says. “I saved your life. You were bleeding to death. You owe it to me.” “I owe you nothing.” A1 raises himself up on the cot and puts his hand in his pocket that held the money. It is gone. “The money! It was in my pocket ...” His voice takes on a dangerous edge. But Doc is beyond caring about the money or Al’s anger. He sees his future slipping away from him. “Forget about the money,” he cries. “This is more im- portant than money. I want to experiment. . . ” A1 begins getting to his feet. “You want to get A1 Lucho on a table so you can cut his throat, is that it? You want to cut him up and make serum out of him?” And now Doc knows th^t he has lost, that A1 has no intention of cooperating in his schemes. His hand closes over a club-length of wood lying on a ledge in the cabin. “But Al, you’ve got to let me. I won’t let you refuse. You’ve got no right—” Hysterically he swings the club at Al, who wards off the blow; and then Al is upon him. Grabbing Doc by the throat, he slams him against the bulkhead and begins to squeeze. Doc claws at the fingers and writhes weakly. Suddenly there is a sound on deck— a heavy sound like stumbling footsteps. Al becomes rigid, listening. “What was that?” His fingers loosen slightly. He cocks his head. “It sounded like someone out there.” Doc wrenches free from the choking fingers. He gasps for air, sobbing. Again they hear the sound of dragging footsteps. Doc’s eyes flick from side to side. He looks at Al with sudden horror. “The hand!” he says. “What happened to the hand?” “WTiat are you talking about?” “Remember what I told you about the worms? How you can cut one in two and each part grows into a separate worm?” “I don’t-” “Two pieces. Two worms. Don’t you see?” i And now Al understands what Doc is getting at. I But he doesn’t want to believe it. Doc takes advantage of his momentary confu- sion. His eyes go to the slim scalpel that lies on the built-in table by the cot. Continuing to talk, he edges toward the knife. “The hand, Al. It was caught in the anchor chain. It’s out there on the deck somewhere, the bilges maybe, washed by seawater. You’ve never looked at seawater through a microscope, Al, but I have. It’s aswarm with microbes and bacteria. It’s like a rich soup filled with living things.” He has Al going now, and he is much closer to the scalpel. His hand trembles above it, fingers reaching. “Can you pictpe it lying there, taking substance from the sea? Growing? Changing? You take one worm and cut him in two parts, and he tecomes two worms. You were cut in two parts, Al, and one of the parts grew a hand.” “No! It’s impossible. . .” “What did the other part gi'ow, Al?” “Shut up!” “What’s out there on the deck, Al?” But now Doc has gone too far. In his terror, Al whirls on him and sees Doc’s fingers closing about the scalpel. He lets out a yell and jumps forward. For a frantic moment they fight for it; then Al, the stronger, wins out. He wi-ests the blade from Doc and plunges it downward. Doc collapses with a groan. Al breathes heavily, looking down at the body. Then he raises his head, nostrils quivering. He hears the strange stumbling sound again. Holding the scalpel, he goes to the door of the cabin and peers into the darkness. Nothing. Opening the door cautiously, he edges through it with the blade in front of him. He takes two stealthy steps, listening intently. Suddenly a hand comes out of the blackness and clamps onto his shoulder. He gasps and whirls. Before him in the darkness is a huge hulking figure . . . An involuntary cry bursts from Al’s lips as he sees the figure’s face. It is himself, his eyes and lips and bone structure. But it is not quite the same. There is an unfinished quality about the face, as though done by a hasty sculptor who’s missed some essential character lines. Stunned, paralyzed with fright, Al backs away clumsily. He has forgotten the knife in his hand as the figure moves after him. Its hands are like loose claws. Al feels the rail against his back, and then it gives way. He feels himself falling, falling; . . . Then there is blackness. The figure turns away from the rail. It enters the cabin and removes the bundle of money from Doc’s pocket. It carries Doc’s body on deck and dumps him over the rail. Chuckling evilly, it begins to thumb through the bills. There is a shrill cry, and the figure looks up. The parrot, Conchita, is clawing its way about the interior of the cage. A snarl crosses the figure’s face. It wrenches the cage free from its moorings, raises it high, and casts it into the darkness. It smiles then, and goes forward to steer the boat toward the distant port. i0 so Photos courtesy United Artists T Z • SCREEN PREVIEW The Beast Within REPORTING FROM MISSISSIPPI, ROBERT MARTIN PAYS A VISIT TO THE SET WHERE AN 'ENCYCLOPEDIA OF HORROR FILMS' IS BEING SHOT Producer Harvey Bernhard draws a strict line between his Omeu films and his current project. The Beast Within, which completed principal shooting in .Jackson, Mississippi, in March. "I don’t consider the Omen films horror pictures,” says Bernhard. "This one, on the other hand, is exactly that. It’s been designed for one thing: to scare the shit out of everybody. People have read the script and had nightmares from it. It’s a first-class monster picture, and the best script of its kind that I’ve read.” Like The Omen, The Beast Within was first conceived by Bernard himself. It happened when he spotted a one- paragraph listing in an Arbor House book catalogue for a novel of that name by Edward Levy. A phone call turned up the information that the book had not yet been written, but the catalogue’s brief description was enough to convince Bernhard to take an option. "The book was to be the story of a fellow who believed that sex was a sin of the flesh,” Bernhard says, "and who marries a young girl but never has sex with her. Along comes the proverbial traveling salesman, who beds the wife. The first guy catches them, kills the girl, and keeps the salesman locked in a fruit cellar along with the cadaver of the girl . . . Seventeen years later, this captive has turned bestial: he escapes, kills his captor, runs into the swamp, and rapes a woman. That is the start of our Beast Within." The novel, which has since been published, bears very little relationship to the story that was developed by Bernhard with screenwriter Tom Holland and director Philippe Mora. (“I paid $2‘),0()0 for a paragraph,” Bernhard wails.) As the film opens, FJli Mact'leary (Ronny Cox —best known for his role in Deliverance) and his bride Caroline (Bibi Besch) are returningto their home in .lackson from a blissful honeymoon. Their joy comes to a brutal end when Caroline is raped on a deserted road in the swamps just outside the small town of Nioba, Mississippi. Caroline is severely traumatized, but the young couple manage to resume their normal lives until, a few months later, Caroline learns that she is pregnant. Whatever secret fears they might have harbored dissipate when Michael is born — a perfectly normal male child. Normal, that is, until he reaches seventeen vears of age; then Michael is suddenly gripped by a strange illness, one that slowly lays waste to his body but defies diagnosis. When the possibility that the disease may be hereditary is raised, the MacClearys must resurrect the doubts of their past and return to Nioba. Once in Nioba, Michael’s "disease” takes some strange turns, providing a rocky road for his love affair with Amanda (Kitty Moffat), a local girl. Though at times he seems the smiling, friendly lad he’s always been, at others he becomes downright bestial. He begins gaining height and u eight rapidly. On a visit to his doctor (played by veteran character actor R. G. Armstrong) it’s discovered that his back is starting to crack along the spine— almost as if he were shedding his skin. Beyond this point, the story of The Beast Within remains something of a mystery. During our visit to the film’s location, certain information was strictly withheld on the orders of Mr. Bernhard, and certain photos kept strictly out of view. All of the mystery surrounds the central figure of the film— young Michael, who is possessed by the demonic spirit of his natural father, and who gradually SI Young Michael's increasingly bizarre behavior provokes a series of domestic crises for the MacCiearys. (Left to right; Ronny Cox, Paul Clemens, Bibi Besch.) develops (luring the course of the film into a rampaging beast. Paul Clemens, twenty-three years old, seems a natural choice for the rok* of young Michael: his look and manner is that of the likable boy next door, and behind him are several roles di.splaying a certain vulnerability reminiscent of the beast-possessed Michael. When Tony Richardson, director of A Tante of Honey, helmed the Emmy-nominated television adaptation of the documentary novel A Death in Canaan , Clemens played Peter Reilly, a confused Connecticut teenager convicted of murder due to a confession elicited by a “fatherly” police detective. In Ph-otnises in the Dark, a film that was critically acclaimed but less than successful commercially, he played the boyfriend of a young woman who is stricken with cancer. Most recently, in an episode entitled “Seldom Silent, Never Heard” on the television series Quincy, Clemens gave a sensitive portrayal of a victim of Tourette’s syndrome, a dusorder which has often been mistaken in the past for demonic posses.sion. This last and most demanding role is a particular source of pride for Clemens, and his performance is considered a chief contender for next year’s Emmies. Clemens’s experience portraying such psychically vulnerable young men served as excellent preparation for the multifaceted role of Michael/the Beast. “Most of the roles I’ve played in the past have been very sensitive characters. ()ne of the few things I liked about my role in California Fever, a film I’d just as soon forget, is that for once I was playing a real asshole, an obnoxious, insensitive, spoiled punk. The Beast is very satisfying for me, because there’s moments in that where I’m absolutely, diabolically evil, times when I’m mildly sinister, and other times when I’m totally sympathetic.” Director Philippe Mora is not the sort one would immediately expect to find in association with producer Bernhard. In personality and temperament, Bernhard comes off as the quintessential Hollywood film producer, while Mora has all the attributes of the young maverick director who, given the choice between art and profit, would likely opt for the former. His first feature film was Trouble in Melopolis, a bizarre musical made in Australia that will probably never be seen in the U.S. Inspired by The Threepenny Opera, the Marx Brothers, and the 193()s style of moviemaking, it starred an inmate of a Melbourne mental institution named .lohn Iver Golding. “I was having lunch one day when the assistant director approached me with a problem,” Mora recalls. “He told me, in a very low voice, ‘■John Iver has done a shit on the set.’ I took John aside and told him that we have restrooms for that sort of thing, we don’t do it on the set.” He smiles. “And ever since. I’ve had no problems with actors.” When Melopolis opened in London, it became something of an underground cult film. “A number 52 The possesed Michael reveals his true iiJentltY to Inctlan Tom Laws (Ron Soble), his associate trom a former life. Makeup man Tom Burman prepares Clemens for the early stages of his transformation. Michael’s relationship with Amanda (Kitty Moffat) Is threatened when he learns of her involvement in the events of long ago. Helplessly, Michael's mother and doctor (R.G. Armstrong) watch the progress of his bizarre malady. of critics singled .John out,” says Mora. "One wrote, ‘The portrayal of a lunatic by .John Iver Golding is outstanding.’ ” Mora’s next films further reflected his interest in lunatics and the 11130s. The Double- Headed Eagle and Swastika , both of them made through Mora’s research and scripting and tjie latter directed by him, were a pair of films documenting Hitler’s rise to power and the Third Reich. Swastika, in particular, gathered much attention due to Mora’s discovery in the German archives of eight-millimeter films showing the home life of the Fuhrer and Eva Braun. “At the point I discovered those films, I had spent two years looking at Hitler in black and white. To suddenly see him in color was (|uite a shock; it suddenly brought him into the real world — whch is why 1 refer to Swastika as my first horror movie.” Again, the ’3()s were documented in Brother, Can You Spare a Dime f, a “time capsule” of American culture during the Depression, combining excerpts from major Warner Brothers films of the period with newsreel footage from Fox, UPI, and the national archives in Washington. Mora then returned to Australia, and to fiction film, with Mad Dog, starring Dennis Hopper as Daniel “Mad Dog" Morgan, a legendary frontier outlaw. Based upon Mora’s researches in Australian police records, the film— though not widely seen in this country —came to the attention of several United Artists executives in search of new directing talent. “They sent me three scripts, all horror films,” recalls Mora. “1 suppose they liked the way I handled the violent scenes in Mad Dog. Of the three. The Beast Within was the best. I subseijuently met Harvey Bernhard and executive producer Gabriel Katzka, and we agreed exactly on how this film should be treated. Should The Beast Within prove to be as good as I hope it will be, it’s because the director and producers are acting in concert.” What initially attracted Mora to the script in its early draft was “the literal transformation of the central character. We’re all constantly in a state of change. There’s a certain amount of fear connected with that, and it serves as the basis of a great many horror films. Jekgll and Hyde, is, of course, the classic example, but it’s also there in Frankenstein and The Wolf Man: the fear that we may be transformed into something beyond our own control — with death, of course, viewed as the final transformation. In that way. The Beast Within is almost an encyclopedia of horror films." The encyclopedic nature of the film stems from the Beast itself, and its development in stages throughout the picture— a series of monstrous transformations that may recall the creature in Alien. While the Beast’s exact nature has been kept under wraps, the Hollywood grapevine has not remained utterly silent. One report says that the Beast, at least in its early stages, will remind audiences of the more When Michael escapes from his hospital room, Eli is convinced that Tom Laws knows more than he’s telling. Doc and Ell discover the body of Dexter Ward (Luke Askew), one of the Beast's savaged victims. Director Philippe Mora lines up a shot. 53 frenzied scenes of The Exorcist; another says that at least one automated puppet-head, like those used in The Howling, provides some of the shape-shifting and shock effects. Yet another source says that the creature is at times reminiscent of the crustacean monstrosities that inhabited the films of Roger Corman and others in the lltoOs. After shooting was completed, we spoke again with Paul C'lemens, to see how much closer we could come to the truth of the matter. “I’d have to say no to all of that,” says Clemens. “Though there are some scenes in a hospital that may remind some people of The Exorcist, it’s still very different. There are a lot of different makeups and stages of transformation, and there were a number of mechanicals used that are similar to the mechanicals in The Howling or Altered States, but different in their design. Then, too, it’s like Beauty and the Beast, because of Michael’s relationship with Amanda. But the Beast is a very unique creation, in ways that you’ll have to see for yourself. It’s certainly not The Creature from the Black Lagoon, or anything like that.” He notes that, in some respects, the creature suggests the growth-cycle of the cicada or locust, combining— by Indian magic — insect and human forms. But it by no means resembles a giant insect,” he hastens to add. “I think that the press as a whfde has been given a wrong impression of the film because of the reluctance to discuss or show any of its special aspects, except for photos of blood and gore— really a minor element in the film." It’s particularly hard for Clemens to say which of the two sides of his role proved the most demanding — Michael or the Beast. “Michael is a very complicated character, ranging through every possible emotion, from mild confusion to terror, anger, and despair. For the Beast, some of the scenes were so intense that I nearly passed out, and — something I’ve never heard of happening on a film like this — some of these scenes were too intense for the crew to watch; some crew members actually left the set during filming. In other scenes, I was connected to a machine that had about twelve different switches on it, with all these tubes running into me. For the last three nights of shooting, I was wearing a full-body suit of the Beast in its final stage. Up to a point, I was grateful, because it was freezing cold and the bulk of the suit provided some warmth. I have never given myself, physically and emotionally, to a role as much as I did to this one.” Whether all this work will bring him fame is still in question. For one thing, as Clemens points out, “it’s a horror film, and the acting in a horror film is very seldom given any serious consideration. Probably the only notable exception is Carrie, where Sissy Spacek was nominated for an Academy Award. But then, she didn’t get it until Coal Miner's Daughter." Another factor that may affect the reception given to Clemen’s performance and to that of the entire cast and crew is the current change of regime at United Artists, recently purchased from the Transamerica Corporation by MGM. Though the film was originally made with an October release date in mind, plans now call for a spring 1982 release. Will UA’s executive staff continue to be excited about Bernhard’s idea of a “classic horror film” and will The Beast Within receive the promotion and planned release required for success in the crowded genre? That is a question that possesses even more mystery that the elusive Beast. iS With a full-fledged monster on the loose and out for vengeance, Amanda's world is shattered by a series of bestial slayings. Ell’s search Into the past reveals the secret origins of Michael's Beastly tendencies As the Beast goes on a final rampage, Eli, fully armed, sets out in search of his errant son. 54 Dr. Van Helsing’s Handy Guide to Ghost Stories Part III by Kurt Van Helsing THE PROFESSOR CONTINUES HIS LEARNED- AND HIGHLY OPINIONATED- DISQUISITION ON THE SUPERNATURAL. TODAY'S TOPIC: 'THE AESTHETICS OF THE GHOST STORY' Lmg before there was a Stephen King or a William Blatty or a string of movies shot in the dark and cele- brating knives, there was an Anglo- Irish writer named Sheridan LeFanu. LeFanu lived in Dublin in the mid- nineteenth century. . . . His nights were haunted by nightmares about a house on the verge of collapse, and when he died unexpectedly a friend said, “The house has fallen at l^t.” — New York Times editorial June 7, 1981 Though LeFanu was rumored to have scared himself to death, few writers have followed his example. They’re much more interested in scar- ing the reader: to which end the supernatural tale is singularly well suited. The trick is to make the reader believe in things he knows are not — and could not "be— true. Some writers have professed to find this little trou- ble. A. E. Coppard felt that the su- pernatural mode “makes work easy, for with its enchanting aid a writer can ignore problems of time and tide, probability, price, perspicuity, and sheer damn sense, and abandon him- self to singular freedoms on the aery winds of Never-was,” and Robert Bloch is somevi’hat more blunt: he chose to write fantasy rather than sci- ence fiction, he says, “because I could be sloppier.” But Edith Wharton felt differ- ently (“It is, in fact, not easy to write a ghost story”), H. Russell Wakefield lllusIraHora by L»0 Brown Coye from Steep No More (Farrar & Rinehart. New york. © 1944 by August Derleth) and Who Knocks? (Rinehart at Co., New ybrk, © 1946 by August Derleth). agreed (“Ghost stories are very dif- ficult to write”), and Walter de la Mare thought that the form demanded absolute perfection— as we shall see below. “It is certainly the most exact- ing form of literary art,” said L. P. Hartley, "and perhaps the only one in which there is no intermediate step between success and failure. Either it comes off or it is a flop.” One way to decrease the chances of a flop is, crass as it may sound, to employ the salesman’s ancient device of allowing the customer to “sell himself’ — which in this case means al- lowing the reader to scare himself. (The concept predates salesmen: in “The Scholar of Changchow,” written during the Sung Dynasty, Yi Chieh concludes, “Nothing in the world should be feared, but there are men who scare themselves.”) Like the customer, the reader must be made to feel he has reached his own conclusions — even when, in fact, he has been led to them. There is nothing immoral in this; all art in- volves manipulation,, and what distin- guishes good art from bad is that, in the former, one simply doesn’t notice. Supernatural fiction manipulates best when certain details are left up to the reader’s imagination; “reading,” Edith Wharton said, “should be a cre- ative act as well as w riting,” and she spoke gratefully of her audience’s “meeting me halfway among the primeval shadows, and filling in the gaps in my narrative with sensations and divinations akin to my own.” Therefore, many of the most success- ful ghost tales are told in fragmentary form, or in a style that savors of a cer- tain disquieting vagueness, or, as M. R. James suggested, with “a slight haze of distance.” Of course, too much haze— too much obscurity and ambiguity — pro- duces more frustration than fright, as de la Mare’s w'ork all too frequently proves. But when a ghost story fails to move the reader (and, sadly, the vast majority do fail), the fault is generally in its excessive need to “spell things out,” for clarity is an enemy ef spec- tral fear. “Isn’t it more devastating to one’s sanity to see the shadow of a re- venge ghost east on the wall— to know that a vindictive spirit is beside one but invisible— than to see the specter himself?” asked * Columbia professor Dorothy Scarborough, writing of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s classic New England horror tale “The Shadows on the Wall.” “Under such circumstances, the sight of a skeleton or a sheeted phantom would be dowm- right comforting.” If clarity is to be avoided, so, too, should excessive length; the mood of fear is difficult enough to arouse, much less to sustain for page after page. “It is, I think, w'ell-nigh essen- tial for success that the ghost story should be short,” wrote historian Mon- tague Summers. “Only the adroitest skill and talent of no ordinary kind can avail to keep the reader in that state of expectancy bordering on the un- pleasant yet never quite overstepping the line which is the true triumph of this genre. All too frequently a tale spun in many chapters is apt either, on the one hand, to fall slovenly flat, to become banal and to bore; or else on the other to swell into crude physical disgust and end as a mere mixen of horror.” Indeed, as anthologist Alex- ander Laing observed, “the effort to be unremittingly horrendous defeats itself. . . . Even fright, alas!, can die of monotony.” Today, of course. Summers’ and Laing’s warnings have been all but forgotten, and we are now witnessing the triumph of the supernatural novel — a triumph more commercial than literary. The vast majority of them do, in fact, resemble a “mixen,” i.e. a midden or dung heap; British writer James Herbert’s books are cases in point, relying upon periodic dollops of gore in place of mood and feeling. Even the better novels in the genre, such as William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist and Thomas Tryon’s The Other, while skillful and deservedly popular, tend to lapse into a predicta- ble succession of chapter-by-chapter shock^— an approach which, in less skilled hands, becomes (as Laing warned) increasingly monotonous. In truth, supernatural horror is a form that lends itself best to the short story or novelette; it is not well suited to the full-length novel, and certainly not to the five- and six-hundred-page blockbusters so prevalent today. What . may arguably be the only real suc- cesses in the field to date — William Hope Hodgson’s The House on the Borderland, and H. P. Lovecraft’s The Case of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath — are fifty thousand words or less in length: very thin novels indeed. Although one looks in vain through Henry James’s prose for a short sentence or a thought simply expressed, he, too, apparently favored brevity in the horror tale, though un- able to achieve it himself: “Prolonga- tion and extension constitute a strain,” he wrote, “which the mere appari- *tional . . . doesn’t do enough to miti- gate.” The late Dashiell Hammett — whose style tended to the other extreme — felt much the same: “Few weird stories have run successfully to any great length,” he said, noting that 57 Handy Guide to Ghost Stories even the most powerful tales depend upon one or two fortuitous phrases (Lovecraft called them “high spots”) — a chilling line, perhaps, or some image in which the developing mood seems to crystallize in a shudder of terror. “This shudder,” said Ham- mett, “is almost always momentary, almost never duplicated.” Characteristically, this shudder does not come until the climax of the tale; in fact, some of the shortest ghost stories on record are little more than climaxes. A couple called “The Gibsons” won a New Statesman com- petition in Britain with a 200-worder about a man who grows increasingly nervous while walking down a winding moonlit road; Yet what had he to fear if this place were evil — was he not an upright and godly man wfco held no traffic with evil? If wicked spirits had power over such men as he, there would be no justice in it. “That’s true,” said a voice behind him, “there isn’t.” Such succinctness is surely lauda- ble, but it is hardly new; during the “Southern and Northern Dynasties” the Chinese storyteller Liu Yi-ching was including in his Records of Light and Dark snippets such as this, told here in its entirety: “Once in the privy -Juan Teh-Ju saw a ghost. More than ten feet tall, black with bulging eyes, it was dressed in a -dark coat and cap. And this apparition was less than a foot from his side. Quite calm and composed, Juan told it with a smile: ‘People say that ghosts are hideous; they certainly are!’ Then, red with shame, the ghost made off.” There is also the diminutive tale of the two figures walking one night across the moors. “Do you believe in ghosts?” asks one. “No.” “/ do,” says the first— and van- ishes. And there is, too, that famous short-short attributed to Thomas Bailey Aldrich— “The last man on earth heard a knocking at his door” (to which Fredrick Brown added a happy ending, the visitor being the last woman) — as well as what former pulp writer E. Hoffman Price has dubbed “the shortest weird story ever writ- 5S ten: He crept into a crypt and crapt.” We have even seen the ghost tale re- duced to a single word — “Boo!” Brevity such as this is best left to prize contests and license plates, for it comes at the expense of a quality even more necessary to weird fiction: atmo- sphere. Walter de la Mare called it “all important.” “The fine ghost story,” he said, “must be far more than decently, it should be excellently written — every word, every cadence, every metaphor apt to the matter in hand. Here the finer shades make a supreme difference; not merely the dot over the i but where it’s put. How else is all that atmosphere to be conveyed?” Indeed, atmosphere is the life- blood of the ghost story. In most short fiction, character and plot are of su- preme importance, and in mystery, plot predominates; but in supernatural fiction they are secondary, for too complicated a plot detracts from the emotional belief on which ghost tales depend, and the vicissitudes of indi- vidual characters pale beside the ex- traordinary circumstances into which they’ve been thrust. In science fiction the major element is usually the idea, but most weird fiction plays variations upon a single basic idea: an individual’s growing awareness that “natural ex- planations” are useless and that his world has been invaded by some supernatural force— one which, in the end, he may yield to or attempt to combat. Because they dispense with the “natural explanations,” no forms of lit- erature make so many demands upon our emotional belief as ghost tales and fairy tales. The latter, however, pre- suppose a world in which magic works, while the former must persuade us that magic works in our own world. This, then, is the function of at- mosphere: to take the reader, by easy stages, from the natural to the super- natural. We must first be grounded in a world that is convincingly normal; “a good ghost-story,” wrote Henry James, “to be half as terrible as a good murder-story, must be connected at a hundred points with the common ob- jects of life. . . . The extraordinary is most extraordinary in that it happens to you and me.” Only after a successful grounding in reality can the story produce in the reader, as de la Mare hoped, “the gradual conviction that this workaday actuality of ours — with its bricks, its streets, its woods, its hills, its waters — may have queer and, possi- bly, terrifying holes in it.” The ulti- mate goal, as M. R. James saw it, was to put the reader “into the position of saying to himself, ‘If I’m not very careful, something of this kind may happen to me.’ ” To produce this sort of conviction in the modern reader is no easy task. In ages past, Vvfriting for audiences who already believed in ghosts, writ- ers had little need of a fine style and provided few touches of spectral atmo- sphere; they w(Te preaching to the converted, and emotional belief came easily when intellectual belief could simply be assumed. It’s extremely significant, there- fore, that supe)'natural fiction as a literary form— and the first efforts at a really persuasive style— appeared when belief was on the wane. Maurice Richardson speaks of “the outcrop of Gothic romance, s in the eighteenth century and ghost stories in the nineteenth: they could only be engen- dered in an allegedly rational age when superstition had been sup- posedly surmounted.” As Pamela Search observes in The Supernatural in the English ShoH Story (1959), “Ghosts, in a word, suddenly became much worse!' Just how much worse can be seen in the public’s reaction to The Castle of Otranto; though it seems crude to- day, Walpole’s use of atmosphere over- came the age’s new-found skepticism and successfully fostered an emotional belief. “It makes some of us cry a lit- tle,” wrote the poet Thomas Gray, “and all in general afraid to go to bed o’ nights.” Creating that sort of fear today requires a far more subtle hand. Since the slow, careful buildup of atmo- sphere is absolutely essential, the ghost story depends, as no other genre does, on plain old-fashioned good writing — another respect in which it differs from science fiction. Wrote the late August: Derleth: The incontrovertible fact— how- ever distasteful it :may be to . . . others w'ho go in for s-f heavily and uncritically — :is that there are very few science-fiction sto- ries which have literary value; for every one that does, there are a hundred supernatural sto- ries w’hich do. No impartial cri- tic could fail to agi'ee. ... I per- sonally enjoy science-fiction and get all the s-f magazines. But my personal enjoyment cannot blunt my critical faculty. Derleth was no doubt overstating the case a bit— he himself wrote horror stories, not science fiction, and was hardly the “impartial critic” he pre- tended to be — but his point is well taken: the successful ghost story must possess real literary merit. Because writers in this genre are forced to pay so much attention to style, and because the necessary at- mosphere must be built up with some degree of subtlety, the ghost story is among the most fragile of literary forms. Like humor, sex, or high romance — forms equally vulnerable to shifts of mood— the ghost story is forever at the mercy of boredom, dis- traction, or ridicule. A single laugh can shatter it. The hcTO of Dunsany’s “The Ghosts” disperses “a herd of black creatures” that haunt a Scottish manor house by concentrating hard on some algebraic equations; in another Dunsany tale, “How the Enemy Came to T-hlunrana,” a daring young adven- turer breaches the walls of a fearsome enchanted castle, tremblingly makes his way past glowering magicians to the legendary sanctum sanctorum, spies the unnamed thing that waits behind an ominous silk curtain — and laughs. The magicians flee; the castle falls; the spell is broken. Because fear is dispelled by laughter — and is perhaps one of the main reasons w'e laugh at all— the humorous ghost story is therefore something of a contradiction. Sum- mers disapproved of them, Richardson w'arns that “humor is fatal to the ghost story,” and none other than Sigmund Freud has written: “Even a real ghost, as in Oscar Wilde’s ‘Canterville Ghost,’ loses all pow’er as soon as the author begins to amuse himself at its ex- pense.” Indeed, there are probably more uneasy chuckles to be found in stories that set out to terrify, such as Mar- jorie Bowmen’s chilling account of “The Crown Derby Plate,” than in all the deliberately “comic”- efforts of Wilde, Don Wenceslao Fernandez Florez {Laugh and the Ghosts Laugh with You), John Kendrick Bangs, and Richard Middleton. (Bangs’s House- boat on the Styx, inhabited by the shades of Shakespeare and other his- torical figures, offers little more than a few smug caricatures, and his fa- mous “Water Ghost of Harrow'ay Hall” is a callously unfunny piece of sadism. Middleton, a suicide at twenty-nine, wrote a few gentle but haunting supernatural sketches and one coy at- tempt at whimsy, “The Ghost Ship” — which, mysteriously, has be- come his best-known work.) Ignoring the ancient Chinese, whose ghost legencfs were spiced with low comedy, and also ignoring the Victorian Eng- lish humorist Jerome Klapka Jerome, whose collection Told After Supper is perhaps the only consistently amusing writing in the entire field, Dorothy Scarborough asserted that “the hu- morous ghost is not only modern, but he is distinctively American.” A sam- pling of her anthology Humorous Ghost Stories serves only to prove that, for the most part, this form is neither funny nor scary. Aside from laughter, there is another sure way to kill a ghost: by imprisoning him within some narrow political or theological framework. Ghost stories have been written to damn or defend the Pope, to promote temperance, and to attack abortion. (One such tale conjures up the spirits of dozens of “murdered” fetuses.) Some authors have given their fiction a tilt toward the Right (Russell Kirk’s villains tend to be “oily” and “vul- turine” immigrants with unsavory manners and liberal ideas), while the Red Chinese have put their specters to work in the service of International Communism. “Belief in ghosts is a backward idea, a superstition and a 59 Handy Guide to Ghost Stories sign of cowardice,” says the preface to a collection of Stories about Not Being Afraid of Ghosts (Peking, 1961), com- piled by “The Institute of Literature of the Chinese Academy of Sciences” and addressed to an audience of “thor- oughgoing dialectical materialists and genuine proletarian revolutionaries.” A man who is cowardly at heart and has not emancipated his mind will be afraid of non- e.xistent ghosts and gods. But if he raises his level of political un- derstanding, does away with superstition and emancipates his mind, he will find not only that ghosts and gods are nothing to be afraid of but that im- perialism, reaction, revisionism and all natural or man-made calamities that actually exist, are also nothing for Marxist- Leninists to be afraid of. . . . There are no ghosts . . . but there are actually many things in this world which are like ghosts. Some are big, such as in- ternational imperialism and its henchmen in various countries, modern revisionism represented by the Tito clique of Yugoslavia, serious natural calamities and certain not-yet-reformed mem- bers of the landlord and bour- geois classes who have usurped leadership in some organizations at the primary level and staged a come-back there. Some are small, such as difficulties and setbacks in ordinary work, etc. All these can be said to be ghost-like things. Imposing political doctrines on the supernatural tale can be as unfor- tunate a mistake as poking fun at it; in either case this fragile form tends to wither. Nor can it survive for long under adverse conditions; its success depends upon a certain patience and good will on the part of the reader. Like most short fiction, for example, but perhaps to a greater degree, ghost stories tend to diminish in power if a number of them are read at one sit- ting; just as in a tale that goes on too long, the horror is seldom cumulative, and the tales’ essential similarities be- come all too apparent. For that matter, because atmo- sphere must be built up one dab at a time, ghost stories must not be read too quickly; nor do they lend them- selves to easy summarization. A critic once praised the horror tales of H. P. Lovecraft for being so powerful that “they can raise a chill even on the subway,” but few tales in the genre can make that claim; “ghosts,” said Edith Wharton, “to make themselves manifest, require two conditions ab- horrent to the modern mind: silence and continuity.” Requirements like these are rarely met today; noise dis- tracts our concentration, and we de- vote less of our leisure to reading. Surely it is these circumstances, and not the prevailing climate of scientific skepticism, which account for the ghost story’s decrease in popularity. L. P. Hartley once complained that he found it difficult to so much as think about ghosts “in the bright sun- shine of an Italian morning.” Aware of the genre’s unique vulnerability to surrounding mood, many ghost-story writers and anth(3logists have prefaced their works by admonishing readers to sample the stories only under the most ideal conditions. “If you can induce your friends to r(?ad what follows after nightfall, and when the fireside talk has run on for a \vhile on thrilling tales of shapeless terror,” wrote J. Sheridan LeFanu, the gemre’s first great practi- tioner, “I will go to my work, and say my say, with better heart.” Darkness appears to be a prere- quisite—ideally, as Boris Karloff sug- gested in a 1946 preface, “the hour be- tween dog and wolf when the mind is disposed to marvels,” or to what Henry James apt ly called “apparitions and night-fears.” Indeed, night is the time when even the most sophisticated are forced to entertain the possibility of evil spirits, and most supernatural collections make some mention of it in their titles. (Summers alludes to a number of nonfutional works that re- peat this same motif, from Lavater’s Of Ghostes and Spirites Walking by Nyght and of strange Noyses, Crackes, and Sundry Forewarnynges [English translation 1572], Peter Thyraeus’s 1594 De Apparitionibus . . . et terrificationibus nocturnis [Of Ghosts and of Midnight Terror], and Thomas Nashe’s The Terrors of the Night, or A Discourse of Apparitions, 1594, to Catherine Crowe’s The Night Side of Nature, 1848.) The ideal night for ghostly read- ing was described by E. F. Benson in his introduction to The Room in the Tower, whose stories, he said, were “written in the hope of giving some pleasant qualms. ... So that, if by chance, anyone may be occupying in their perusal a leisure half-hour before he goes to bed, w hen the night and the house are still, h(j may perhaps cast an occasional glance into the corners and dark places of the room where he sits, to make sure that nothing unusual lurks in the shadow.” Yet why would anyone in his right mind want to experience these so- called “pleasant qualms”? Who but a fool or a masochist actually wants to be scared? The fact is, there’s a basic fallacy in the question so posed, and I’ll exam- ine it next month in my concluding visit to these pages. My topic, optimis- tically titled, will be “Pleasures of the Ghost Story.” Until then, class dismissed. iB 60 tliustration by Jcs4 Reyes by Chet Williamson THE TWENTIETH CENTURY HAS SPAWNED A WHOLE NEW WAY OF LIFE. NOW IT'S EVEN SPAWNED A NEW BREED OF GHOST I It began late one Friday night. I’d stayed in the city to see a film that ended around eleven, and walking back to my car I remembered that I’d left j some copy that I wanted to work on that weekend in my office. I signed in with the night man and hopped ! the elevator to the sixth floor. A trio of widely sep- ; arated lights provided the only illumination, but I had ' no trouble finding my way to the suite of twenty cubicles that was the advertising department. With- out turning on my desk light, I slipped the copy under i my arm and started out. ! Then I saw Larry Donaldson in the office across ■ the hall. He was sitting in the semidarkness, his elbows straddling the blajik bulk of the typewriter in front of him. He was staring through thick-lensed glasses at the empty carriage, and I heard a low sigh press timid- ly against the thick silence. Seeing him startled me. I’d noticed no other | name on the sign-in sheet, and I wondered if he’d been i ©IHFQO here since five o’clock. Hell, on a Friday night? “Larry,” I called, and shook a little at the odd feeling of my spoken word just hanging in the air. “Larry,” I said louder, “what are you doing here?” He didn’t move or turn or speak; he just sat star- ing at that empty typewriter. And then, almost im- perceptibly, he began to fade, and I suddenly realized that I was seeing thr(mgh him, as if through cloudy water. By the time I felt any astonishment, he was gone. “Jesus Christ,” I said softly. Then the thought came over me like an old warm blanket with just enough holes to let a little chill in: I had seen a ghost. Somehow, since I last saw him that afternoon, Larry Donaldson had died. It was possible. Larry was in his mid-forties, smoked a couple of packs a day, didn’t exercise, was a little overweight . . . Hearts have given out for less. Or maybe it was an accident; maybe he got smashed at that bad junction where U.S. 30 joins 283. Whatever had happened, I felt sure that Larry was dead. So it surprised the hell out of me when, the next day, there was nothing in the paper about an ex- pired copywriter for Maitland Products, Inc. It really threw me when I walked into Al’s party Saturday night and there was Larry with his wife, puffing on a Marlboro and hoisting a Schlitz, his five-foot-nine hundred-ninety-pound fi*ame looking more corporeal than ever. “Kenny,” he slurred at me, and clapped his cigarette hand on my neck, dribbling ashes over my shoulder, “you know my wife, doncha?” I smiled, and she managed one too, a little crookedly. “Excuse me,” I said, “I’d better get a drink.” I wormed my way to the bar through the smoky, boozy crowd of slogan scribblers, section managers, and commercial artists, poured myself three fingers of Jim Beam, and thought about Larry’s miraculous resur- rection. What the hell had I seen? Not a ghost, for damn sure. So what was going on? A crack-up? I didn’t much care for my work, but it wasn’t all that demanding, merely a necessary obeisance to Mammon to put food on the table. Then I saw Walt Barnes maneuvering his way into the kitchen, and smiled in spite of my worries. His disapproving frown was firmly in place behind a newly grown beard flecked here and there with gray. He noticed me and gestured toward the living room, where the population was less concentrated. When we got there, he grinned. “Another com- mand performance party, eh?” I nodded. “The director’s the director. Besides, I’d rather drink his stuff than yours. He can afford it.” He laughed. We knew that neither one of us was offering the Gettys any competition. I wondered if I should tell him about seeing Larry’s “ghost,” but decided I’d rather try to forget the whole thing. “How’s the writing?” he asked. I raised an eyebrow. “Fantasy or real?” Fantasy was company work, the things that didn’t matter. Real meant our own stuff that we did at home, over lunch, or during office hours when the manager was away. We talked until A1 and Marie came over. Walt quickly drifted out the door, and another fifteen minutes saw me slipping back to my apartment and a night full of funny, half-remembsred dreams about dead people and typewriters that made music that sounded like symphonic disco played through Jello speakers. I had a headache when I woke up. By the end of the weekend I had nearly forgot- ten about Friday night, putting it down to tiredness or job dissatisfaction. I arrived lat(! as usual Monday morning and waited impatiently for the elevator, hop- ing that A1 wouldn’t step off it. Finally the door slid open and I entered. Chuck Dieter was standing at the back of the car. “Morning, Dieter,” I said, and threw on a slightly embarrassed and harried smile that I hoped said “caught in traffic.” Dieter didn’t reply. He might have nodded in my direction, but I wasn’t sure. He was still standing there expressionless when I got off at the sixth floor. I scooted down the hall and ;niade it to my office without being spotted, then began the normal routine: turn on the lights, unlock the desk, bullshit with Walt. He was in his office, toying with the script for a radio ad. I asked how it was going. “Awful,” he answered. “Somehow I can’t throw myself into the shoes of a housev'^ife whose sole con- cern is how to make her silverware sparkle for the bridge club.” He leered. “Maybe I should throw myself into her panties.” I grinned. “Talk like that and they’ll shuffle you back to the halls of academe.” “Let ’em, ’ he snorted. “The pay was crap, but the MLA Journal beats hell out of Advertising Age.” I checked my watch. “Almost time for the Smooth ’n Soft meeting. You going?” “It’s delayed.” “Why?” “Dieter’s out this week.” “Out?” “Vacation.” “But I just saw him on the elevator.” I was start- ing to get that funny feeling again. Walt frowned. “Must have l^een somebody else. He and his family went to the shcire for a week.” “Uh-uh.” I shook my head sharply. “I saw him, Walt.” Walt picked up the phone and punched three digits. “Nan? Walt. Is Dieter in? ... Do you know when they left? . . . Okay, I’ll get to him next week. Thanks.” He hung up. “Left Sabarday morning. You still think you saw him?” I didn’t know what to say. I was as certain of , ^ ^ having seen Chuck Dieter as I’d been of having seen ' her. Larry Donaldson on Friday night. I felt spooked as ' dividers when Wendy McCormick walked past in the hall. It had happened twice before, and this time I almost expected it. Not for a moment did I think that the physical body of Wendy McCormick was in that of- fice. But I hoped I would find out what the hell was there. I stepped into the hall and saw her walking slow- ly away from me. I called her name loudly, command- ingly, but she didn’t stop. I yelled it, then hurried after hell, and my storriach started to churn. “No,” I answered softly. “No, I guess not.” Walt seized the chance to talk about “poor old Dieter,” who’d been a free-lancer several years back. He’d teken a job at Maitland after his first novel had She looked absolutely real. I can remember everything about her — her dress (a nicely tailored black print with, so help me, little apples on it), her jewelry (gold hoop earrings, small engraved gold locket), her complexion (pale as a frozen -corpse), and her reaction on seeing me (none whatsoever). 'There hit the remainder shelves like a bullet, and he hadn’t ! was no doubt. This was the Wendy McCormick I knew j 1 . on- 1 • • TT .11-11 ...i turned out a piece of fiction since. He talked about it from time to time, but all that came out of his type- ' writer was copy. It was a pattern I saw over and over again, and ; Walt had noticed it too. “Big Business is like a pro- tective mother,” he said. “Forget all the obvious faults. Its real danger lies in what it considers its best ■ quality— the ability to provide jobs.” j I knew what was coming. “You oughta go back j to teaching, Walt. You’d get that need to lecture out of I your system.” “Goddammit, I’m serious. When Dieter came to \ work here, he was bright, eager, creative — ready to i sell out, sure, but maybe he could sell his soul by day ; and buy it back on the installment plan at night by j writing. Old Big Business crushed him to her massive ' tits and said, ‘Here’s money, here’s Blue Cross, here’s i security!’ — and he grabbed that nipple with both : hands. But it didn’t work out the way he’d planned. It ' work past five, all right?” Riifkpfl him rlrxf” “This doesn’t have anything to do with work. and had dated and even slept with once about a year before, but when I tried to grab her shoulder, my hand slipped through it. My stomach knotted like a fist. I told myself that maybe I’d missed, and tried to grab her again. Nothing. I’d always thought grabbing a ghost would be like sticking your hand in cold oatmeal, but this was just — nothing. She walked on until she reached her office, then sat down at her desk and simply stared straight ahead into the darkness. I turned on the light, but there was no change. My watch read ten-thirty, and I was sure Walt Barnes would still be awake. I ran back to my office, called him, and asked him to come down. “Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?” “Yeah, I know. Can you come?” Look, Ken, I don’t get paid overtime, so I don’t sucked him dry. “Hell, Walt, a lot of these clowns love their work, j They come in early, they leave late, they find creativity i in it.” “Maybe so, Ken, but I know I’ve only got so much to spread around. And if I give it all to Big Mama, I won’t have any left for me. It happened to Dieter, to Donaldson . . . hell, to all of ’em.” I smiled. “And the goblins’ll get you if you don’t Not directly, anyway.” “Is it important?” “It’s important enough that I think I’m going to go crazy if you don’t get down here.” There was silence on his end for a second. Then he said, “Okay, I’ll be down,” and hung up. After waiting fifteen minutes, I decided to wait for Walt at the elevator. As I left my office, I became watchout.”Helaughed, and I stood up. “I’d better get! aware of a form sitting at the desk in the office back to my office.” “Offices,” he corrected. I looked at him curious- ly. “Holy offices,” he explained. “Got to take this work seriously.” ■ took it very seriously Wednesday night. I was working late on Femi-Dri, a project I knew little and cared less about, and I was bored and angry. It ■ was ten o’clock, and I’d just about decided to kick my : desk in and write filthy words all over the glass office i diagonal to mine. It was Charley Landon, big as life, staring at nothing. I didn’t need to touch him. Wi 'alt arrived just after eleven. I knew I was nervous,* but when the elevator doors slid open with their mechanical whisper, I felt every hair on my body jump to attention. “This had better be good,” he announced gruffly as he stepped from the car. I told him everything. I told him about seeing 63 I'd olwoys thought ^ grabbing o ghost would be like sticking your hand in cold oQtmeol, but this wos just ^ nothing. Larry that first night and Dieter Monday morning. I told him about Wendy walking in, and about Charley sitting like a robot in his darkened office. Then I told him about putting my hand through Wendy, and he laughed. “You asshole! You got me out of a hot tub for a Shock Theater rerun?” “Walt, listen to me, I am not shitting you!” But his face still wore that damnable mask of academic cynicism. “They are real! They’re in there right now!” He looked at me as thou^ I were crazy. “Okay,” he nodded at last. “Sure. Let’s go see them.” I followed him down the hall. He looked fre- quently over his shoulder, fearful, no doubt, that I’d go for his jugular with my teeth. Then he stopped cold in front of Marty Petrocelli’s office. “Christ, Marty,” he said, “you gave me a start! What are you doing here?” I shouldered Walt aside. Marty was sitting at his desk, the same as the others. Walt spoke again. “Marty? Hey. . .” He turned toward me suspi- ciously. “What is this, Ken?” “Come on,” I said as I continued down the hall. There were more of them now. Nearly half of the small offices were occupied by the seated forms of the people I worked with every day. I was nearly at Wen- dy’s office when Walt caught up with me. His complex- ion was pale. “Ken, what the hell is this? Why is everybody here? Is this a joke or what?” I pointed into Wendy’s office. “Ask her.” Walt’s temper, never long in abeyance, flared. “You’re damned right I will! Wendy!” he shouted. “What’s this all about?” There was no answer. “Wendy?” The voice shook. Nothing. No reply at all. “God damn it!” he yelled, and reached for her shoulder to swing her around. His hand went through her and he lost his balance, falling against the desk and knocking over a cup of yellow pencils that clattered like dry bones on the floor. He staggered back, making a sound that only utter astonishment kept from being a scream. Wendy’s figure hadn’t moved. Walt’s eyes darted from her to me to her like a trapped animal, his mouth trying to frame a question that made sense. I smiled gently. “Welcome to Shock Theater." He didn’t laugh. His eyes just got wilder. “Walt,” I said firmly, “it’s all right. I don’t know what they are, but I don’t think they even know we’re here. They can’t hurt us. I'hey’re like . . . like shadows.” “Could it—” His voice was pinched with fear. “Could they be, uh, projections?” I cocked my head. “Projections,” he went on, apparently afraid to take his eyes off the Wendy-thing for too long. “A gag— a joke done with projectors.” “In every office? I don’t know how or why. Besides, I’ve seen them walking. They look too real for projections.” Then I touched “Wendy” again, and my hand disappeared into her body, reappearing when I withdrew it. I heard Walt’s breathing turn ragged. “Jesus!” he stammered, “Jesus Christ, don’t do that! Let’s get out of here. Let’s go somewhere and. . . and talk about this. I can’t stay here anymore!” I felt funny myself, somewhere between hyster- ical laughter and the dry heaves. I walked into the hall, Walt close behind, and as we lieaded toward the elevators we saw them. Only a few offices were empty now, and in all the rest sat the images of their workday occupants, stDl and unmoving, as much a part of the tableau as the telephone, the In-Out boxes, and the desk calendars all faithfully turned to dates that had no meaning in that timeless night. The cool outside air was like a tingling embrace that welcomed us back to a world full of life. The stars, moon, and city lights burned brighter and cleaner than the white incandescents that had illuminated the things six floors above. We walked a few blocks to Dornan’s. Walt ordered a double Scotch, I had a bourbon, and both drinks were drained within a minute of their arrival. We were halfway through a second round before we started talking about it. “Kenny,” Walt said, staring at the drink he held in his shaking hands, “what were they?” I just shook my head. He looked at me sharply. “What’s the matter with you? You seem . . . relieved!” “I am a little,” I smiled. “At least I know I’m not crazy, now that you’ve seen them too.” “But what were they?” he pressed. “I’m not sure. But I’ve beem thinking.” I took another sip, trying to make sense of it all. “I think maybe it has something to do with what we talk about all the time. The draining effect this kind of jimk-work has.” I stopped again. “Shit, this sounds like some paranoid fantasy.” “No,” Walt said, “it’s no fantasy. Go ahead.” His hands, cupped around the glass, seemed to be praying that I’d bring order out of the chaos reality had become. 64 I i ¥ I i I . !■ I t i i “They’re trapped,” I said softly. “Everyone we saw is a person who’s been at Maitland and seems con- tent to stay. They don’t want to go anywhere else or do anything else. They’re ready to give up and play the game and have ‘Maitland Retiree’ as the second line in their obituary. “And when th(;y gave up, when they accepted it, they lost something. Call it— what’s the word— a Ka, a piece of their soul— their creative self, maybe. Anyway, something is trapped in that building.” I took a long swallow, not knowing if I really believed what I was saying. “But why did we see it?” Walt seemed calmer now. “Everybody w'orks late at times. Why hasn’t anyone mentioned it before?” “I don’t know. Maybe it takes somebody who still wants out badly enough to see them. Maybe if you’re already trapped, you don’t notice.” I had another thought. “Maybe they only show up when the person’s sleeping. That would explain why I didn’t see them in the early evening.” Walt nodded. “And why there were more of them the later we stayed.” He stopped suddenly. “But what about Dieter? You saw him in the morning.” I wasn’t sure. “He was on vacation. Sleeping late, maybe.” “But he showed up at the office anyway. Jesus, I wonder if that’s it. V/hen you’re sleeping.” I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. We sat in silence finishing our drinks, then ordered more. Finally Walt asked the question I’d been afraid to. “What do we do about it?” I looked for a long time at the translucent pearls my ice cubes had become, rolling the glass in my hand so that they moved around and around and around un- til the warm air diminished them and they were gone. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “What Sundd we do?” I could tell that Walt didn’t know either. “Jesus, Ken, something . . . Maybe the police?” “And tell them what? Our theories aren’t worth shit. And besides, who gives a damn? Not our spooky friends up there — they seem very content. There’s something else too.” The “something else” made me very sad, and I dug my nails into my palm to keep from getting drunk- enly weepy. “There’s no crime,” I said. “Whatever’s going on up there, and in a million other buildings tonight, whatever it is, it isn’t against the law.” I took a deep swallow, but it didn’t get the lump out of my throat. “You can’t steal a guy’s car, or his money, or his god- damn jockey-boy lawn ornament, because that’s against the law. But what you can steal . . . what you can ...” I left it unspoken. Walt knew. Then I laughed, laughed long and hard until the tears came. “And there’s another reason we can’t go to the cops.” ' And Walt was nodding and laughing too, and the people at the bar and the fat bartender and the skinny waitress with the dirty white tennis shoes all looked at us and heard Walt choke out, “Why can’t we?” And they heard me shout back, “Because we’re drunk, you asshole!” And we were. I stayed at MaiMand another three weeks. Neither Walt nor I saw anything strange after that Wednesday night. I refused to stay late; I took all extra work home with me. Walt talked about quitting, but had no job to go to and wasn’t confident enough to go free-lance. Neither was I, but I did it anyway. Whether what we’d seen in the office was real or a joint hallu- cination, it gave me the excuse to get out of something that had slowly been sapping me of imagination, creativity . . . joy. The day I left I told Walt, only half jokingly, to watch out for the monsters. He smiled and said he would. I ran into him one evening several months later, and we hopped into Doman’s. He was still with Maitland, had gotten a small promotion, and had even been elected captain of the department’s softball team. He’d been working late that night, and when I asked him if he’d seen any more spooks, he said he hadn’t, not a one. We talked for a long time about a lot of things, and around midnight we left the bar and said goodbye, with a promise to call each other soon. I watched Walt walk down the street, and saw for the first time the back of his softball team jacket. The emblem glowed softly in shining red and gold — a cartoon death’s head, and underneath it the legend that he, as captain, had chosen: “Maitland ZomMes.” At least he hadn’t lost his sense of hximor. ffl 65 d HIS ROWS OF COLORED BOTTLES WERE BEAUTIFUL TO LOOK AT BUT HOW MANY LIVES HAD HE SQUEEZED DRY TO FILL THEM? During those rare periods of tranquility following the disturbing end of her visits to Ambrose Cavender, Prue chose to believe that from the moment she climbed, squalling and fearful, from her cradle, she was destined to find her way to that black-shuttered town house on the upper east side of Manhattan. Even among her earliest companions, Prue had acquired the reputation of being a crybaby. In the small Alabama town where she’d growm up, her play- mates, discovering how easily she could be reduced to tears, had made her the victim of their adolescent ag- gressions, the butt of their practical jokes, gleefully deriding her emotional reaction to crippled cats and broken butterflies and the soppily romantic movies that would provoke them to scornful, hooting laughter. Although Prue’s excessive sensitivity endeared her to her teachers and was admired by those of the older generation who regarded it as a feminine quality all too rare among her contemporaries, it did not make her popular with the boys, who, even in college found Prue’s tendency to weepiness more tiresome 66 than enchanting. With the exception of Tom, that is, an aspiring poet strongly attracted by Prue’s big, sad eyes in her trifle-too-elongated face, and who chose to see in her highly strung and overly delicate emotional balance a resemblance to Virginia Woolf, one of his literary saints. Prue responded to Tom even more profoundly, and when he suddenly broke their engagement and switched his affections to a more spirited girl, she was plunged into a state of despondency so acute and pro- longed that her parents felt obliged to call in the famUy doctor, who advised a change of scene. So Prue arrived in New "V ork, with an abim- dance of tear-stained handkerchiefs, to stay with her old school friend Gretchen. It seemed at first a good idea, Gretchen being a lively, warm-hearted girl, as popular in New York as she had been back home in Plato Switch, Alabama, and even prettier. Six months in Manhattan proved, however, that Prue had done no more than move from the brink of despair to the edge of desperation, and after a partic;ularly hectic day at the cosmetic counter of the department store where Illustration by E.T. Steadman she’d found work, she suffered a recurrence of that immobilizing neurasthenia that had afflicted her after her breakup with Tom. Gretchen arrived home to find her friend crying over the spaghetti sauce, which refused to thicken. “More paste and fewer tears, honey,” said Gret- chen. “Cheer up. I’m eating out, anyway. You can come with us.” “No thank you.” Prue was in no mood to sit tongue-tied at a table between scintillating Gretchen and one of her ravishing escorts. “But Prue, honey, you must get out more. That’s why you camie to New York. To make a fresh start. Meet someone!.” This reminder of how unsuccessful the doctor’s recommended treatment had been brought on a fresh torrent of tears. “Sk months,” Prue wailed, “and I’ve struck out with eveiy man you’ve thrown at me. Not that I can blame them.” “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, honey. You’ve got to learn to use what you’ve got.” “Like what?” “A lot of things. That— well, that soulful look, for instance.” This only brought back memories of Tom and his Virginia Woolf fixation. Prue continued to weep. “If only you wouldn’t cry so easily, honey,” pleaded Gretchen. “Try smiling more often.” That weekend Gretchen fixed her up with a date with Dickie, a pal of Gretchen’s current flame. Dickie had wild blue eyes and was part owner of an antique shop on Third Avenue. During the evening, Dickie told Prue that Gretchen had described her to him as being “very original,” and Prue had no idea what to do or say to live up to this; dubious recommendation. When they said goodnight, Dickie did not ask to see her again. At home, Prue burst into tears. “Why did you have to tell him that?” “Well, honey, our class did vote you Most Original.” Even then Pnie had suspected it was no more than a polite euphemism for odd, someone who didn’t fit in, a crank or weirdo. Gretchen only laughed. “It means you’re you, silly. Nobody else.” “So who isn’t original?” “Stick around New York. You’ll find out.” A few days lat«>r Dickie did call and ask Prue for a date. Prue was pleased, but wary. She accused Gret- chen of setting it up. “Don’t be dumb,” said Gretchen. “He likes you.” True or not, Pme quickly decided that she liked Dickie. His blue eyes reminded her of Tom. After the third date she told Gretchen that she was in love with Dickie. Gretchen adwised her to slow down. “Dickie’s a charmer, I agree. But what he wants is a good time. Don’t play it too seriously. Not yet.” Prue didn’t listen. She decided that Gretchen was only jealous. Dickie was ten times more attractive than that vulgar Jack person her friend had been seeing. Yet it soon became clear that Gretchen knew more about men than Prue would ever know. Dickie’s manner grew increasingly remote as Prue, hearing wedding bells, began rhapsodizing about babies and pets and plants and an apartment in the Village, im- ages that reduced her to tears of joy, but which did not have the same effect on Dickie. He broke one date and then twice stood her up. A difficult month ensued. As Dickie’s ardor cooled, Prue became desperate, weepy, and neurasthenic. When she called Dickie, she began blubbering. When she went to his apartment, he was always on his way to an important appointment. Finally, Gretchen broke the news. “You may as well know, honey. I heard it from Jack. Dickie’s seeing someone else.” “I don’t believe it!” “Honey, I warned you not to get serious.” This news inspired one of Prue’s worst crying spells since she had arrived in New York. She began to brood. She couldn’t sleep, and a mysterious rash ap- peared on her chin. The weather only aggravated her condition. Rain, rain, rain, and the humidity was paralyzing. Prue felt stifled in the apartment, and the only pleasure she took ]^y in endless, solitary walks which invariably took her past Dickie’s apartment, where she would stand across the street in the rain hoping for a glimpse of him. Meanwhile, the slightest incident would provoke tears. It was even worse than back home. To glance at a wretched bag woman in Central Park, to see a home- less cat or a drunk wrapped in newspapers and ignored by the crowds would bring on fits of weeping. Gret- chen urged her to see a psychiatrist, but Prue resented this and they had their first serious quarrel. Prue would have moved out of the apartment— clearly, Gret- chen would not have objected— only she couldn’t afford a place of her own. At this low point in her life occurred the fateful meeting with Ambrose Cavender. One rainy afternoon, coming from work, Prue happened to be standing at the comer of Lexington and Forty-ninth Street, waiting for the light to change, when she saw a stray dog run over by a taxi. The animal lay dead almost at Prue’s feet. Instantly she burst out crying, and found herself unable to stop. She cried so hard that she began to choke, and a man put his hand on her shpulder and asked if she was all right. She glanced at the man’s face under the black umbrella, which was now sheltering her as well: white hair beautifully groomed above a young face; wide-set blue eyes, bluer even than Dickie’s, and full of sym- pathetic concern. *7 e Tear Collector rrE “I’m so sorry about your dog,’’ he said. “May I help?” Between sobs she managed to explain that the dog was not hers, it was just so awful that it lay dead at the curb and no one cared. “No one cares, no one cares,” she kept repeating foolishly, and she knew that it was not just the dog but everjdhing that had hap- pened or hadn’t happened in her life that brought on the convulsion of tears. “Forgive me, but do you always cry so easily?” the stranger asked her, and she was too distraught to find anything peculiar in the question. “I can’t help it,” she moaned. “It’s all so awful. No one cares, no one cares.” “I care,” said the man. “Here. Take my card. Please come and see me.” Before she could do more than accept the card he’d thrust in her hand, a limousine drew up to the curb; the man folded his umbrella, gave Prue’s arm a gentle squeeze, and stepped into the car. When Prue arrived home Gretchen, on the phone, looked annoyed to see ner. “Just ignore me,” Prue snapped, her nerves in shreds. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the way around here.” “Oh, Prue, you silly goose! And look at you. You’re soaked. I’ll run you a nice hot bath.” “Good. Maybe I’ll be lucky and drown.” Indeed, she felt half-drowned already, in the endless rain, in her own tears, in the morass of lone- liness which Gretchen’ s changeless good humor rendered all the more painfully isolating. Prue came out of the bath to find Gretchen put- ting on a pair of glittery earrings. “Going out, I see. With Jack?” “That boor? Never again. I can do better than that.” Left alone in the apartment, Prue relapsed into a mood of sulky, morbid despondency, finally taking to her bed in hopes of sleeping away the dull ache of dis- content. She thought about the dog incident and about the white-haired stranger, with his air of young-old distinction and melting blue eyes. But blue eyes made her think of Dickie, and she cried herself to sleep. The following day was truly murderous. Her nerves were so inflamed that she actually shook when she tried to demonstrate cosmetics, and just as her supervisor approached the counter to speak to her, Prue dropped and broke a bottle of Joy, one of their costliest perfumes. That spelled the end of her job at the department store. She tried to make a joke of it when she told Gret- chen what had happened. “That’s me. Can’t even han- dle joy in a bottle.” “Honey, maybe it’s a sign or something. Maybe you’d be happier if you went back home.” But knowing there were even fewer chances— 6S either for romance or employment— in Plato Switch, Prue vetoed this idea, even though she knew that Gretchen was probably dying to gfit rid of her. Prue went out next morning intending to look for another job, but instead found herself walking up Fifth Avenue and turning east, not into the street where Dickie lived but toward the address on the card the white-haired gentleman had g^iven her, the card that read Ambrose Cavender: Collector. Presently she was mounting the steps of an elegant red-brick town house with gleaming black shutters. A smooth-faced Chinese boy in a white jacket opened the door. Prue mutely extended the card. “He said I should come.” The Chinese boy led her across the hall into a book-lined study, where at length Ambrose Cavender joined her. She saw now that he was exceedingly hand- some, a truly striking figure in his saffron-colored smoking jacket and crisp white shirt. His manners were equally perfect, and the embarrassment she would have felt had he not even remembered her melted at once under the encouraging warmth of his smile. As she could think of nothing to say, Prue did what she always did when gripped by some unexpected emotion, in this case the pleasure of not being re- buffed. She cried. “I’m sorry. I— ” Ambrose gave her hand a c[uick squeeze as he offered her a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “My dear girl, one must never ajiologize for tears.” Whereupon he sat down beside her on the buttoned leather sofa and waited patiently for her to compose herself. “Ah, thank you, Jimmy,” he said as the Chinese boy padded into the room with a tray. “Some sherry, my dear. It will settle your nerves.” She sipped the sherry, and before she quite knew how it had happened, she was telling Ambrose all .about Tom and Dickie and the aimless despair that had turned her life into an endless misery. “Oh, I know what Gretchen thinks. What they all think. But I don’t want doctors. I don’t want pills. I want— I want—” “You want to cry,” said Ambrose with the most disarming sweet simplicity, and as she looked into his blue eyes she knew that he was ]*ight and moreover that he, unlike everybody else, thought it the most natural and proper thing in the world to cry when you felt like crying, no matter how often. She therefore made no attempt to stifle her tears, but released the flood with no sense of weakness or shame or of doing something socially obnoxious. Nor did she recoil in alarm when Ambrose proceeded to do a most extra- ordinary thing: from the tray he took up a curious narrow-necked crystal vessel shaped like a swan and held its delicate spout to her cheek just at the comer of her left eye, supporting her around her shoulders with his other arm. The glass felt cool against her flushed skin. Presently he held the vessel up to the light, and she saw in its fragile bowl the salty essence of her despair. “Tears are more precious than blood,” mur- mured Ambrose. “One ought not to waste them.” Prue felt a floating sense of utter peacefulness as she rested her head against the cool leather of the sofa and shut her eyes. Was it the wine, she wondered blissfully, or the hyjonotic effect of Ambrose’s person- ality, that subtle combination of sweetness and strength and total understanding? Or maybe the others were right, she thought. Maybe she was losing touch with reality altogether. “Pm so sorry, my dear,” said Ambrose. “I must go out. But please call me and come again soon. We’ll have more time.” He spoke with a faint air of pleasur- able distraction as he gazed into the crystal swan’s bel- ly half-filled with Prue’s tears. “You really want me to come again?” It was the first ray of light in a dark room she had thought never to leave. “I should be most distressed if you did not. You cry beautifully.” With that exti-aordinary remark he put into her hand a crisp hundre<i-dollar bill and rang for Jimmy to show her out. As she paused on the sidewalk to open her umbrella, she glanced up at the window and saw Ambrose’s face, ghostly and smiling, behind the rain- streaked pane. Walking home through the wet streets, she was astonished to observe that everything seemed to have : acquired a pale rose cast of light: the trees in the park, i the people’s faces, her own reflection in the store windows. Prue said nothing to Gretchen about her visit to I Ambrose; in fact, she was asleep when Gretchen i returned, the first night in months that Prue had slept I soundly. | She had intended to spend the following day job \ hunting, but with the hundred-dollar bill in her j bag she decided it would be more fun simply to wander, window shop, think about the visit to Ambrose. Yet gradually the noises of the city obtruded, and she began to feel the telltale splintering of nerves that, ever since childhood, had seemed unprotected by more than the thinnest of skins against the bruising im- pact of unpleasant sights and sounds. She fled, as if for shelter from a derelict’s haunted features and the rude c^ of a taxi driver, into the nearest phone booth and dialed the number on Ambrose’s card. “No, of course it’s not too soon,” he assured her soothingly. “As it happens. I’m quite free. Do come by.” “Tears are more precious than blood,” murmured Ambrose. “One ought not to waste them.” The previous day’s ritual was repeated. He urged her to talk about all those unhappy events that had infected her soul with its chronic melancholy, and instead of responding with a lot of jargon about ego depletion, he encouraged the tears to flow and once more collected them in the swan-shaped vessel. Afterwards, sipping wine together, he told Prue that he had always been a collector, at first of the more conventional artifacts: gems, sculpture, fine art. He had cultivated a special interest in Roman antiquities and had assembled the world’s finest collection of lachrymatories. “Tear vases,” he explained. “It used to be thought that they held the tears of the bereaved. Perhaps they did. But one can find so few of them. This one, of crystal, happens to be Persian and very rare. At any rate, my dear, I finally discovered my true forte as a collector by way of this interest. I began, you see, to collect tears.” He took her by the hand and conducted her to a room with a skylight at the end of a statue-lined passage, where on glass shelves reposed row upon row of delicate, transparent vessels in a variety of exquisite colors, from the palest champagne to the deepest ruby. “They’re specially'made for me in Venice. Their colors are their only labels. At a glance I can identify from memory the subjects whose tears are contained in each.” From an Oriental lacquerwork cabinet he took out a glass container of a pale lavender hue, and from the crystal swan holding Prue’s tears he emptied them into the new container, which he then placed upon one of the shelves. “Lavender tears,” murmured Prue. “How very origmal.” And for the first time in months she laugh- ed, if with a certain brittle irony. “So far as I know,” said Ambrose, “I’m the only man in the world who collects tears.” To Prue, Ambrose himself seemed quite as unique as his hobby. “But tears aren’t rare,” she observed. “Ah, but they are. You’ve no idea how difficult it is even in this city, where there is much to weep about, to find anyone who cries as easily and copiously as you, my dear. We’ve all been taught to regard the shedding of tears as a sign of weakness and unstable tempera- ment. If one cries too frequently, one is rushed off to a psychiatrist who prescribes drugs to alter the moods. A wicked practice, in my opinion.” “I know,” agreed Prue. “That’s what they’re always trying to do to me.” Ambrose smiled. “I daresay I found you just in time.” 69 The Tear Collector He grew eloquent upon the beauty of tears, ranging from the clinical to the poetic in a speech that held Prue enthralled. She had no idea the subject could be so fascinating. How lovingly Ambrose described the lacrimal apparatus, the glands and fine ducts, the canals and conjunctiva, explaining the intricate pro- cess by which tears are shed. “Few people realize it, my dear Prudence, but we are all constantly crying, only the discharge is so minimal we aren’t aware of it. You might remind them of that when they scold you.” He talked about the chemical nature of tears, about proteins and enzymes, about the tears that are formed during sleep. He touched upon the literature of tears, quoted Keats and Tennyson, and declared the most moving passage in the Scriptures to be the simple, “Jesus wept.” He served her a Neapolitan wine called Lachryma Christi and, at the end of the visit, sent her away with another hundred-dollar bill. Prue couldn’t resist telling Gretchen about Am- brose, and was dismayed by Ijpr friend’s alarm: “Are you out of your mind, Prue, honey? A guy hands you a card on the street, you don’t go waltzing off to his house. Good gracious, you might have been raped, murdered, and no one would ever know.” “Or care,” said Prue. “Honey, this town’s crawling with kinky weird- os. This Ambrose character sounds like a certified loony.” Prue merely smiled. “Can’t you bear to see me happy for a change?” “Happy? Is that what you are?” She was. At least when she was with Ambrose. Who could have dreamed such pleasure could be found in dredging up all the wretched circumstances of her life, dwelling upon each gloomy detail until she was convulsed with tears? She lived only for the visits to Ambrose— and why look for a job when he kept showering her with hundred-dollar bills? And then one day, drained of tears while the sky continued to weep beyond the black-shuttered win- dows, Prue reclined with her head upon the back of the sofa in Ambrose’s study, and she happened to notice how the light from the tear-drop chandelier picked out the pale, fine hairs along Ambrose’s wrist as he handed her a goblet of wine, and how that same light raked his cheekbone in such a way that his splendid eyes lay purple-shadowed beneath silky thick lashes; and some- thing touched her, achingly reminiscent of how she had felt when Tom kissed her and Dickie had looked at her with his wild blue eyes. I am in love with Ambrose, she thought. This sudden knowledge filled her with such an excess of bliss that she surrendered to an onslaught of tears so unexpected her delighted companion scarcely had time to reach for the crystal lachrymatory. Her subsequent visit foreshadowed a difficulty she had not anticipated. Tiy as she might, she could squeeze out only a few meager drops. Nothing seemed to inspire her. The treachery of former lovers seemed merely banal and amusing, and she could hardly recall what it had felt like to suffer the desperation of lone liness and the pain of betrayal. Ambrose regarded her with a wistful sigh. Gathering her courage, she; whispered softly: “Perhaps if you kissed me?” Although the pressure of yi.mbrose’s lips con- veyed not an ounce of passion the thrill brought forth a gusher of tears. / love you, I love you, I love you, she murmured, but only to herself. The next visit proved a disaster. She was too happy to shed a single droplet, and even when Am- brose kissed her, all she felt was an overwhelming euphoria too magical for tears. “I’m afraid I’m all cried out,” she confessed brightly, and was unprepared for Ambrose’s reaction: “Perhaps if we discontinued our visits for the time being,” he suggested, and sht; looked at him with sudden terror. “No, no, I couldn’t bear that. I can bear any- thing but not seeing you.” Such a prospect was so dreadful that it actually paralyzed the lachrymal ap- paratus. In desperation she cried out: “Pinch me!” “My dear?” “Pinch me, Ambrose. Pinch me hard!” “Oh, but really, my dear, I couldn’t dream of do- ing anything so cruel.” “You must. Please. I want to cry for you.” Ambrose regarded her with his sad, compas- sionate eyes. With a sigh he moved to the fireplace and touched the bell rope. The Chinese boy appeared at the door. “Er— Jimmy,” said Ambrose, “I wonder if you would kindly oblige us.” He e>plained what was required. Jimmy obliged. Prue wept. Thereafter, the visits took on a different, more sinister character, but the important thing, the only thing that matter(;d to Prue, was that they continued. “You look frightful, Prue, honey,” Gretchen said. “I’ve never felt better.” “Sweetie, I’ve got eyes.” “Don’t start that again. I’m not sick and I’m not going home.” “Prue, you worry me. It’s that dreadful man, isn’t it? You’re still seeing him.” “I love him!” “Oh, Prue ...” “I love him and he loves me,” “Has he said so?” 70 The quarrel grew heated and ended with Prue packing her bags and storming out of the apartment. She moved to a shabby residential hotel and continued her visits to Ambrost;. She heard from Gretchen only once, by phone. “Prue? Are you all right?” “Just dandy.” “You sound funny.” “Pm fine. Goodbye.” “Prue, don’t hang up. Are you still seeing what’s-his-name?” “Fve just come from him.” “But your voice sounds so strange.” “Bad tooth.” “Have you seen a dentist?” Prue hung up, then turned painfully on her side and watched the long tears of condensation form on the grimy windowpane. She thought of her life before she had met Ambrose, and the memory of its gray emptiness oppressed her. She knew she would rather die than not go on seeing him. At other times— and oh, this was the scariest thought of all— she wondered if Ambrose really existed, or if he might be a creature of her diseased imaginauon. But if this were true, how and where did she get the bruises discoloring her skin, and who if not Ambrose had given her those hundred- dollar bills? Without the money he gave her, she would not have been able to afford cab fare, and she would never have been able now to walk all the way to the town house. Then one day, as she was preparing to leave, Ambrose uttered the terrible words; “I’m sorry, dear' Prudence, but I shall not be able to see you again. Sur<3ly you must understand.” “Not see me? Oh, but you must! I couldn’t live without seeing you. I love you, Ambrose!” At this declaration Ambrose himself seemed about to cry. “You mustn’t say that, my dear. I’ve per- mitted it to go on far i;oo long as it is. Far longer than with anyone else.” She pled, she implored, she wept, but now even her. tears could not move him to relent, and as at last she made her way to the door alone, she heard voices in the study. She stole to the door and peeked in. Jimmy was showing a young woman to the sofa. She was pale and blond and her eyes were red from weeping. Overcome with jealous rage, Prue hobbled into the passage leading to the skylit gallery, where she took down the lavender-tinted vessel holding the ac- cumulation of her tears and saw that it was full. Was that the reason Ambrose was now abandoning her? She gazed at the containers ranged upon the shelves and thought of all those other malcontents who must have cried themselves dry to satisfy the crazed whim of a man whom she now saw not as a savior but as some vampirelike creature who battened upon the tears of the innocent rather than upon their blood. Concealing the vessel in her handbag, she fled from the house. Now the rain was mixed with sleet. Unmindful of its needling discomfort, she stood miserably upon the sidewalk, realizing that even if she could find a taxi, she had no money to pay for one. Then, suddenly, she knew that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, and with instant resolve she started walking, not toward Fifth Avenue but in the opposite direction, toward the river. Oblivious of the sleety rain, of the windows and the passersby, she responded with no more than a slight twitch of annoyance as a car screeched its brakes, narrowly avoiding her as she crossed the street without heed to the traffic. Nor was she even vaguely aware of the shabbily clad youth who had been dogging her steps for the last block and a half. Even when he caught up with her, brushing against her body, she was unconscious of what was happening until she felt her handbag snatched roughly from her grasp. Dazed, she stood helplessly watching as the youth dashed across the street and vanished behind the line of traffic. “You all right, miss?” Prue turned her head to look up at the man who had appeared at her side, his hand gently supporting her arm as if he feared she might be about to collapse. “I saw what happened,” he said. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Prue shook her head. “No ... no. I’m all right.” He looked around. “Not a cop in sight, of course. Was there much money in your bag?” “Money? No. No money.” And then, thinking of what the youth had stolen, she felt -a wild urge to laugh. “He stole my tears. 'That’s all he got. Only my tears.” The man’s look of dismay amused her, but then her laughter subsided as she gazed into his face. How extraordinary! Such very blue eyes. Bluer than Am- brose’s. Bluer even=^han Dickie’s. The stranger still held her by the arm and now, as he spoke, he very gently, almost caressingly, in- creased the pressure of his hand. “My dear, has anyone ever told you that you laugh divinely?” fg 71 The (jreat Elvis Tresley L< THERE WERE DOZENS AND DOZENS OF SUSPECTS - ALL OF THEM SPORTING SIDEBURNS AND GUITARS! Terby sighed. Up until the call came, he’d been half hoping that maybe they were going to -B- get a break. The streets were a relentless oven, the mercury was in the high eighties, and the humidity hung around seventy percent. In those con- ditions, not even a cop should have to work. The loitering sidewalk punks looked too drained to do anything but suck on their brown- bagged beers and pray for a thunderstorm. If it had been a few degrees cooler, the air might have been bad with tension; hotter, and the pushed-too-far could explode and hack up their families. As it was, the city remained inert and sweating. It had been shaping up as a comparatively easy shift, but then the homicide had been dumped into their laps. Yerby’s partner Max swore quietly and cut in the siren and lights. Heads turned, sullen and lethargic, as they screamed past. The homicide sounded like an odd one, possibly messy and probably complicated— the kind that took time. Yerby’s years of experience told him that an ice pick stabbing during a show at some run-down flea- bag theater probably wasn’t going to be simple. Theaters tended to mean high levels of hysteria, and poor theaters meant people with little else but hys- teria to offer. The car squealed as Max swung it into a tight right-hand turn. They passed the red, white, and blue neon cocktail glass on the front of Paul’s Bar & Grill. Yerby wished that he was. inside with a cold pitcher and Willie Nelson on the jukebox, instead of chasing across a baking city to a murder at the De- Quincey. The place should have been torn down years ago. Only the general poverty of the surrounding neighborhood had saved it from the wrecking ball. Nobody wanted to invest in that section of the city. The sign on the marquee read The Great Elvis Presley Look-Alike Contest. Max grunted in disbelief- “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 72 k^likeTMurder ^Mystery by TVIick Tarren Yerby’s shirt was sticking to his body. Wearily neglected cool of a place where the sun never he shook his head. penetrates. “Who knows.” But Yerby had no time to savor the relief. The There were already three blue-and-whites on backstage area of the DeQuincey was filled with the scene, parked in the haphazard fashion of cops in grotesques, figures out of some burned-out amphe- a hurry. The lazy turning of their red flashers tamine-rocker’s nightmare. Easily half the backstage seemed to accentuate the heat. A small, idly curious group, the ones who’d been herded together by the crowd had gathered and was being kept out of harm’s fu’st officers to arrive on the scene, were dressed in way by a bunch of uniforms. More cops were blocking some approximation of an Elvis Presley outfit, the theater’s exits and entrances. They came in all shapes and sizes. Yerby Yerby clipped his badge onto the front of his couldn’t remember when he’d been as close to so limp shirt and pushed his way through to the stage much tight leather, such tonnage of sequins, so many door. In situations like this he was apt to confront the stand-up collars and pairs of triangular sideburns as- world with a supreme sense of his own importance; sembled in one place. It didn’t seem to bother these he was, after all, supposed to be an expert. Yerby characters that most of them bore not the slightest had been a cop for thirteen years. He’d spent the last resemblance to the original. Some were quite pre- five as a homicide detective. pared to stretch credibility to the outer limits. Inside the theater, it was cooler than the Among the crowd were a black Elvis, a Japanese El- street. It wasn’t the aggressive chill of a modern vis, and even a woman. She wore greased-back hair air-conditioned building— more the musty, dusty, and a pink zoot suit. 73 Elvis “So this is an Elvis Presley look-alike contest,” said Yerby. His face was expressionless. Max shot him a look that said that this was going to be a lulu. As soon as the Elvises spotted Yerby, they started demanding to know what was going to hap- pen, how long they were going to be kept there. Yerby suspected that each one of them was some sort of attention junkie. Yerby distrusted attention junk- ies; they could all too often turn dangerous when they didn’t feel that they were getting what they de- served. He ignored the crowd of Presleys and beck- oned to one of the uniforms. “You better take me to the body.” The victim was little more than a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen. The ice pick had gone straight into his brain, upwards through the back of his neck. There was little blood. It looked like the work of someone who knew what he was doing, the sort of murder that had been figured out in advance. The kid was good looking, and clearly a con- testant. With the help of a little eye makeup, he did look a lot like the young Elvis Presley. He was dressed in a black Fifties-style suit, a black shirt, and a pink tie. His eyes were wide open, and there was an expression of blank surprise on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Yerby had seen a lot of corpses in his time, but somehow he could never quite get used to them. He arranged his face into a cold, almost casual expression, but he couldn’t do anything about the lurch in the pit of his stomach. He turned to the uniform. “Is the rest of the homicide crew on its way?” The uniform nodded. Yerby moved away from the body. “Any of these weirdos see anything?” “If they did, they’re not saying.” “Nothing?” “One of them claimed he saw someone in a Presley suit running away just after the stabbing.” Yerby glanced at the clutch of fake Presleys. “That’s a lot of help. Are any of the . . . contestants missing?” “I don’t have a list yet.” “Then get one. In the meantime. I’d better start talking to the others.” The first interviewee was short and fat in a baby pink, double-chinned way, as if physical reality had never laid hands on his body. It was the kind of fatness that mildly disgusted Yerby. The man had a tendency to waddle when he walked and, at the moment, he was sweating profusely. His forehead was becoming slick with grease from an elaborate dyed-black pompadour that was starting to wilt. He was squeezed into a white-spangled Elvis Presley suit, his round pot-belly sagging over the heavy lion’s-head buckle of his fancy gilt-chain belt. Yerby couldn’t imagine how this pudgy little creep could seriously go out, stand in a bright public spot- light, and imitate Elvis Presley. Who was he hoping to fool? Yerby shifted position on the hard steel chair. Once there’d been padding, but that had long since been ripped away. He’d commandeered one of the small, dingy dressing rooms for the series of interro- gations. It was uncomfortable, but he had the conso- lation that the fat man in the Elvis suit was probably just as uncomfortable. Maybe ev(?n more so. He was, after all, a murder suspect. “So tell me about the kid w ho was killed.” The creep in the Elvis suit stared at Yerby like a scared rabbit. In the unrelenting neon of the dress- ing room, he looked awful. Pink was fading to green. “Nobody knew him. He v^as new, straight in off the street.” Yerby blinked twice. “You’re telling me that you people work a regular circuit”” “Yes.” The creep leaned forward in his seat. “There’s club dates and cabaret. And the bored wives’ afternoon parties, the ones where they like the male strippers. It’s not what you’d actually call a regular circuit, but there are an awful lot of people who like to see interpreters of the late—” Yerby’s voice was flat. “Elvis imitators.” “We don’t like to use those particular words.” “Whatever.” “The competitions are the best. See, in the clubs you keep meeting the other kinds— the women w’ho do Janis Joplin, the Jim Morrisons, the Jimi Hendrixes . . . although there aren’t many of those; I mean you’re supposed to be black and you have to play the guitar, you can’t just dress up and sing. That’s why the competitions are so nice. At the com- petitions, it’s just Elvis.” Yerby ran a hand over his face. His mouth was dry, and he needed a beer or a Coke. “Hold it, hold it. I’m not a fast thinker. First your name.” “Vince Prince.” Yerby nodded, stone-faced. “Is that the name you were born with?” The creep shook his head. “No, but it’s legal. I changed it.” Yerby nodded again. “Okay, Vince. You don’t mind if I call you Vince, do you?” The other shook his head. Yerby smiled. “Okay, Vince. That’s nice. I take it that we can assume that you are a participant; in this competition, this . . . w'hat do you call it?” “The Elvis Presley Look-Alike Contest — Eastern Seaboard Area Finals.” Yerby looked grave. “And the youngest com- petitor at the Eastern Seaboard Area Finals got him- self stabbed to death with an ice pick — backstage, while the competition w'as going on. I guess you could 74 ‘The youngest competitor at the Eastern Seaboard Area Finals got himself staibbed to death with an ice pick. I guess you could say it was final for him.” say it was final for him.” “It was horrible.” “And nobody had seen the kid before.” Vince Prince shook his head, dislodging another piece of pompadour. “No, nobody. I asked around. Nobody knew him. But that’s not all--” Prince leaned even further forward. Yerby had arranged the two chairs so that they were close to- gether and facing each other. He liked to watch a suspect closely during an interrogation, but for one unpleasant moment, he thought that Prince was going to pat him on the knee. “—he was very, very good,” said Prince. “Do you think that’s maybe why he was killed?” Prince started shaking his head. “No!” His voice had jumped an octave from its original Presley baritone. “Nobody would—” “You don’t think one of your compadres might have gotten just a little jealous over how the kid was so good, and maybe decided to slip him the ice pick?” The fat man continued to shake his head. It was as if he believed that the unpleasant thought would go away if he shook it long enough. “None of us would do a thing like that.” Yerby sniffed, “'rell me, Vince, just how good was the kid?” There was no irdstaking Vince’s relief to find himself on safer ground. “He did the Fifties. You have to be good to do the Fifties.” Yerby crooked an eyebrow. “See, reproducing those early Elvis stage i shows is very difficult. Most of us do the Seventies Vegas act. You have to be young and fit and really know what you’re doing to do the Fifties. Those first shows were wild, but the kid had it down. He had the voice and the look and all those difficult slides and the corkscrew leg-moves. He was young and fresh and looked as though he was enjoying himself. I’ve got to tell you, some of the old-timers can look kind of tired at times. Some of them have been doing it too long.” Yerby nodded sympathetically. “Are you get- ting tired, my friend?” “I don’t know. Sometimes . . .” . “So tired a kid like that made you real upset? Threatened, maybe?” “No.” “Didn’t he threaten your cozy little fantasy world, Vince? Wasn’t he so young and eager that you knew he was a danger?” “N-no.” “So where were you, Vince? Where were you when the kid was killed?” “I was watching the show. The kid had just come off and the next guy was up and then I heard all the shouting.” “Are you sure about that?” “Sure I’m sure.” “Did anybody see you?” “My wife was there with me all the time.” Yerby was surprised. “Your wife?” “My wife always comes to these things with me. In fact, it was her who pushed me into Elvis in- terpretation in the first place.” The picture that he’d been building of Prince hadn’t included a wife. “She was watching from the wings with you?” “Sure.” “Anybody else?” “There was a whole crowd there.” “And they saw you?” “I’m sure they did.” Yerby nodded absently. He was already con- vinced that the fat guy was in the clear. A weak little man with a domineering wife wasn’t the stuff that made an ice pick killer. “Okay, you’re off th» hook for now.” Prince looked like an overweight spaniel that had been offered a doggie treat. “I’ll be talking to your wife,” said Yerby, “but for the moment you can go.” “I guess I’d better not leave town.” Yerby didn’t bother to smile. The next one was at least the right size and shape. He was dressed in black leather. His hair was long and greasy, and he seemed to have based his style on Presley’s leather outfit in his 1968 comeback tv show. He was clutching a cherry- red Gibson guitar; a red silk scarf was tossed around his neck, air-ace style. All in all, he would have made quite a passable Presley from a distance, except for one crucial factor: an enormous nose. It was like the beak of a predatory bird, or perhaps a crag on which the bird might perch. Yerby stabbed a finger at the empty chair. “Please sit down.” The other folded into the seat, cradling the guitar in his lap. He looked awkward and defensive; he was clearly uncomfortable to be sitting so close to the cop. “What’s your name?” “Darth Roman.” “You’re putting me on.” “It’s my stage name. I made it up myself.” 75 Elvis Yerby frowned. “What’s your real name?” “Ron Kowski.” “Okay, Ron — ” “Darth.” Yerby suddenly felt tired. “Listen. I’ve been set in my ways too long to start holding conversations with anybody called Darth. If you don’t mind, we’ll stick to Ron.” The other started to protest. His lower lip be- came petulant. “When I’m all dressed up like this I prefer—” “You’re a suspect in a murder-case, Ron. You really can’t afford to have too many preferences.” “I didn’t do anything.” “You don’t necessarily have to do anything to get into a whole lot of trouble.” Kowski grimaced. “Look, man, I thought you wanted to ask me some questions.” “I intend to,” said Yerby. “Are you any good at this stuff?” “What stuff?” “This Elvis Presley sHiff. This imitating.” “We like to call it interpreting.” “I already heard about that.” “What did you want to ask me?” “I was just wondering if you were any good.” Kowski shook his head. “Nah, not really. I got the clothes and the guitar, but beyond that I don’t take it so seriously.” “That’s a relief.” “Yeah, some of them get really carried away. You might not believe it, but a few of these guys are verging on psycho, you know what I mean? There’s some that can’t tell what’s real and what ain’t.” “But not you.” Kowski grinned. “Hell, no. I just do it to pick up a bit of change and get next to women.” “Women?”- Yerby hadn’t thought about women hanging around with the performers in these absurd shows. Ron’s grin had turned into a leer. “You wouldn’t believe some of the women who come in to see us.” “I probably wouldn’t.” “Talk about psycho, they’re the ones who really get carried away. They just get themselves twisted up in the illusion.” He winked at Yerby. “I don’t complain none, though.” Yerby wondered what kind of woman could use a beak-nosed dummy like Ron Kowski, even in his Darth Roman suit, as an Elvis surrogate. He didn’t figure Kowski as much of a lover— or, for that mat- ter, as a murderer. Still, he decided to ride the leather-clad Presley clone a little bit longer. “Did women make a play for the kid who got killed?” Kowski shook his head. “He was a first-timer. He was damn good, though. Took it real serious.” “What about the last guy who was in here — the short fat one? Is he any good'.’” “Who, Vince?” Kowski laughed. “He’s terrible. A walking joke! He shows up at all these things. He can’t sing and he can’t move, but he sure enjoys the fantasy. If you ask me, it’s that u ife of his who makes him do it.” “You think he killed the kid?” Kowski’s grin broadened. “Him? Hell no, his wife wouldn’t let him.” “How about you?” The grin snapped off. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.” “Where were you when the kid was stabbed?” “Uh . . .” Ron shifted in his chair. “You got a problem?” “I was out in the parking lot.” “The parking lot?” Kowski examined a gaudy silver ring on his left pinky finger. It was the kind worn by greasers and motorcycle hoods, shaped lilce a skull with little fake ruby eyes. “I was, uh . . . you know.” His voice had taken on a definite Presley inflection. “No, I don’t know, Ron. You tell me.” “I was with a lady— in the back of her LTD. The first I heard about the killing was when I came back inside.” “She couldn’t keep her hands off your leathers, huh?” Kowski’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You got it.” “Can this lady vouch for you?” Kowski shook his head. “No, she took off. She had a husband and didn’t want to stick around. I don’t even know her name.” “Then you do have a problem.” Alarm slowly dawned on Kowski. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?” “One of you did.” “It didn’t have to be someone on the show. It could have been an old girlfriend, or someone he owed money to.” Yerby shrugged. “I’ve got to cover all the angles.” on Kowski was followed by a strange-looking individual in a fancifully embroidered pale blue jumpsuit with a short cape attached to the shoulders. At some point in his quest to be Elvis, he had undergone crude and probably cut-price plastic surgery. A pair of distrustful blue eyes peered de- mentedly out from beneath eyebrows that had been shaved to nothing and redrawn in different positions. For a few happy moments Yerby had a strong gut reaction that this was his man, but then it all fell to pieces when he discovered that the suspect had actu- ally been performing on the stage at the time of the murder. 76 The single female competitor had adopted the name Alice Malice— not without some degree of accu- racy. She came into the room with an arrogant, loose-limbed, gunfighter strut that came closer to the style of the young Elvis than a lot of what Yerby had seen since he’d arrived at the dingy theater. The woman stood in front of him in a pose of tilt-hipped defiance; when he nodded toward the chair, she glow- ered at him. “Do I got to?” “It’d make me happier.” She didn’t move at first, but Yerby waited her out. In the end she sullenly dropped into the chair. “So what do you want?” Yerby decided that the best policy was shock. “So why did you do it?” Her lip curled and her eyes were hard. “What am I supposed to have done?” “You killed the kid, didn’t you?” She looked at him with deep contempt. “You think I just got off the boat?” “Tough baby, huh?” In addition to a pink mohair zoot suit, she was wearing a black silk shirt with the collar turned up in the back. Her arms were tattooed; the tail of a blue and green dragon protruded from her shirt cuff LOVE and HATE adorned her knuckles Mitchum- style. “What the hell are you saying?” “I’m saying that you took an ice pick and stabbed the kid to death.” “You’re crazy.” She glared at him, as if daring him to do some- thing that would give her an excuse to geld a peace officer. Yerby shrugged. “So tell me about it.” “What do I got to tell? I didn’t murder no- body.” “You weren’t maybe shacking up with the kid and had a falling out?” Alice Malice’s lip, already curled, now twisted into a full-scale sneer “Me? You think I’d actually shack up with these creeps? Half of them wouldn’t know what to do with me if they had me.” “And the other half?” “You’d never get them away from the mirror.” “You don’t like your fellow contestants?” • She looked directly into Yerby’s eyes. “I don’t even like men.” After holding his gaze for some time but getting no reaction, she looked away. “When you get right down to.it, I don’t much like people.” “Feel like thinning them out a bit?” “I didn’t kill anyone.” “Somebody did.” “You’re picking on me because I’m the only woman in the show.” “You do tend to stand out in the crowd.” “You’re probably just getting your kicks.” She suddenly looked sly. “I’ve heard what you cops get up to on your own time.” Yerby sucked at one of his teeth. He had heard it all before. “Tell me,” he said, “what’s the point of a woman imitating Elvis Presley?” “What’s the point of a drag queen imitating Judy Garland?” “What’s in it for you?” She shrugged. “You gotta get a break where you can.” It was said with the conviction of someone who had never thought any further on the problem. “And besides, I got an alibi.” This caught Yerby off balance. “What? Why didn’t you tell me this before?” “You didn’t ask me. You were too busy accus- ing me of killing the kid.” “So what’s this alibi?” “I was in an empty dressing room with another contestant and one of the stage hands.” “You think they’re going to go along with you on this?” “They ought to. One was doing his best to get his hands into my pants while the other one watched.” “I thought you didn’t like men?” “I don’t. I just like to watch them squirm.” There wasn’t a flicker of humor in her expres- sion. Yerby knew that he was getting nowhere. He was relieved when a uniform stuck his head around the door. “We seem to have got ourselves a witness.” “Yeah? What’s the story?” “The witness claims to have seen someone com- ing out of the stage door. Another look-alike.” Yerby’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean one of the performers is missing?” If so, the case was pretty much sewn up. The uniform shook his head. “According to our list, they’re all here.” “Where is this witness?” “In the alley just outside the stage door.” “What’s he doing out there? Why don’t you bring him in?” The uniform avoided Yerby’s eyes. He had troubles of his own. “He’s better off where he is.” Yerby shook his head. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing to me?” He got up and headed for the door— and walked straight into a fistfight. An Elvis in a black bike-jacket and blue jeans was swinging punches at a 77 Elvis slighter model in the standard white spangles, who was failing to defend himself with some limp and in- accurate karate, while a crowd of Elvises stood watching. A cordon of uniforms moved in, hauling out their nightsticks. Yerby grabbed the arm of the nearest Elvis. “What in God’s name is going on out here?” The Elvis clapped a theatrical hand to his head. “It’s terrible, everyone is looking at everyone as though they were the killer, and then Deke said something to Tulsa and Tulsa hit him and . . .” Tulsa— if indeed Tulsa was the one in the leather jacket— had made the mistake of resisting the uniforms and was now being dragged away with a nightstick across his throat. Already someone at the edge of the crowd had started yelling about police brutality, and suddenly the whole thing was on the verge of falling completely out of hand. Yerby was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of rhinestone- padded shoulders. Angry sideburns moved in on him. A tall, lank youth in a black ;/el vet jumpsuit grabbed the sleeve of Yerby’s shirt and refused to be shaken off. “Don’t believe what anybody says. It wasn’t me, I didn’t kill the kid. I had no reason—” Yerby chopped his hand away and spun him toward the nearest uniformed officer. More uniforms were moving in and pushing the hysterical Presleys against the far wall. Yerby shouldered his way through the melee. He wanted to see this witness who couldn’t be let into the DeQuincy Theater. The witness was as unprepossessing a speci- men of humanity as Yerby’d ever seen. He wore old, stained army fatigue-pants and a torn t-shirt, and clutched a pint of Night Train in his fist. The t-shirt advertised a delicatessen that Yerby knew for a fact had been torched by its owner for the insurance at least six years before. The witness stared at Yerby with bleary, red-rimmed wino eyes. “You the one in charge?” “Maybe,” said Yerby. “Who wants to know?” “It’s going to cost you ten bucks to hear my story.” “I ain’t going to give you ten cents.” Yerby was wondering whose idea of a joke this was. The wino’s eyes narrowed. “I seen who done it.” “Who done what?” “The one who done the murder.” Yerby sighed and gave the wino a dollar. The wino examined the bill. “This is only a lousy buck.” “That’s right. You’ll get another if the story’s any good.” The wino eyed Yerby with the kind of con- tempt that is reserved exclusively for law enforce- ment officers, then shrugged. “I was just sitting back 7S here drinking, you understand.” “I understand.” “This here alley is quiet, see. Nobody comes around to bother you, so I was surprised when this big black limousine pulls up.” “Limousine?” “Biggest damn Cadillac I ever seen.” Yerby was curious. “Where was it?” “Right here where we’re standing, right out- side the stage door. Then these two guys get out and stand beside the car, kind of leaning on it, like they’re waiting around for someone to come out of the door. They were big guys in dark suits, and they kind of had that look on them.” “Look?” “The look that guys hav(> who stand beside Presidents, the guys who bodyguard big movie stars. You know, always watching, with that gun-under- the-armpit look. I seen those kind of guys on tv. Never thought I’d see ’em in the flesh. At first I thought that someone big must be playing the the- ater, but then I remember that nobody big would go near this firetrap. All they ever have here is these low-rent freak shows. This makes me real curious, see, but I don’t like the look of them two guys, so I don’t want to get too close. In the end I just stand aways off, hitting my bottle once in a while and wait- ing to see what happens. I don’t have to wait too long, either, ’cause around five minutes later, Elvis Presley comes running out the door.” “No, no, Presley’s been dead for years. You saw one of these freaks in their Elvis costumes.” The wino was adamant. “I know what I seen. He comes barreling out of the stage door, heading for the limo. He’s kind of fleshy, overweight, with a lot of rings on his hands— and he’s sv/eating. One of the guys whips open the door, and the other throws this big black fur coat around his shoulders. And then he ducks into the car and I hear him say, ‘That’s the first of those bastards.’ Then the car takes off, laying rub- ber all the way down the alley.” Yerby looked like a man close to the end of his rope. “That’s it?” he said. “Uh huh. Do I get my other dollar?” “Did you get a license number for the car?” “Hell, I’m just a wino.” Yerby scowled at him. “Why don’t you go away before I get angry. Go peddle your hallucinations to the National Enquirer, they might go for it.” The wino glared at him with a drunk’s injured pride, though he knew enough about cops not to press the point too hard. But to himself he muttered, “Hell, a man don’t have to be crazy or a liar just be- cause he takes a drink now and then.” Yerby ran a hand over the back of his neck. It was a hot night. He walked back- toward the theater wishing he was someplace else. QJ .i?t> .%v-C4. ^ 'A''*> Sl Pal Painilab byJayRDthbgll A PAINTING'S SUPPOSED TO BE TWO-DIMENSIONAL NOT THREE - AND CERTAINLY NOT FOUR. Stavros bangfHl on the hollow steel door of apartment 6R. It looked like a door from a prison. “Landlord!” he yelled. “Open up!” The door did not budge, but through it came a voice. “What? What do you want?” Stavros was outraged. He wasn’t used to climb- ing stairs these days, and this miserable building had no elevator. If he went to such trouble, he had reason. “Is my building!” StaATos shouted. “Open the door!” The door opened, revealing a disgusting sight: Frank Westerman, twenty-four, was zipping his rumpled jeans and rubbing sleep-crusts from his eyes — at eleven A.M.! Silently Stavros cursed young Americans. They were healthy, with rich parents— and they slept away every advantage. Why had he rented to this barnacle? By Westerman’s age, he, Dhimitrios Stavropoulis, had emigrated from Greece and was part owner of New York’s Athena Cafe. And what had Westerman ever accomplished? Then the odor hit Stavros, the smell of strong solvent and sweet lins(;ed oD. “I check for damage,” said Stavros, striding into the apartment. “Or don’t you want deposit return?” On the deck-gray floor were pans and flowering hy- drangeas packed into cherry crates. The kitchen coxmter and table were littered with mayonnaise jars half filled with gray and green fluids, like swamp samples. Stavros passed through the kitchen into the bathroom. Half awake, Westerman followed. Grabbing a worn broom from beside the tub, Stavros proceeded to butt the handle at the ceiling. Clods of plaster fell into the toilet, sending up water. “Ceiling’s bad,” Stavros muttered. “I didn’t do it,” said Westerman. Stavros mo- tioned him out of the way. They met again in the com- bination living room and bedroom. Stavros was staring at the west wall. That wall was now a mural. The mural had no subject; it was not a landscape or a portrait, a fruit bowl, a bouquet, or— heaven pro- tect us— a nude. If this artwork was about anything, it was about green and blue— and about light itself. In places, gold illumination inks had been suspended in emerald, sapphire, and clear acrylic. Rich oil paints filled the gaps with every other color. A repeating motif of black markings, like veins or the fur of an animal, paradoxically made the whole thing seem brighter. And the shapes . . . They kept changing, like constellations of parabolas, or the shapes in the faces of his children. “This wall was white,” said Stavros, frowning. But while he frowned he stepped toward the mural, fingers outstretched, trying to figure its depth. At last he turned. Westerman, framed by the window, was smiling, sunlight glinting through his long, paint-flecked hair, which curled like a girl’s. Now Stavros noticed Westerman’s hands and forearms. They were streaked, as if bruised, with a mix of pale green and gold, blue and black. If the discoloration had been forty-weight oil, or even honest house paint, Stavros .would have approved. That would be manly. “This wall must be painted,” said Stavros. “Wait a few days,” Westerman suggested. “February starts next week. The new tenant might like it.” • Stavros rested his fists on his hips. “I come tomo^ow at eight,” he said. “Eight in the morning. That is how a workday is made.” “Look,” said Westerman. “It’s not that I’m so attached to my work. I give away most of it. But this mural was born for this wall.” He spoke slowly, gestur- ing toward the sources of light. “The shimmer feeds off light and shadows from these windows and over- head fixtures, so that the shapes change from hour to hour. Can’t you see? I mean, it belongs here, Mr. Stavros.” “Not only must it be painted,” said Stavros. “The new paint must be paid. What is left of your deposit is returned when the wall is fixed.” “Okay, okay,” said Westerman. He pulled blue sheets off the mattress and began stuffing them into an army duffle. “Maybe you do not know,” Stavros said with some dignity. “This is my building. My wall. My walls are white.” Westerman looked up angrily from his laundry. “Now what are you thkking?” Stavros said. “That I am an evil=^an to paint my own wall? Yes? And you are a good man to mess my wall however you like?” “I was thinking,” said Westerman, “about this ‘my building, my walls are white’ routine. Freud had a word for guys with your problem.” He went into the 81 Paintfab bathroom to flush the plaster from the toilet bowl. Following him, Stavros stood blocking the door- way. “Very good, university boy,” he said. “But the big difference between you and myself is two apart- ment buildings, one restaurant, a good clean Orthodox wife, two strong sons—” “I’m sure they enjoy you a lot,” said Wester- man, reflushing the toilet. Together they watched the chimky, milky brew rise precariously, almost overflow, and then subside. “Feh!” Stavros said. “My family respects me. That’s a word you don’t know here in America. My father, Nikolos Stavropoulis, was a wise man, a laborer, and the son of a laborer. He didn’t want me to make his mistake. ‘Work itself is no success,’ he told me. ‘Control what is yours.’ ” Stavros looked at Westerman. What could this boy know of life? “Imagine a choice,” he said paternal- ly. “You can work for just enough to eat, or you can work for power. What would you choose?” Westerman was quiet a«noment. “You do what you have to,” he said. “I’m sorry.” “I don’t need your stupid pity,” said Stavros. “Then you can’t have it.” Westerman pushed past him and began emptying mayo jar after mayo jar into the stained kitchen sink. “Take my money instead,” he went on. “Whitewash the whole goddamn planet. But listen: With this mural, you’re up against more than you know.” “Walls all cover the same,” said Stavros. He gestured as if he held a paint roller. “Not this wall,” said Westerman. “I will handle it,” said Stavros, “at eight tomor- row morning.” ■ “Dina!” Stavros said to his wife. “I told you I won’t have radio in the morning.” “Boogie down” the radio blathered, “open to me, bahy. ” Stavros bit viciously into a muffin. Beside him, twelve-year-old Konstantinos ate in studied silence. Soon Father would go out. At school he was learning to beat sheet metal into ashtrays. “Nikki,” Dina called to her youngest, “shut the music. Father doesn’t want it.” Nikki trotted to the counter, turned up the volume by accident, then quieted things. Polished copper pans hung on the white kitchen walls. At the new electric stove, spatula in one hand and skillet in the other, Dina inspected a hissing egg. “Why is it this way?” said Stavros to no one in particular. Dina flipped the egg. “I don’t like radio in the morning,” said Stavros. “All right, woman?” “Nikki meant no harm,” said Dina, bearing eggs to the table. “He is six. He won’t do it again.” Nikki looked like Stavros as a child— dark and in- tense, impressed with the world’s sobriety. “Sorry, Father,” he said. “This is my house, Nikolos,” said Stavros. “Must I get rid of that radio?” “No, Father. Please.” “I have not decided,” said Stavros. He rose from the table. In one motion he scrubbed his lips with a napkin and threw it at his plate. Then he shrugged into his heavy coat, closed the door on his family, and stepped into the quiet of the elevator. Outside, Stavros hailed a cab. Ice had damaged trees during the night; the taxi rolled along, pulveriz- ing hundreds of glittering twigs. Unlike his native land. North America was bitterly cold. Even home was no sanctuary. Why is it this way? Stavros thought. Why is there no pleasure in life? His keys let him into his building. A hint of steam heat greeted his face. From the basement he lugged cheap white latex paint, turpentine and toluene for thinning, brushes, rollers, rectangular pans, news- papers, and an old brown shirt. When these things were gathered on the sixth floor landing, Stavros checked his watch. Now to wake the lazy American, he thought. He’ll soon see who gets things done in this building. Smiling, he knocked on the door. “Westerman,” he called. “Eight A.M.” There was no answer. “Wake up!” he yelled. No response. He banged again on the steel door. “I have keys,” he threatened. “I am going to paint that wall!” A^r all this trouble, the vision of Westerman snoozing was infuriating. “I come in now,” he said, jangling a loaded key ring. With im- mense satisfaction, he turned the key and flung open the door. The apartment was empty. All that remained were plumbing and light fixtures. Stavros ventured in- side. 'The floor had been swept clean, the garbage-filled grocery bags removed, the cereal boxes and sprouting pans, the blender, the fruit crates, and the yogurt- maker, even the wood matches for the old gas-stove had vanished. Stavros saw clearly now, in the absence of Westerman’s personal effects, that the apartment was incorrigibly ugly. The walls were badly patched, the plaster cracking. The window fittings had been painted and repainted without stripping, old paint buckled beneath, raising a pattern of square bumps like lizard skin. A roach ran by. Stavros stomped on it; black powder poured from a corner of the ceiling. It sounded like sand hitting paper. He’d get the paint up today, he decided. He couldn’t bear to be in this place longer than that. Rounding the comer into the main room, Stavros hoped that the mural had somehow vanished with Westerman’s goods. But there it was; he saw it without looking at it, and it seemed uncleap, a huge •2 blue-green blot on the smoothest wall. It had to go. It had to be smashed like an insect and mopped up like syrup. It had to be eradicated, and fast. Although he feared soiling his coat, Stavros laid it down in a comer. Changing into his work shirt, he brought in his equipment from the hall. A shiver ran through him; he eyed 1;he closed windows and wheez- ing radiators. He’d be glad to get out of 6R. He covered a tvm-by-two swatch at the lower right corner of the w:ill with quick-dry white latex. How good the roller felt: smooth and thorough. Hear- ing the grackle-grackh of tacky paint adliering, he believed for a moment that the day would be a satisfy- ing one, and Stavros stepped back to admire the good beginning. But no, something was wrong. The black tabby- striping on the wall wasi coming back; the acetone-base marker ink was creeping up through the latex. Stavros was troubled. Despite the paint fumes, he lit a Pall Mall. He chain-smoked for half an hour, telling himself that the next coat would fix it. Back and forth, back and forth, he drew the roller through the pan of paint. Then he returned to the striped milky square, mbbing the paint in until the wall whitened. Damn it! The black lines were forcing their way through again, creating an unruly pattern like giant hairs. Twice more he latexed the swath; twice more dirty fingers of pigment crept to the surface. Nothing was getting done. The air was thick with smoke and fumes. It was near eleven A.M.; like Westerman he had made no progress by eleven! First eleven comes, then noon, then the day is over! A new approach was needed. Stavros picked up the latex pan; the pan beneath it clanlced to the floor, and he filled it with turpentine. Ugh— it smelled! He threw a rag into the turpentine, balled it up, and sloshed this on the same patch of wall. This did nothing. The turpentine, he saw, was not going to touch acrylic. Stavros’s head hurt. He could not accept how ineffectual he had become. Pour- ing more from the turpentine can marked cautim—vse in ventilated area, he dsibbed at the comer of the wall, inhaling and exhaling angrily. “My wall!” he muttered. “You cannot turn against me! I am someone.” But the wall gleamed harshly, gaining power from the day’s best light. Blues and greens danced before his tired eyes, undulating with shapes he almost recognized— shapes he did not want to see. Over and over he scmbbed with the turpentine. The only thing affected was the cheap white latex he had just applied, which turned to a mhky wash. When he wiped that off with a clean rag, the mimal remained —was it brighter now in the mounting light— and his headache clanged at his temples. Stavros sighed, inhal- ing turpentine and defesit. Defeat. The Grumbacher oil paints had smeared slightly, into bright bandages of color, and he felt strange now, so strange, as if some- one were watching him. Something was trying to get to him, he felt. Like a man in a dark alley, he kept his mind on a defense. He opened the toluene. This thinner, he had been told, could handle anything. Pour- ing some onto a rag, he felt sick to his stomach. Use in a well-ventilated space, printed on the can, appeared as a blur. He leapt at the wall and madly attacked a black marker strip. No— the thing was on forever. Had the wall won? What was the point of this? In crazed misery, Stavros giggled. Giggled! The only way he could stop giggling was to cough. He felt ridiculous. Coughing and giggling and terrified, Stavros backed toward the closed windows. They rattled in the wind. He started at the noise, then sank to the floor. His gut hurt, his head hurt, and, worst of all, he was losing control. No, he told himself. He would think. He would think despite pain and panic. There was something he was not doing right. From the far side of the room, Stavros saw the whole mural. Why had he been so foolish as to look at it? He wished he had not. It had a certain presence, like a man who insists on eye con- tact. Such things can steal your soul. Stavros, be objec- tive, he told himself. The trouble was, as he saw now, that the comer he had toiled so long to deface had held fast, resolute as the rest of the painting. It wanted him to recognize it as a monument, a force that would not die. Nonsense! thought Stavros. And then the colors began to dance. The shapes were rocking in the shifting light. The colors were richer, thicker. They curled toward him like a living spray of sea foam, and kept coming. The air was filled with vapors now. Stavros was floating, floating. He struggled to his feet, tried to open a window. He felt so weak. This one window must open. Then he saw that he had done himself in: the window was sealed with old white paint. The other window ... He must get to the other one . . . Then the mural was in front of him. He had been facing the vdndow, certainly. But there it was again —the blue and green of the Aegean Sea. He did not know, at that moment, if he walked or floated, but he was propelled toward it as if hypnotized, arms out- stretched. He smelled the sea, saw the rock where he and his father had sat so long ago. He tripped —there was a clattering and a splash— solvents?— and fell wallward, into the s^. For a time he was lost, floating in swirls of color, suspended in a slow, viscous blue-green water world. Then he looked up— was it up?— to focus, and the wall’s crazings and slash-mark stripes organized into a pic- ture of the world above the water, the marks aligning S3 Paintfob into the lines of his father’s sun-dried face. This looked down at him. Stavros surfaced, coughing and choking. On the rock above him sat a bitter-faced man and a serious little boy. It was Stavros’s father, and his own child-self. Then came the most wonderful thing: to hear a voice he had not heard for a quarter century. His father spoke to him. “Dhimitrios,” his father said. The old man pulled him from the water. Stavros lay on the rock, gasping like a beached fish. “Look at this,” his father commanded, pointing at the child. Stavros did not see the point at first, but he did as he was told. And he saw the child’s face gradually changing, growing, while the boy’s body re- mained frail and tiny. And one by one the father’s dis- figurement appeared on the face of the boy: first the sea-green fissures, then the worry lines, as if from a black marker, then the blue of sorrow. “Work is not enough,” his father’s voice boomed. “Power is not enough. You must invest your labor in living— not in this bleached survival.” Father and child blended before him into a giant storm of a face. It screamed at him with terrible winds and crashing— an apparition as large as the mind could take in. “You don’t enjoy your plenty or your family, do you?” the voice rang out. A wave of blue-green tried to haul him back into the sea, passing ferociously over his leg like a flame tasting a log. “I showed you a road to safety and contentment,” his father railed. “You mope along this road like a condemned man. Again I tell you: You must choose your life.” Then Stavros could see nothing, nothing at all. He tried to speak; no words came. He felt his father’s hands reach him,- hold him, then shove him away. He tumbled helplessly, falling backward deep into the Aegean. Then he was swimming, he was young and swim- ming strong. His vision swirled, his ears rang with twenty waterfalls, and he swam on. He heard little Nikolos calling him, and he swam harder, stroke after stroke. He heard his son’s high-pitched trivial plea, “Can’t we keep the radio?” The wall came back into view. It was the beach he must get to. And there were Dina’s hands, huge across the wall, reaching to him. These were the smooth new hands he’d seen wrapped around a demitasse at the Athena Cafe fourteen years before; he’d been asking her to marry him. Now, as then, he studied each elegant finger, feeling the same longing he had felt ages ago. He tried to gather his strength, to swim to her. Now. Now. Was his arm too short to reach these distant joys? Dina shrank further and fur- ther from him. For an instant, he felt very sad. Then the waters closed over him. S4 Cold. Terrible drafts. Shouting. Who would shout at a man so ill? Stavros opened his eyes. They ached. He saw only a curdled whiteness. His ears were freezing. His back hurt. He closed his eyes. “Stavros! C’mon man, say something.” The voice was familiar but he couldn’t place it. He was too cold, and didn’t know where he was. He wriggled his shoulders, but something was gripping him. Lurching forward, he banged his head. “Watch it now,” the voice said. “Easy. Just say you’re okay.” Eyes open again, Stavros figured things out: He was face up, being held with his head out the window. Through the glass he saw Frank Westerman. “What are you doing?” Stavros demanded. “When you use solvents,” Westerman said, “you should open a window.” Stavros tried to stand. Westerman threw the landlord’s coat over his shoulders, helped him downstairs, and found them a taxi. Somehow Stavros recited his address, and then Dina was opening a door to them. Stavros reached for her, reached her; Dina’s eyes widened with surprise. Stavros lay on the blue sofa. He remembered suddenly that Dina had picked it out. He heard her in the kitchen, thanking Westerman. Frank Westerman? In this house? Well, Dina had let him in. It was, Stavros admitted grudgingly, her house too. What difference could it make? He was weak and sick, but home. He heard Westerman say, “Tell him that gesso and a couple coats of oil-base primer would have wiped the thing right out.” What a smart aleck Westerman was, Stavros thought. He would not be ignored like this. “I’m sick of that wall,” Stavros called out. “I’m leaving it for the next tenant to worry about. Dina, write this boy a check for his stupid deposit— the lull amount. And tell Nikki from now on he better ktjep the radio in his room.” “The mural’s fine,” Westerman confided, as Dina handed him the check. “There’s damage, but after a week, oils come through cheap latex almost good as new.” Then abruptly he turned, padded out into the hall on paint-spattered sneakers, and was gone, leav- ing the door ajar. Dina clicked it shut behind him, and began again the rhythmic dicing of carrots. In a far room, a radio came on, giving off soft jazz. Stavros drank in the music, determined to enjoy it. He breathed deeply, hoping this would dim the pains in his head and the bright flashes at the edge of his vision. The sofa seams were straight, he noted. And though the ceiling above him had patchy spots, on the whole it was good. Slowly, and for the first time in years, Stavros began to feel better. iS ifejDGHT ^NE The Third Season by Marc Scott Zicree On September 15, 1961, with the show entitled “Two,” The Twilight Zone began its third season. Much had changed in the world since the show had debuted in 1959. John F. Kennedy ^ was now President; man had ventured into space and orbited the earth. Great turmoil lay ahead— but there was also the promise of a different, better world. The atmosphere surrounding The Twilight Zone had changed greatly, too. When it was unveiled on October 2, 1959, it was an unknown commodity, a curiosity that fit into no previous television category. Now, two years later, it was established as a category unto itself— and was a success by any standard. “We now hit approximately five himdred letters a week,” Rod Serling said at the time. “We have fan clubs in thirty-one states. And we get an average of fifty story ideas submitted to us each week from people who ‘dig’ fantasy, the unusual, the imaginative.” The show had an average weekly audience of close to twenty million people, and Serling’s two paperback adaptations of his teleplays. Stories from The Twilight Zone and More Stories from The Twilight Zone, had already sold more than half a million copies. There was a Twilight Zone comic book (with each story introduced by a comic-lx)ok version of Serling), a Tvrilight Zone board game (in which players moved their pieces down various mazelike “roads to reality”), and a Twilight Zone LP (featuring Marty Manning and his orchestra and billed as “An Adventure in the Space of Sound”). Where the products left off, the inventiveness of the fans took over. A black Model A Ford was seen outside a Los Angeles high school with the words “The Twilight Zone” painted in white across its side. And in Teaneck, New Jersey, “The Twilight Zone” coffee house opened its doors for business. The series had already gathered a host of prestigious awards, including ones from the Directors Guild (for “Time Enough at Last”), the Producers Guild, and such magazines as Limelight, Radio and Television Daily, and Motion Picture Daily. It had also won two of science fiction’s coveted Hugo Awards (with a third still to come), and the 1961 Unity Award for Outstanding Contributions to Better Race Relations. Then there were the three Emmys— two to Serling and one to Director of Photography George T. Clemens. Interestingly, the first of Serling’s two Emmys— for outstanding dramatic achievement in writing— for The Twilight Zone came as a complete surprise to him. The other nominees were an adaptation of “The 'Turn of the Screw” starring Ingrid Bergman and “Project Immortality,” an episode ot Playhouse 90. Serling was so certain he wasn’t going to win that he hadn’t even bothered to shave prior to the ceremony. When he got to the podium, he said simply, “I don’t know how deserving I am, but I do know how grateful I am.” The second year he won, he held the award up and addressed the show’s other writers. “Come on over, fellas,” he said, “and we’ll carve it up like a turkey.” Another measurement of the show’s success related specifically to Serling himself. Since the tv play Patterns, his name had been well known but not his face. The Twilight Zone had changtjd all that; Serling was now a star. He greeted this with pleasure and with typically modest humor. “Now people see me on the street and they say, ‘Why, we tliought you were six foot one’ or ‘We thought you looked like a movie actor,’ and then they look at me and say, ‘Wby, God, this kid is five foot five and he’s got a broken nose!’ I photograph far better than I look, and that’s the problem.” One evidence of the show’s impact was as unexpected as it was far- reaching. In a time in which every day brought new scientific breakthroughs and greater social upheaval, in which the very nature of reality itself would be called into question, “the twilight zone” was a term perfectly suited to become a permanent part of the American vocabulary. “Dean Rusk, our Secretary of State, in a speech to the Senate, referred to ‘the twilight zone in diplomacy,’ Serling noted. “When that happened, -I thought. My gosh, we’ve amved!” jg 86 S H O W - B Y - SHOW GUIDE TV’s Twilight Zone: Part Seven i I I CONTINUING MARC SCOTT ZICREE’S SHOW-BY-SHOW GUIDE TO THE ENTIRE TWIUGHTZONE TELEVISION SERIES, i COMPLETE WITH ROD SERLING'S OPENING I AND CLOSING NARRATIONS I “There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infmity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears I and the summit of his kjiowledge. It is an area which j we call The Twilight Zone!’ j 66. TWO Written and directed ! ’ by Montgomery Pittman j Producer: Buck Houghton I ' Dir. of Photography; George T. Clemens | Music: Van Cleave j i Cast I ' Man: Charles Bronson ! : Woman; Elizabeth Montgomery j I Stunt Double: Sharon Lucas i “This is a jungle, a monument built by . nature honoring disuse, i commemorating a few years of nature being left to its oum devices. But it’s another kind of jungle, the kind that comes in the aftermath of man’s battles against himself. Hardly an important ■ battle, not a Gettysburg or a Marne or an I wo Jima. More like me insignificant comer patch in the crazy- | quilt of combat. But it was enough to end the existence of this little city. It’s j been five years since a human being uxdked these streets. This is the first ! day of the sixth year— as man used to j measure time. The time: perhaps a I hundred years from now. Or sooner. Or | perhaps it’s already happened two j millim years ago. The place? The i signposts are in English so that we may j read them more easily, but the plcux—is ‘ the Twilight Zone. ’’ declaring peace. Initially, she is i violently distrustful of him— a situation j which only intensifies when they | remove two working rifles from a pair i of combat-locked skeletons. But when he breaks a store window and gives her a dress, she goes into a recruiting office to slip it on. Unfortunately, the '■ propaganda posters on the wall rekindle the old hatreds; she rushes out j and fires off several roimds at him. The ■ next day, the man returns, dressed in ! ill-fitting civilian clothes. To his ! surprise, the woman is wearing the ! dress. Finally having put aside the war, she joins him and the two set off together. “This has been a love story, about two i lonely people who found each other ...in \ the Twilight Zone. ’’ j ' While searching for food, a young I woman wearing the tattered uniform of ■ the invading army encounters an enemy soldier— a man intent on ( 1 •7 67. THE ARRIVAL Written by Rod Serling Producer: Buck Houghton Director: Boris Sagal Dir. of Photography: George T. Clemens No music credit Cast Grant Sheckly: Harold J. Stone Paul Malloy: Fredd Wayne Bengston: Noah Keen Airline Official: Robert Karnes Ramp Attendant: Bing Russell Dispatcher: Jim Boles Tower Operator: Robert Brubakqf 68. THE SHELTER Written by Rod Serling Producer: Buck Houghton Director; Lamont Johnson Dir. of Photography: George T. Clemens No music credit Cast Dr. Stockton: Larry Gates Jerry Harlowe: Jack Albertson Marty Weiss: Joseph Bernard Henderson: Sandy Kenyon Man: John McLiam Grace Stockton: Peggy Stewart Paul Stockton: Michael Bums Mrs. Harlowe; Jo Helton Mrs. Weiss: Moria Turner Mrs. Henderson: Maiy Gregory “This object, should any of you have lived underground for the better part of your lives and never had occasion to look toward the sky, is an airplane, its official designation a DC-3. We offer this rather obvious comment because this particular airplane, the one you’re looking at, is a fre^. Now, most airplanes take off and land as per schedule. On rare occasions they crash. But all airplanes can be counted on doing one or the other. Now, yesterday morning, this particular airplane ceased to be just a commercial carrier. As of its arrival it became an enigma, a seven-ton puzzle made out of aluminum, steel, wire, and a few thousand other component parts, none of which add up to the right thing. In just a moment, we’re going to show you the tail end of its history. We’re going to give you ninety percent of the jigsaw pieces and you and Mr. Sheckly here of the Federal Aviation Agency will assume the problem of putting them together along with finding the missing pieces. This we offer as the evening’s hobby, a little extracurricular diversion, which is “What you are about to watch is a nightmare. It is not meant to be prophetic, it need not happen, it’s the fervent and urgent prayer of all men of good will that it never shall happen. But in this place, in this moment, it does happen. This is the Twilight Zone. ’’ On the evening of a surprise party for kindly, middle-aged Doc Stockton, the radio announces that radar has detected UFOs heading due southeast and that citizens are urged to go to their shelters. Doc promptly locks himself, his wife, and their twelve-year- old son inside the shelter he has built in his basement. His neighbors are unprepared, however; they beg Doc to let them and their families share the shelter. With air and provisions only for three, he refuses. As the neighbors argue what to do, their bigotry and violence rise to the surface. Finally, they obtain a large length of pipe and use it to batter down the shelter door. Just then, the radio announces that the UFOs have been identified as harmless really the national pastime in the Twilight Zone.” Flight 107 lands 'ivithout passengers or pilot. Sheckly, Malloy, and Bengston inspect the plane. To each of them its seat colors appear different. Convinced the plane is an illusion, Sheckly puts his hand between the spinning propellers. The plane disappears, as do M^oy and Bengston. Back in the operations room, both men are unaware of the mystery. Bengston recalls a Flight 107 that was lost in fog seventeen years earlier— the one case Sheckly never solved. Now it’s come back to haunt him. “Picture of a man with an Achilles heel, a mystery that landed in his life and then turned into a heavy weight, dragged across the years to ultimately take the form of an illusion. Now, that’s the clinical answer that they put on the tag as they take him away. But if you choose to think that the explanation has to do with an airborne Flying Dutch- man, a ghost ship on a fog-enshrouded night on a flight that never ends, then you’re doing your business in an old stand. ..in the Twilight Zone. ” satellites. The neighbors, ashamed of their behavior, apologize for the damage they’ve done. But Doc is not mollified; he knows that, despite the absence of missiles, the experience has destroyed them a.ll. “No moral, no message, no prophetic tract, just a simple statement of fact: for civilization to survive, the human race has to remain civilized. Tonight’s very small exercise in logic from the Twilight Zeme.” ss 69. THE PASSERBY Written by Rod Serling Producer: Buck Houghton Director: Elliot Silverstein Dir. of Photography: Georj^e T. Clemens Music: Fred Steiner Cast Lavinia: Joanne Linville The Sergeant: James Gregory Abraham Lincoln: Austin Green Charlie: Rex Holman The Lieutenant: David Gaixia Jud: Warren Kemmerling 70. A GAME OF POOL ! Written by George Clayton Johnson I Producer: Buck Houghton I Director: Buzz Kulik Dir. of Photography: Jack Swain No music credit Cast I Jesse Cardiff: Jack Klugmsm Fats Brown: Jonathan Win ters “77ie image of woman in the aftermath of war. AU women and all wars. The final wound and the deepest. Lavinia Godmn, the mistress of a bumed-oiU, home in a bumedrout land, who now relinquishes a bumedrOut cause. But in a moment, the dusty road in front that began at Fort Sumter, South Carolina, and ended at Appomattox, littered with the residue of broken bodies and shattered dreams, will terminate in a strange province that knows neither north nor south— a place we call the Twilight Zone." A Confederate sergeant with a wooden leg stops to rest in front of the mansion and strikes up a conversation with Lavinia, who feels certain that her beloved husband Jud, a Confederate soldier, is dead. Loneliness and loss have bred hatred in her, and when a blinded Union lieutenant pauses for a drink of water she shoots him point- blank with a rifle— to no effect. The lieutenant departs, and the sergeant begins to draw a frightening conclusion: that all Aose on the road. “Jesse Cardiff, pool shark, the best cm Randolph Street, who will soon learn that trying to be the best at anything carries its own special risks, in or out of the Twilight Zone. ” Alone in Clancy’s pool hall, Jesse voices his dearest wish: that he be allowed to play the late Fats Brown and prove that he, not Fats, is really the greatest pool player. Fats appears and challenges Jesse to a game— with Jesse’s life as the stakes. A game of skill, nerve, and bluff commences, with Fats seeming to hold the upper hand. But at last Jesse has only one easy ball to sink to win the game. Fats warns him that he might win more than he bargjms for, but Jesse disregards this and sinks the ball. After he dies, however, he realizes the meaning of Fats’ words: it is now he who must wearily rise to every challenge from ambitious players on earth. including he and Lavinia, are dead. Suddenly, Jud arrives and confirms this fact. Lavinia cannot accept this. She begs Jud to stay with her, but he is compelled to continue down the road. As he walks away, a figure draws near who is the last man on the road— and the last casualty of the Civil War— Abraham Lincoln. Gently, he consoles Lavinia. Finally accepting the truth, she runs off to join her husband. “Incident on a dirt road during the month of April, the year 1865. As we’ve already pointed out, it’s a road that won’t be found on a map, but it’s one of many that lead in and out of the Twilight Zone. ” “Mr. Jesse Cardiff, who became a legend by beating one, but who has found out after his funeral that being the best of anything carries with it a special obligation to keep on proving it. Mr. Fats Brown, on the other hand, having relinquished the champion’s mantle, has gone fishing. These are the ground rules in the Twilight Zone. ” S9 71. THE MIRROR Written by Rod Serling Producer: Buck Houghton Director: Don Medford Dir. of Photography: George T. Clemens No music credit Cast Ramos Clemente: Peter Falk Cristo: Tony Carbone D’Allesandro: Richard Karlan Tabal: Arthur Batanides Garcia: Rodolfo Hoyos General DeCruz: Will Kuluva Priest: Vladimir Sokoloff * Guard: Val Ruffino 72. THE GRAVE Written and directed by Montgomery Pittman Producer: Buck Houghton Dir. of Photography: George T. Clemens No music credit Cast Conny Miller: Lee Marvin Mothershed: Strother Martin Johnny Rob: James Best Steinhart: Lee Van Cleef Ira Broadly: Stafford Rep lone: Ellen Willard Jasen: William Challee Corcoran: Larry Johns Pinto Sykes: Richard Geary 90 “These are the faces of Ravnos Clemente, a year ago a beardless, nameless worker of the dirt who plodded behind a mule, farrowing someone else’s land. And he looked up at a hot Central American sun and he pledged the impossible. He made a vow that he would lead an avenging army against the tyranny that put the ache in his back and the anguish in his eyes, and now, one year later, the dream of the impossible has become a fact. In fast a moment we will look deep into this mirror and see the aftermath of a rebellion .. .in the Twilight Zone. ” After seizing power, Clemente is told by General D^ruz, the deposed tyrant, that a magic mirror in his office reveals the faces of one’s assassins. In it, Clemente sees his compatriots advancing on him with machine gun, knives, and poison. He kills them all, but this brings him no sense of security. When a priest tells him that the people are appalled by the round-the-clock executions he has ordered, Clemente replies that the people are not his concern, that he sees assassins “Normally, the old man would be correct: this would be the end of the story. We’ve had the traditional shoot- out on the street and the bad man will soon be dead. But some men of legend and folk tale have been known to continue having their way even after death. The outlaw and killer Pinto Sykes was such a person, and shortly we’ll see how he introduces the toum, and a man named Conny Miller in particular, to the Twilight Zone. ’’ After Sykes is gunned down by a group of townspeople. Miller— a gunman hired by the town to track Sykes down but who never caught up with him (perhaps by choice)— learns that on his deathbed Sykes vowed to reach up and grab Miller if he ever came near his grave. Johnny Rob and Steinhart bet Miller he won’t have the courage to visit Sykes’s grave. Determined to win the bet. Miller goes to the grave, kneels down, and plunges a knife into the earth to prove he was there. But as he rises, something grabs him and pulls everywhere and is constantly afraid. The priest tells him that tyrants have only one real enemy, “the one they never recognize— until too late.” He exits. Now, Clemente spies his own reflection in the mirror, shatters it, then shoots himself. The priest rushes in. “The last assassin,” he says. “And they never learn. They never seem to learn.” “Ramos Clemente, a would-be god in dungarees, strar^gled by an illusion, that wiU-o’-the-wisp mirage that dangles from the sky in front of the eyes of all ambitious men, all tyrants— and any resemblance to tyrants living or dead is hardly coincidental, whether it be here or in the Twilight Zone. ” him down. The next morning, Johnny Rob, Steinhart, and several others find Miller dead beside the grave. What happened seems clear: the wind blew Miller’s coat over the grave, in the dark he stuck his knife through it, when he tried to rise his coat pulled on him— and the shock killed him. But then Sykes’s sister lone raises a disquieting fact: the previous night the wind was blowing away from the gi’ave! “Final comment: you take this with a grain of salt or a shovelful of earth, as shadow or substance, we leave it up to you. And for any further research check under ‘G’ for ‘ghost’ in the Twilight Zone.” jB Photo courtesy Ithaca Colleoe School of Communlcattor>s TTie Big, Tall Wish by Rod Serling THE ORIGINAL TELEVISION SCRIPT FIRST AIRED ON CBS-TV APRIL 8, 1960 T TT ^ C S S T C T E L L A 7 CAST Bolie Jackson Ivan Dixon Henry Steven Perry Frances Kim Hamilton Mlzell Walter Burke Thomas Henry Scott Announcer CarlMcIntlre Referee Frankie Van Opponent Charles Horvath 1. EXT. NEW YORK STREET NIGHT LONG ANGLE SHOT LOOKING DOWN At a row of tenements. It’s a typical street scene, hot summer night, people sitting out on curbstones and front porches, but almost motionless except for desultory fanning and the movement of rocking babies. 2. MED. CLOSE SHOT STEPS OF A BROWNSTONE An evening newspaper lies spread out over a sleeping man’s face. The paper is open to the sports page. We see the headline, “Bolie Jackson Tries Comeback Tonight.” 3. MOVING SHOT UP THE STEPS Toward the front door as we DISSOLVE TO: 4. INT. BOLIE JACKSON’S BEDROOM He’s dressing In front of a bureau mirror, a stocky, muscular thlrty-flve-year-old Negro just putting on his shirt. We see the muscles ripple on an athlete’s back and shoulders; the sense of grace with which he stands examining himself In the mirror. Behind him Is the same newspaper seen outdoors with his name In the headlines. 6. DIFFERENT ANGLE HIS REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR As he studies himself, touches little scars that can be dimly seen over his eyes, his temples, one near his chin; then the lump on the bridge of his nose, where bones have been shattered and then shattered again. NARRATOR’S VOICE In this corner of the unlverse,a prize fighter named Bolie Jackson, one hundred and eighty-three pounds and an hour and a half away from a comeback at St. Nick’s Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who by the standards of his profession is an aging, over-the-hlll relic of what was and who now sees a reflection of a man who has left too many pieces of his youth in too many stadiums for too many years before too many screaming people, (pause) Mr. Bolie Jackson, who might do well to look for some gentle magic in the hard-surfaced glass that stares back at him. 6. PAN SHOT TO THE CORNER OF 'THE MtRROR Where we see the reflection of little Henry Temple, a ten-year- old Negro boy who sits on the bed and stares at the fighter. THEN FADE TO BLACK: OPENING BILLBOARD FIRST COMMERCIAL FADE IN: 7. INT. OF ROOM NIGHT Henry continues to sit on the bed, watching Bolie button up his shirt. HENRY You feelln’ .good, Bolie? (he folds out his little fists) Feelln’ sharp? Take a tiger tonight, huh, Bolie? Bolie smiles gently at the little boy’s reflection In the mirror and he apes the little boy’s gesture. BOLIE Take a tiger, Henry. Gonna take me a tiger. Left, right, one In the stomach, then lift him up by the tall and throw ’im out to the ninth row. The little boy grins, gets up off the bed, walks over to the dresser. HENRY You’re lookin’ good, Bolie. You’re lookin’ sharp. Bolle’s smile fades ever so slightly. He turns to look at the 92 © 1960 by Rod Seriing Photos courtesy Serlioo Archives. Ithaca College School of Corumunications little boy, reaches down and cups his little chin, presses It gently. BOLIE You gonna watch? HENRY You foolin’? I’ll yell so loud you’ll hear me all the way to St. Nick’s. Bo lie has to laugh In spite of himself. He rubs the t>oy’s hair and goes back to buttoning his shirt In the mirror. 8. CLOSE SHOT HIS REFLECTION As he stares at himself intensely j again. He touches one or two of j the scars. I BOLIE j (softly, reflectively) i Fighter don’t need a I scrapbook, Henry. Want to j know about what he’s done? , Where he’s fought? Read It on I his face. He’s got the whole j story cut Into hls flesh, j (he touches the scar over one i of hls eyes) I St. Louis, 1949. Guy named ! Sailor Levitt. Real fast boy. I (touches the bridge of the nose) That was Memorial Stadium, Syracuse, New York. Italian boy, fought like Henry Armstrong. All hands and arms, just like a windmill all over you. First time I ever had my nose broken twice In one fight. (now he touches the thin scar near hls ear) Move south, Henry. Miami, Florida. Boy got me up against a ring post. Did this with hls laces. He turns to look down at the little boy who stares at him grimly and unhappily and with a vast, abiding concern BOLIE On the face, Henry, that’s where you read It. Start In 1947, then move across. Pittsburgh, Boston, Syracuse, (he touches each scar then closes his eyes and keeps two fingers pressed against them and then very, very, softly) Tired old man, Henry. Tired old man tryln’ to catch a bus. But the bus already gone. Left a coupla years ago. (he opens hls eyes and looks down at the boy) Hands all heavy. Legs all rubbery. Short breath. One eye not so good. And there I go running down the street tryln’ to catch this bus to glory. The little boy compulsively grabs Bolle’s arm.’ HENRY (with the quiet Intensity of a boy) Bolle, you gonna catch a tiger tonight. I’m gonna make a wish. I’m gonna make a big, tall wish. And you ain’t gonna get hurt none either. I’m gonna make a wish that you don’t get hurt none either. You hear, Bolle? I don’t want you gettln’ hurt none. You’ve been hurt enough already and you’re my friend, Bolle. You’re my good and close friend. Bolle turns from the mirror to kneel down In front of the boy. He holds him by the shoulders and stares at him and then very gently and quietly he kisses the boy on the side of the face, rises, goes over to the bed, takes an overnight bag from it, crosses the room and starts out. 9. EXT. HALL AND STAIRS LONG SHOT LOOKING DOWN THE STEPS As Bolle, carrying hls overnight bag, walks down toward the foot of the steps. Henry’s mother, an attractive thlrty-year-old woman, comes out of her apartment and smiles at Bolle as he walks down to her. Then she looks up toward the top of the steps where Henry leans against the banister. BOLIE (grins) You got quite a boy there, Frances. You got quite a boy. (he looks over hls shoulder at him briefly then back to the mother) Talks like a little old man, you know? I’m hls “good and close friend,” that’s what he says. Real . . . real intense. I’m hls good and close friend. FRANCES You’re good to him, Bolle. You’re real good to him. Takln’ him to ballgames all the time. Takln’ him out for walks. (she looks up the steps toward the little boy and In a soft voice) Hard for a boy not to have a father. He never did know his. 10. TWO SHOT FRANCES AND BOLIE As she instinctively touches hls arm. FRANCES He won’t be goln’ to bed tonight till you get back. Take care yourself, Bolle. Don’t get hurt none. BOLIE (with a crooked little smile) I’ll work hard on it. He turns, looks up the steps again. 11. CLOSE SHOT HENRY He walks halfway down the steps and stands there, hls little face intense. HENRY I’m gonna make a wish, Bolle. I’m gonna make a wish nothin’ happens to you. So don’t you be afraid, Bolle. .Understand? Don’t you be afraid. The little boy continues down the steps. Into hls apartment, shutting the door. 12. TWO SHOT FRANCES AND BOLLE PRANCES (softly) You’re hls friend, Bolle. He’s got you in a shrine. 93 13. CLOSE SHOT BOLIE BOLIE Scared old man who don’t remember nothin’ except how to bleed. (he shakes his head) I don’t fit In no shrine, Prances. (a pause, softly) But you tell him, Frances . . . you tell him how I’m obliged for his wish. That’s what 1 need right now. ^ (he looks down at his hands, clenches and unclenches his fists) A little magic. PRANCES He’s been talkin’ about makln’ a wish all night. He’s all the time makln’ wishes, Bolle. 1 see him standln’ there In his bedroom In the dark lookin’ out the window. I come in real quiet and 1 say, “Henry, boy, why don’t you go to sleep?’’ And he turns to me with that serious little face of his and he says, “Makln’ a wish, mama:’’ Makln’ a wish for this. Makln’ a wish for that. Oh, he’s all the time wlshln.’ Why just the other night - 14. CLOSE SHOT FRANCES As she turns away, a very reflective, puzzled look on her face as she recollects something. BOLIE What? FRANCES (With a kind of lightly scoffing at herself laughter) I needed fifteen dollars for the rent. Henry said he was gonna make the big, tall wish. That’s his biggest kind, the big, tall wish. He don’t waste that wish on just anything. That’s what he calls the most Important one. (she pauses for a moment, again thoughtful) That was last Friday, and a woman I did some nursing for out on the Island sent me a check. (she looks at Bolle closely) A check for fifteen dollars. 15. TWO SHOT FRANCES AND BOLIE As they stand there for a moment silently. BOLIE (shakes his head) Little boys. Little boys with their heads full up with dreams. And when doesTt happen, Prances? When do they suddenly know there ain’t any magic? When does somebody push their face down on the sidewalk and say to ’em “Hey, little boy - It’s concrete. That’s what the world is made out of. Concrete and gutters and dirty old buildings and tears for every minute you’re alive. ’ ’ 16. DIFFERENT ANGLE BOLIE His face Is twisted and contorted. BOLIE When do they find out that you can wish your life away? 17. TWO SHOT BOLIE AND FRANCES She shakes her head slowly from side to side. FRANCES (very gently) Good luck tonight, Bolle. We’ll be waitin’ for you. BOLIE (nods) Sure. Sure, Frances. (he nods toward the closed door of the apartment) Kiss him good night for me. Then he turns and walks out. 18. EXT. BROWNSTONE NIGHT As Bolle comes down the steps. Several people call out to him and wish him. luck. He responds with a wave of his hand and then contlnuejs down to the foot of the steps, and down the sidewalk. 19. TRACK SHOT WITH HIM AS HE -ViTALKS A few feet, then stops, turns. i20. LONG SHOT HENRY Staring out at him from the window. 21. CLOSE EIHOT BOLIE He returns the stare, forces a smile, holds up his hand In a kind of partial wave, then turns and continues down the sidewalk as we DISSOLVE TO: 22. INT. DRESSING ROOM ARENA PAN SHOT ACROSS ROOM This is a typical second-rate sweat and liniment room with a smelly dressing table, a shower room flanked by a dirty canvas, a big towel container oozing with some bloody remnants of the card to that hour. A battered fighter is just being led out of the room as we pick up Bolle, now In his trunks sitting on the rubbing table. A thin, pigeon- chested, vinegar-faced old cut- man named Mlzell Is finishing the process of wrapping the bandages around his hands. Across the room Bolle’ s manager of that evening leans against the wall smoking a big, cheap, billowing cigar. This Is a greasy, dlrty-Leoklng man named Thomas. Mlzell finishes . the wrapping, holds up both his palms. MIZELL Try it, Bolle. Bolle flexes his knuckles, hits Mizell’s palms several times, then nods. BOLIE Feels okay. Peels good, Joe. Thanks. Mlzell nods, touches them up once again, then turns to Thomas. MIZELL He’s all ready. Thomas pours out a long stream of cigar smoke and nods disinterestedly. Bolie waves his hands through the smoke. BOLIE Butt It out, will you, Thomas? I want to breathe. THOMAS (deliberately takes another big deep drag) You hired me for the night, Bolie. It’s a package deal- me and the cigar. BOLIE (takes a step toward him) I told you to butt it out! 23. CLOSE SHOT L-HOMAS As he studies him. 24. CLOSE SHOT 130LIE His face a mask. 25. DIFFERENT ANGLE ALL THREE MICN As Thomas takes the cigar out, butts It against the wall, then crimps the end of it with his fingers and sticks It in his pocket. THOMAS Feisty little old man. Older they get - the louder they talk. The more they want- (and then he spits this out) And the less chance they got to get it. BOLIE How’d I get .you tonight? THOMAS I’m a bargain, Bolie. I’m the expert on has-beens. BOLIE (shakes his head) I’ve seen your boys. Catchers, aren’t they? Guarantee two rounds each. Shovel them in, shovel them out. Then sew them together for the next time. THOMAS (laughs) That’s the only way to do It. Month or so from now maybe I’ll sign you at the back door. Why not? You’re long gone, Bolie. You’ve had it. Wait’ll after tonight. You’ll want to get In the stable too. All you have to do is guarantee two rounds. Two, three prelims every month. Do that standing on your head, can’t you? BOLIE (takes a step toward him) I thought the smell came with the cigar. (he shakes his head) You wear It all over yuh. You stink, Thomas. THOMAS You tell ’em, champ. You tell ’em. There’s a knock on the door and a muffled voice calls out. VOICE Jackson, ten minutes. THOMAS He’ll be there. Bolie goes back over to sit on the dressing table. Mlzell starts to knead his shoulders and arms. Thomas stares at him from across the room. BOLIE What about tonight? What should I look out for? I only seen this boy fight once. That was a coupla years ago. j THOMAS I (shrugs) ! I ain’t never seen him. i 26. CLOSE SHOT MIZELL As he looks over Bolie ’s shoulder sharply, recognizing the lie. Then he goes back to deliberately kneading Bolle’s shoulders. 27. FULL SHOT I Bolie looks from one to the other, deliberately takes Mlzell’s hands off him, rises again and walks over to Thomas, lashes out with his bandaged hands, ; pulls Thomas to him. BOLIE You’ve watched him fight. You’ve seen him six times the past year. You piece of garbage you, Thomas. You’re bettln’ on him, aren’t you? He hauls off and backhands Thomas across the face. MIZELL I (shouts) Bolie! BOLIE (still hanging tight on Thomas’s shirt front) It ain’t enough he sells wrecks by the pound. He comes in here for a dirty j twenty bucks supposed to j help me and then bets on the I other guy. I may be a bum I upstairs in another ten ! minutes - but I ’ m gonna fight I a beautiful first round right ; here. i THOMAS ‘ (squirming) j i Bolie, you touch me again and < j I’ll have you up for ten years . I I swear to you, Bolie - I’ll fix ! your wagon good - i Bolie backhands him again. I 28. CLOSE SHOT BOLIE’S FACE j Distorted, angry, perspiring | with emotion, with hate. 29. CLOSE SHOT THOMAS’S FACE I Bl£-pored, frightened. | THOMAS (screeching) Lay off me, Bolie. Lay off me. You crummy tanker you - i 30. TWO SHOT ' 9S The Big, TMl Wish Bolie hauls off and swings and at that moment Thomas lurches from his grasp. 31. DIFFERENT ANGLE As Bolie’ s hand hits the concrete wall and there’s a loud, horrifying crack. Bolie leans against the wall, eyes closed, and very slowly lets his right hand drop. Mlzell -scurries over to him to grab it and examine it. Thomas exits the room like a mlnute-mller. 32. CLOSE TWO SHOT MIZELL AND BOLIE Mlzell looks up with aged compassion and very wise eyes. MIZELL (gently) It wasn’t enough you hacj to spot him all those years, Bolie. It wasn’t enough, huh? Now you got to walk in with four busted knuckles. There’s a knock on the door. VOICE Okay, Jackson, you’re on! MIZELL (takes a step away) Well? BOLIE (turns from the wall, holds his hands up) Well nothing. Let’s do it. Mizell takes the-gloves hanging on the end of the rubbing table and starts to put them on, looking up intermittently into Bolle’s numb, emotionless face. 33. CLOSE ANGLE SHOT THE TWO MEN Their faces close together. BOLIE Poor little Henry Temple. I’m putting two strikes on all his magic. Two strikes. MIZELL (looks up, frowns) Whose? BOLIE (shakes his head softly) Nothing. Nothing, Joe. There ain’t no.such thing as magic. FADE TO BLACK: ACT TWO FADE ON: 34. INT. STADHTM PAN SHOT ACROSS FRONT ROW OF SPECTATORS As seen through a smoky din of a cheap fight card. These are the faces of a mob who want blood, violence, action. Jaws go up and down in unison with the blows landed in the ring a few feet in front of them. There’s a cigar, a plug of tobacco, the scream of excitement from a floozie at the arm of a checkered-suited cheap dandy. They all share one thing in common: an intense desire to see some flesh stripped off and have it come with pain. They suddenly jump to their feet screaming as we CUT TO: 35. INT. RING ANGLE SHOT LOOKING OVER FIGHTER’S SHOULDER AT BOLIE On the ropes. He’s being pounded with lefts and rights. At the fourth smash his mouthpiece flies out. 36. TILT ANGLE FAT MAN Screaming through his clenched cigar. FAT MAN Use your right, you tanker! 37. CLOSE SHOT BOLIE As he’s pounded again in the face. 38. ANGLE SHOT FLOOZIE