by Anthology
He shoved both hands, together with their attendant knuckles, into his pants pockets. It showed the extreme state of his agitation, for he loathed nothing more than unsightly bulges in a well-cut suit. Who would know about this sort of thing? Who could possibly handle it?
It came to him in a flash—Sir Harry Mandifer! Of course! He’d known Sir Harry back at school, only plain Harry, then, of course, and now they shared several clubs. Harry had taken to writing, made a good thing of it, and now, with piles of money to play with, he’d taken to spiritualism, become, perhaps, the top authority in the field. Sir Harry was just the man! If only he could persuade him.
His face set in grimly determined lines, Archer marched to his telephone and dialed Sir Harry’s number. It was not so easy to get through to him as it had been in the old days. Now there were secretaries, suspicious and secretive. But he was known, that made all the difference, and soon he and Sir Harry were together on the line. After the customary greetings and small talk, Archer brought the conversation around to the business at hand. Crisply, economically, he described the morning’s events. Could Sir Harry find it possible to come? He fancied that time might be an important factor. Sir Harry would! Archer thanked him with all the warmth his somewhat constricted personality would allow, and, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, put back the receiver.
He had barely done it when he heard Faulks give a small cry of despair. He turned to see the old fellow wringing his hands in abject misery.
“I just blinked, sir!” he quavered. “Only blinked!”
It had been enough. A fraction of a second unwatched, and the was gone from the sill.
Resignedly, they once again took up the search.
Sir Harry Mandifer settled back comfortably in the cushioned seat of his limousine and congratulated himself on settling the business of Marston Rectory the night before. It would not have done to leave that dangerous affair in the lurch, but the bones of the Mewing Nun had been found at last, and now she would rest peacefully in a consecrated grave. No more would headless children decorate the Cornish landscape, no more would the nights resound with mothers’ lamentations. He had done his job, done it well, and now he was free to investigate what sounded a perfectly charming mystery.
Contentedly, the large man lit a cigar and watched the streets go sliding by. Delicious that a man as cautious and organized as poor old Archer should find himself confronted with something so outrageous. It only showed you that the tidiest lives have nothing but quicksand for a base. The snuggest haven’s full of trap doors and sliding panels, unsuspected attics and suddenly discovered rooms. Why should the careful Archer find himself exempt? And he hadn’t.
The limousine drifted to a gentle stop before Archer’s house and Mandifer, emerging from his car, gazed up at the building with pleasure. It was a gracious Georgian structure which had been in Archer’s family since the time of its construction. Mandifer mounted its steps and was about to apply himself to its knocker when the door flew open and he found himself facing a desperately agitated Faulks.
“Oh, sir,” gasped the butler, speaking in piteous tones, “I’m so glad you could come! We don’t know what to make of it, sir, and we can’t hardly keep track of it, it moves so fast!”
“There, Faulks, there,” rumbled Sir Harry, moving smoothly into the entrance with the unstoppable authority of a great clipper ship under full sail. “It can’t be as bad as all that, now, can it?”
“Oh, it can, sir, it can,” said Faulks, following in Mandifessr’s wake down the hall. “You just can’t get a hold on it, sir, is what it is, and everytime it’s back, it’s bigger, sir!”
“In the study, isn’t it?” asked Sir Harry, opening the door of that room and gazing inside.
He stood stock still and his eyes widened a trifle because the sight before him, even for one so experienced in peculiar sights as he, was startling.
Imagine a beautiful room, exquisitely furnished, impeccably maintained. Imagine the occupant of that room to be a thin, tallish gentleman, dressed faultlessly, in the best possible taste. Conceive of the whole thing, man and room in combination, to be a flawless example of the sort of styled perfection that only large amounts of money, filtered through generations of confident privilege, can produce.
Now see that man on his hands and knees, in one of the room’s corners, staring, bug-eyed, at the wall, and, on the wall, picture:
“Remarkable,” said Sir Harry Mandifer.
“Isn’t it, sir?” moaned Faulks. “Oh, isn’t it?”
“I’m so glad you could come, Sir Harry,” said Archer, from his crouched position in the corner. It was difficult to make out his words as he spoke them through clenched teeth. “Forgive me for not rising, but if I take my eyes off this thing, or even blink, the whole—oh, God damn it!”
Instantly, the
vanished from the wall. Archer gave out an explosive sigh, clapped his hands to his face, and sat back heavily on the floor.
“Don’t tell me where it’s got to, now, Faulks,” he said, “I don’t want to know; I don’t want to hear about it.”
Faulks said nothing, only touched a trembling hand on Sir Harry’s shoulder and pointed to the ceiling. There, almost directly in its center, was:
Sir Harry leaned his head close to Faulks’ ear and whispered: “Keep looking at it for as long as you can, old man. Try not to let it get away.” Then in his normal, conversational tone, which was a kind of cheerful roar, he spoke to Archer: “Seems you have a bit of a sticky problem here, what?”
Archer looked up grimly from between his fingers. Then, carefully, he lowered his arms and stood. He brushed himself off, made a few adjustments of his coat and tie, and spoke:
“I’m sorry, Sir Harry. I’m afraid I rather let it get the better of me.”
“No such thing!” boomed Sir Harry Mandifer, clapping Archer on the back. “Besides, it’s enough to rattle anyone. Gave me quite a turn, myself, and I’m used to this sort of nonsense!”
Sir Harry had developed his sturdy technique of encouragement during many a campaign in haunted house and ghost-ridden moor, and it did not fail him now. Archer’s return to self-possession was almost immediate. Satisfied at the restoration, Sir Harry looked up at the ceiling.
“You say it started as a kind of spot?” he asked, peering at the dark thing which spread above them.
“About as big as a penny,” answered Archer.
“What have the stages been like, between then and now?”
“Little bits come out of it. They get bigger, and, at the same time, other little bits come popping out, and, as if that weren’t enough, the whole ghastly thing keeps swelling, like some damned balloon.”
“Nasty,” said Sir Harry.
“I’d say it’s gotten to be a yard across,” said Archer.
“At least.”
“What do you make of it, Sir Harry?”
“It looks to me like a sort of plant.”
Both the butler and Archer gaped at him. The
instantly disappeared.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler, stricken.
“What do you mean, plant?” asked Archer. “It can’t be a plant, Sir Harry. It’s perfectly flat, for one thing.”
“Have you touched it?”
Archer sniffed.
“Not very likely,” he said.
Discreetly, the butler cleared his throat.
“It’s on the floor, gentlemen,” he said.
The three looked down at the thing with reflectful expressions. Its longest reach was now a little over four feet.
“You’ll notice,” said Sir Harry, “that the texture of the carpet does not show through the blackness, therefore it’s not like ink, or some other stain. It has an independent surface.”
He stooped down, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size, and, pulling a pencil from his pocket, poked at the thing. The pencil went into the darkness for about a quarter of an inch, and then stopped. He jabbed at another point, this
time penetrating a good, full inch.
“You see,” said Sir Harry, standing. “It does have a complex kind of shape. Our eyes can perceive it only in a two-dimensional way, but the sense of touch moves it along to the third. The obvious implication of all this length, width and breadth business is that your plant’s drifted in from some other dimensional set, do you see? I should imagine the original spot was its seed. Am I making myself clear on all this? Do you understand?”
Archer did not, quite, but he gave a reasonably good imitation of a man who had.
“But why did the accursed thing show up here?” he asked.
Sir Harry seemed to have the answer for that one, too, but Faulks interrupted it, whatever it may have been, and we shall never know it.
“Oh, sir,” he cried. “It’s gone, again!”
It was, indeed. The carpet stretched unblemished under the three men’s feet. They looked about the room, somewhat anxiously now, but could find no trace of the invader.
“Perhaps it’s gone back into the dining room,” said Sir Harry, but a search revealed that it had not.
“There is no reason to assume it must confine itself to the two rooms,” said Sir Harry, thoughtfully chewing his lip. “Nor even to the house, itself.”
Faulks, standing closer to the hallway door than the others, tottered, slightly and emitted a strangled sound. The others turned and looked where the old pointed. There, stretching across the striped paper of the hall across from the door was:
“This is,” Archer said, in a choked voice, “really a bit too much, Sir Harry. Something simply must be done or the damned thing will take over the whole, bloody house!”
“Keep your eyes fixed on it, Faulks,” said Sir Harry, “at all costs.” He turned to Archer. “It has substance, I have proven that. It can be attacked. Have you some large, cutting instrument about the place? A machete? Something like that?”
Archer pondered, then brightened, in a grim sort of way.
“I have a kris,” he said.
“Get it,” said Sir Harry.
Archer strode from the room, clenching and unclenching his hands. There was a longish pause, and then his voice called from another room:
“I can’t get the blasted thing off its mounting!”
“I’ll come and help,” Sir Harry answered. He turned to Faulks who was pointing at the thing on the wall like some loyal bird dog. “Never falter, old man,” he said. “Keep your gaze rock steady!”
The kris, an old war souvenir brought to the house by Archer’s grandfather, was fixed to its display panel by a complicatedly woven arrangement of wires, and it took Sir Harry and Archer a good two minutes to get it free. They hurried back to the hall and there jarred to a halt, absolutely thunderstruck. The
was nowhere to be seen, but that was not the worst, the butler, Faulks, was gone! Archer and Sir Harry exchanged startled glances and then called the servant’s name, again and again, with no effect whatever.
“What can it be, Sir Harry?” asked Archer. “What, in God’s name, has happened?”
Sir Harry Mandifer did not reply. He grasped the kris before him, his eyes darting this way and that, and Archer, to his horror, saw that the man was trembling where he stood. Then, with a visible effort of will, Sir Harry pulled himself together and assumed, once more, his usual staunch air.
“We must find it, Archer,” he said, his chin thrust out. “We must find it and we must kill it. We may not have another chance if it gets away, again!”
Sir Harry leading the way, the two men covered the ground floor, going from room to room, but found nothing. A search of the second also proved futile.
“Pray God,” said Sir Harry, mounting to the floor above, “the creature has not quit the house.”
Archer, now short of breath from simple fear, climbed unsteadily after.
“Perhaps it’s gone back where it came from, Sir Harry,” he said.
“Not now,” the other answered grimly. “Not after Faulks. I think it’s found it likes our little world.”
“But what is it?” asked Archer.
“It’s what I said it was—a plant,” replied the large man, opening a door and peering into the room revealed. “A special kind of plant. We have them here, in our dimension.”
At this point, Archer understood. Sir Harry opened another door, and then another, with no success. There was the attic left. They went up the narrow steps, Sir Harry in the lead, his kris held high before him. Archer, by now, was barely able to drag himself along by the bannister. His breath came in tiny whimpers.
“A meat-eater, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Isn’t it, Sir Harry?”
Sir Harry Mandifer took his hand from the knob of the small door and turned to look down at his companion.
“That’s right, Archer,” he said, the door swinging open, all unnoticed, behind his back. “The thing’s a carnivore.”
Afterword
Excuse the little tic at the corner of my left eye and the way I tend to jump at sudden noises, but Harlan Ellison has asked me to expand this Afterword three times, now, and friends, it’s having an effect.
The first time I tried to palm him off with a brief, Zennish comment, witty yet profound. It went right over his head. He sent it back with a note describing it as thin. “A bit thin,” is what he actually said.
The second time I threw in a couple of telling comments on the basic structure of the cartoon. It was revealing, exciting stuff, and I figured it would hold him.
“More,” answered Ellison, warmly, but insatiably.
The third time around I started getting cranky with strangers, and now, on this fourth attempt, I have suddenly realized that the whole Dangerous Visions operation has been an elaborate plot to get me. Harlan, Doubleday & Company, Incorporated—the whole bunch of them have discovered, God knows how, that I am the Czar Alexander, and they are determined to thwart my coming conquest of Chicago.
Let them try.
In the meantime, Ellison has coined “vieword” to describe the storytelling technique employed in , and I suppose that will do (after all, it is his collection) until the literary historians come up with something maybe a little classier. The vieword approach is an attempt to expand the panel cartoon, which is a combination of a visual impact and words. In a panel cartoon the drawing does not illustrate the caption, nor does the caption explain the drawing. They are interdependent parts of one thing. The comic strip is one way of trying to develop the one shot impact of a panel cartoon, the vieword is another.
I have always thought, and I guess my work shows it, that this picture-word medium lends itself to the fantastic grotesque, and is nothing if not fantastically grotesque. I enjoyed very much writing-drawing it, and I hope that you enjoyed reading-seeing it.
THE TEST-TUBE CREATURE, AFTERWARD
Joan Bernott
Introduction
Joan Bernott is a remarkable young lady. She is twenty-five years old, has appeared in two of the four prestigious issues of Samuel R. Delany and Marilyn Hacker’s paperback magazine Quark, and this was the first story she sold, though the other two got into print faster.
I met Joan at the 1969 Clarion Workshop in SF & Fantasy, where (by rough count and intuitive perceptions) the number of men in desperate love with her was eleven. Shortly after the Clarion term, she showed up here in California and stayed a few days at the Ellison stop on the Underground Railroad. No inferences are to be drawn from this: the list of ex-Clarionites who’ve lived here for varying periods of work-time include Gerard F. Conway, James Sutherland, Ed Bryant, Neil Shapiro, Lucy Seaman and Sandra Rymer (all of whom, incidentally, have sold professionally).
I say remarkable for any number of reasons, most of which I’ll pass by in this introduction; not the least of which, however, is that she comes out of amateur writing almost full-blown, with a strength and approach very much her own. One of the others is that she instilled in me, in a remarkably short time, a dislike of such towering dimensions that I must confess on
ly a story of unimpeachable excellence could have bought her into this book. Such a story is the one hereafter entered, and all that remains is Ms. Bernott to speak for herself:
“I was born in Michigan in 1946, grew up in Detroit, and moved to the country several years ago. I am a chronic summertime traveler, to Europe, Canada, throughout the United States, and expect to pay an extended visit to Central America next year.
“I have a B.A. in political science from Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan, and am presently working as a free-lance writer and theatre photographer. I expect to begin work on a degree in criminal law at about the time that Again, Dangerous Visions, is published.”
The Test-Tube Creature, Afterward
At about nine-thirty Tommy, walking barefoot over the paisley carpet that cushioned his studio apartment, finished disposing of the dishes left from the day’s meals and turned out most of the light in the room. Then, by hand, he lit a blue candle chandelier that revolved lazily from the high ceiling, and settled into the velvet armchair by the window. In his lap, he opened a heavy, old volume of Wyeth paintings; the prints served to steady him after an over-populated, over-regimented day. He found his favorite, “Distant Thunder,” about midway through the book. It pictured Wyeth’s slender wife lying alone in a field under an overcast, Maine sky, and was a most eloquent representation of gentleness waiting for a storm.
At eleven, he still sat there, the book open to the same place; the butts of three cigarettes were mashed into a coffee cup on the chair’s broad arm, and his thumbnail rested absently at his lips. Instead of on the picture, or out the window into the neon glare of Fifth Avenue, his attention lay fixed on the tawny, sleeping creature huddled in the far corner of the room. The size of a grown dog, the animal had the bearing and tear-drop head of a weasel, but was more catlike, with the feline’s slivered eyes and cautious temperament. Tom called her Hillary. She had been lying very still for almost two hours and now was beginning to quiver with wakefulness.
