The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "Straight, Bob?"

  "Straight," Melton said grimly. "You'll take it and like it."

  "I always do," Phil said. He poured whiskey down his throat, shivered, and relaxed. "Ah. A hair of the dog. Oooh."

  "Hangover?" Michaela asked sympathetically.

  "Certainly," Phil said with dignity, fumbling in a pocket. He handed a folded paper to his sister. "Here's the check on 'Nymphs Secret.' Wesley had it for me down at the gallery Friday."

  "Not bad at all," Michaela said, examining the check.

  "Not bad for a week's work on that canvas. Well, put it in the family fund. No more work for me for months at least. Another drink, please."

  "You look like you've had plenty," Melton said.

  Phil gave him a long, probing stare. "You don't look too good yourself," he said. "In fact, you're sweating."

  "It's hot."

  "It's too hot," Phil agreed. "You'll use up all the coal in a month at this rate. Or is it oil?"

  "Coal," Melton said, "and we won't use it up. Not in this house."

  "I don't like it either," Phil said unexpectedly. Michaela put her palms together and leaned forward.

  "What is it, Phil?" she asked.

  He grinned. "Nothing. This is the first time I've been inside here, you know. No, I don't want to look around. I ... came up here day before yesterday."

  "Weren't we home? You had a key, though."

  "I had a key," Phil said, staring at nothing, "but I decided not to use it. The bell wasn't working, so I knocked on the door. Then—"

  Melton's tongue circled his lips. "What happened?"

  "Nothing," Phil said flatly. "Nothing at all."

  "Then why—"

  "I was a little high. I was jittery. There weren't any ghosts. There was—" Phil paused. "I really don't know, Bob. But I decided to go back to town."

  "Were you afraid?" Michaela asked.

  Phil shook his head. "That was odd. I wasn't afraid, really. There was nothing to be afraid of. I simply decided against coming in."

  "But why?" Michaela wanted to know. Her voice was high-pitched. "That's no reason, and you know it."

  Phil poured the last drops from the bottle, and held it up. "See this! It's empty. But you know what's been in it. You can smell the whiskey."

  Melton slammed his fist down on his knee. "That's it," he snapped. "That so-and-so French! Who was he? And what did he do to this house? Hex it?"

  Quite suddenly there was a sound, a mournful, hooting cry with a curious timbre of hollow distance. Melton felt a second's disorientation. Then he identified it: a tug, on the twilit river.

  "You've got it bad," Phil said quietly. "If that can make you jump—"

  "So I need a sedative. I've been working hard."

  "Well," Phil said, getting up, "I guess I'll look around the joint, after all. Stay put, Mickey. I'll find my way. O.K., if you insist, Bob."

  -

  They went through the house. Melton said very little, but he switched on the light in the upstairs hall and waited for Phil's reaction. Phil didn't remark on it. But he was oddly intrigued by the cellar. He poked and probed around there a good deal.

  "What are you looking for?" Melton inquired. "A secret vault?"

  "Huh? Well, no." Phil gave a last, long look at the bare wall and headed for the stairs. "You say a chap named French lived here last?"

  "John French. It's on the title search papers. But as far as I can find out, nobody ever saw French. He had his stuff delivered. Never had any mail. No telephone."

  "What about recommendations? He must have had some when he moved in."

  "Ten years ago. I checked that, too. Ordinary stuff—a bank, an attorney."

  "Profession?"

  "Retired."

  Phil experimentally turned on the sink faucets. "It's a ... bad house," he said. "Yet it isn't haunted, or evil, or anything in the Gothic line. Why is it so hot?"

  Melton explained.

  Then, on impulse, he looked up, through the open door of the kitchen. In the dining room adjoining someone was standing motionless watching him. His reaction, he felt with curious objectivity, was extremely odd.

  For, at first, after a very brief doubt, he felt that the figure's presence was normal enough; his racing mind jumped at logic—a delivery boy, the mailman—and then, instantly after that, came a shocking sense of utter disorientation and realization that the person in the next room didn't belong there. Hard on the heels of that jarring impact came the sudden knowledge that the silent figure was—

  Was Michaela.

  That was the worst of all. He hadn't known her at all. For that short, shocking passage of time, he had seen her as a total stranger. His stomach was sweating, and he felt his heart pounding. The whole incident was over so quickly that no one noticed; Michaela came on into the kitchen, and Melton turned hurriedly to get a fresh bottle out of the cupboard.

  "How do you like the place?" Michaela asked. Phil smiled crookedly.

  "Very efficient," he said, and Melton swallowed.

  -

  "Do you believe in the psychic impregnation of the inanimate?" Phil asked two days later, as he pushed a pillow under his head and curled up on the couch.

  "What?" Melton said. It was early morning, and Melton was drinking coffee and watching the clock. They'd brought out the tiny alarm clock, since the electric model didn't run too well.

  "An old, old theory," Phil said lazily. "If a man lives in a house for a long time, his psychic emanations seep into the walls and spoil the wallpaper. Or something. You know."

  "No," Melton said. "Shut up. I've got a headache."

  "So have I. And a hangover, too. Hm-m-m. I can see that a coffin might acquire psychic emanations, but that's merely because it's functional. If a man sees a coffin, he knows what it's for."

  "I'd like to see your coffin," Melton remarked without malice. "And you in it."

  "Well, I thought you'd like to know I didn't believe in that crap either. It's my opinion that Mr. French fixed up this house to suit himself. He must have been a strange man. Man? Well, anyhow, have you noticed the woodwork?"

  "It's got shellac on it, if that's what you mean."

  "It's got something on it, but not shellac. I made some tests. You can't get the stuff off. There's a coating on every inside wall, ceiling, floor, and door in this house. Like insulation."

  "Well, it isn't. There isn't even insulation in the attic. Maybe I'll have rock wool put down."

  "If you do, we'll roast alive."

  Melton was following his own train of thought. "Renovating's what the place needs. I think I'll have exterminators come."

  "What for?"

  "Mice. In the walls."

  "Mice! Oh, no."

  "What, then?" Melton inquired. "Rattlesnakes?"

  "Machinery."

  "You're crazy. I went up in the attic and looked down between the walls."

  "Did you see any mice?"

  "No, but they probably saw me. That's why I didn't see them."

  "Now you're confusing me," Phil said unhappily. "Besides, we're not talking about the same thing. I don't mean turbines and dynamos and atom-smashers. Machines can be so simple they're unrecognizable. Like that poker over there."

  "That's no machine."

  "It's a lever, isn't it?" Phil said, and his brother-in-law snorted.

  "All right, so we've got levers in the walls. Who uses 'em? That poker won't pick itself up and—" Melton stopped suddenly and looked at the poker. Then he met Phil's gaze. Phil was grinning.

  "Yeah," he said cryptically.

  Melton rose, flinging his napkin to the table. "Machines in the walls, hell," he remarked.

  "Very simple and very complicated. And unrecognizable. Paint is just paint, but you can do a Mona Lisa with it."

  "So French coated the inside walls with paint that acts like a machine?"

  "Invisible and intangible—how should I know? As for those noises at night—" He hesitated.

  "Well?"
>
  "I think the house is just recharging itself," Phil said, and Melton fled, muttering under his breath.

  -

  He lunched with Tom Garrett, the technician from Instar Electric. Garrett was a fat little butterball of a man with a gleaming bald head and thick spectacle-lenses through which he blinked myopically. And he had little to advise on the matter of the house.

  "Well, what have you?" he asked finally. "Some unusual electrical circuits. And, if you want me to be frank—"

  "You will anyhow," Melton said. "Shoot."

  "—a neurosis."

  "Affecting three people?"

  "Certainly. A house can do that. Environment is a pretty strong influence. Br-r-rp. Excuse me. I'd be more inclined to suggest a vacation or a doctor than a rewiring job."

  "I had the place rewired. It didn't make any difference."

  "Well, you're not crazy," Garrett said consolingly. "At least not yet. Your skeleton hand in the icebox—you know very well that in a strong light your hand shows translucent. You can see the outline of the bones."

  "Yeah. Every time I look out of a window I expect to see something else."

  "What?"

  "I don't know. Just something different."

  "Do you see it?"

  After a pause Melton said, "No." Garrett stared.

  "I wonder. I'd like to run up and take a look at that wiring of yours."

  "Delighted to have you. When?"

  Garrett consulted a notebook. "I'm tied up for a bit, but—suppose I phone you?"

  "The sooner the better. I'm thinking about moving, anyway, though."

  "Where else could you find a furnace like the one you've got?"

  "I wish that were as funny as you think," Melton said somberly. "And I'd like to see you check that wiring for me. I've a hunch you'll be surprised. My brother-in-law has even wilder ideas than I have, so—"

  "What?"

  Melton went into detail.

  Garrett was surprisingly intrigued. "You know, his idea about machines isn't at all illogical. The farther we go, the simpler gadgets get. The klystron, for example—far less complicated than the average specialized vacuum tube. When we deal with electromagnetic energies, neutrons and so on, we sometimes find that the best sort of machine to handle them is—well, a plain metal bar."

  "But—paint!"

  "I've seen paint that is a machine," Garrett said. "Luminous. It gathers in sunlight during the day and releases it at night. Not that I take any stock in your brother-in-law's theories; I'm just riding my own hobby. Eventually the world of the future—I think—won't be burdened with immense, complicated gadgets. Everything will be so simple—or seem so simple—that a man from the twentieth century might find it quite homelike, except for the results."

  "Yeah," Melton said. "They'd be a bit different, wouldn't they?"

  "Quite a bit, I expect. Well, I must go. I'll give you a ring, Melton. And take my advice and have a doctor check you up."

  -

  "Don't tell me I'm sound as a bell," Melton said. "You might be thinking of the Liberty Bell. That's cracked."

  Dr. Farr touched his mustache and apparently liked the sensation, for he began to stroke it rhythmically. "How should I know, Bob?" he asked. "Half of my patients are slightly nuts, and, as long as they don't know it, they get along fine. Just a matter of compensation and adjustment."

  "Four-bit words."

  "By the tests you may be a bit psychotic," Farr said, referring to his notes. "Especially on orientation. That's an especially significant symptom. However, I've known you for years, and I'd stake my reputation, such as it is, that this business is objective and not subjective."

  "Then it's the house?"

  "That may be the trigger. A fixation. You could have it about anything. It just happens to be the house. Get out of it."

  "I intend to," Melton said.

  Farr leaned back and looked at his diploma on the wall. "Your friend was right about environment. Lock a kid up in a dark closet, and he's apt to be afraid of the dark ever after. And why? Because it's the wrong environment. If the house makes you nervous, pack up and git."

  "What about Mike and Phil?"

  "They could catch it from you. Or the other way around. Phil's a dipsomaniac, anyway. He'll be heading for D.T.'s presently. Too bad; he's a fine artist."

  Melton said, rather defensively, "You know what would happen to Phil if he didn't live with us. And he certainly pays his way."

  "When he works. A couple of pictures a year. Ah, well. I'm a doctor, not a reformer. Is he still on his binge?"

  Melton scowled. "He hasn't touched a drop for a couple of days. That's funny, too. Because he's high most of the time. I know the signs."

  "Maybe he's got a bottle cached away."

  "Not Phil. He does his drinking publicly; he's not ashamed of it. He'll get tanked any time, without apology. That is funny, now that I think of it."

  "How does he act?"

  "As usual. He spends a lot of time in the cellar."

  "Maybe there are some bottles down there," Farr suggested. "Don't let him develop any guilt-complexes. Get him to drink with you, if he's got the urge. The psychological angle is pretty important. He trusts Mike and you completely, but ... well. Tell him to drop in and see me. I want to check his heart, anyway, and I'll buy him a drink at the same time."

  "You're some doctor," Melton said, chuckling. "Well, I've got to do some checking up on a man. See you soon."

  "Move out of that house," Farr called after Melton's retreating figure. "It's probably haunted."

  -

  It wasn't haunted. Yet, that evening, as Melton paused on the porch, his key out, he knew very definitely that he didn't want to go in. He remembered a line from "de la Mare": " 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveler ... knocking on the moonlit door—" And—how did it go?

  "Only a host of listeners ... listening ... to that voice from the world of men."

  Something like that. Indefinable and intangible, as much so as dust motes in moonlight. Move your hand through the shaft, and there's no resistance; the motes swirl away and return.

  Melton grimaced and unlocked the door. In the living room, Phil was slumped on the couch, half asleep. Michaela dropped her sewing and stood up to greet him.

  "Anything?" he asked.

  "Nothing new," Michaela said. "Let me take your coat. I'll hang it up." She went out. Melton picked up the cloth Michaela had been sewing on; she hadn't got very far. He stared at Phil.

  "No remarks?"

  "I am happy," Phil said. "No remarks are necessary."

  "Have a drink?"

  "Nope."

  "Doc Farr wants to see you, when you're in town."

  "Why not?" Phil said. "Find out anything about John French?"

  "Yes, how about that?" Michaela asked, coming back from upstairs. "You said you were going to check up."

  Melton dropped into a chair. "I did check up. Through an agency. But it's no use. The guy simply didn't exist. Nobody ever saw him."

  "Naturally," Phil said.

  Melton sighed. "All right. Who was he? Santa Claus?"

  "Timeo Danaos—The furnace is still going strong."

  "And it's still too hot. Why don't you open a window?"

  "They're stuck again," Michaela said. "We can't get 'em open at all now."

  The lights went on. Melton said, "Did you do that, Phil?"

  "No."

  Melton went over to the switch and tested it. The lights stayed on.

  "Good old John French," Phil murmured. "Good old Jack. This is the house that Jack built. And how!" He rose and went out to the kitchen. Melton heard footsteps on the cellar stairs.

  "Yeah," Michaela said. "He's been going down there all day."

  "He's high as a kite, you know."

  "Of course I know. And—it isn't his usual binge."

  "I know it isn't," Melton said. "Well ... he must get the stuff in the cellar. Maybe Jack ... maybe French left some bottles down there."r />
  "Of what? Uh! Let's not think about it."

  "What did you do today?" Melton asked.

  "Nothing. Literally, nothing. I tried to do some sewing, but time passes too fast here. It was six o'clock before I knew it."

  "Always teatime. What's for dinner?"

  Michaela put her hand to her mouth. "Oh. Beat me, Bob. I forgot about dinner."

  "I think you've been in the cellar, too," Melton said jokingly, but Michaela gave him a look of strained distress.

  "No, Bob. I haven't—not once."

  Melton watched her for a moment. Then he got up, went out to the kitchen, and opened the cellar door. The light was on, and he could see Phil in a corner, standing motionless.

  "Come on up," he said. "We'll have to drink our dinner."

  "In a minute," Phil said.

  -

  Melton went back to the living room. Presently Phil joined them, weaving a little in his walk. Melton nodded darkly.

  "This is the rat that ate the malt," he remarked.

  "Oh, don't," Michaela said. "I keep thinking about the man all tattered and torn."

  "I keep thinking about Jack," Phil said. "Little man who wasn't there. Out of the everywhere into here. Look, Bob. If you spent ten years with the Ubangis, what would you do?"

  "Give up kissing," Melton said.

  "No, I mean it. If you had to move into a Ubangi hut and stay there. You wouldn't have anything in common with the natives, would you?"

  "No."

  "Well?"

  "Well, what? What would you do?"

  "Change the hut a bit," Phil said. "Especially if I wanted to pretend I was a Ubangi, too. I wouldn't alter it outside, but I'd fix it up a bit inside, for my own convenience, and I wouldn't let anybody else come in. Chairs instead of grass mats. I wonder how French had this place furnished."

  "Just who do you think French was?" Melton asked.

  "I don't know. I don't think I could know, even. But I know what he wasn't."

  "What wasn't he?"

  "Human," Phil said.

  Michaela stirred and sucked in her underlip. Phil nodded at her.

  "We're in the house more than you are, Bob. Mickey and I. And it's alive. It's a machine, too. Sort of half and half."

  Melton grimaced. "I suppose it's been talking to you."

  "Of course not. It wasn't designed for that. Jack didn't build this house, but he moved in and fixed it up to suit himself. To suit his special requirements. Whatever they were. He liked—or needed—plenty of heat. That's not too far off the beam. But some of the other things—