Terrors

by Richard A. Lupoff

  Alexander Ulianov rose from his chair. He seemed for a fleeting moment totally unaware of the presence of Biff and Cyndora, seemed almost unaware of his surroundings. He looked at Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and said, “Hey, look at the hour! We’d better get to work or we’ll be in bad trouble. Those new infravibratory food-processors have to hit the market in time for Escoffier’s Birthday!”

  Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu looked at her wrist chrono-tempo-meter and gasped. “You’re right! Let’s go!” She looked around and raised one hand to her face in surprise. “Captain Connaught! Dr. Vexmann! What –”

  “Don’t worry about anything, little lady,” Biff grunted. “You and your pal got to get to work on your instant commo gadget.”

  “Instant commo?” Puzzlement spread on Amy’s face. “What are you talking about? We’re assigned to the new food-processor line.”

  Connaught laughed. “Right. But listen to this.” He grinned, then whispered softly, “Vera Hruba Ralston.”

  Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and Alexander Ulianov both looked stunned. But the shock lasted only for a moment. Each of them seemed to stagger, to regain control, and then Ulianov said, “Hey, look at the hour! We’d better get to work or we’ll be in bad trouble! Those new instantaneous communicators have to hit the market in time for Marconi’s Birthday!”

  Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu looked at her wrist chrono-tempo-meter and gasped. “You’re right! Let’s go!” She looked around and raised one hand to her face in surprise. “Captain Connaught! Dr. Vexmann! What –”

  Don’t worry about anything, little lady,” Biff grunted. “You and your pal got to get to work on your new food processor.”

  “Food processor?” Puzzlement spread on Amy’s face. “What are you talking about? We’re assigned to the new instantaneous communicator line.”

  Connaught laughed. “That’s right. I made a little mistake. Well, you two superbrains go about your superscientific work, hey? It’s too much for me, I’m just a simple old cop trying to make a living. Ain’t that right, Dr. Vexmann?”

  Cyndora said, “That’s right, Biff-O.”

  Amy and Alex left the office and headed for their lab. Almost before the door had hissed shut behind them, Biff Connaught’s office sounded with the mingled laughter of a man and a woman.

  While these events were transpiring in the offices and laboratories of the Macrotech Associates Ell Tee Dee complex in Dinganzicht, and while the little shuttle Clare Winger Harris was bearing studio head Tarquin Armbruster IV and production chief Golda Abromowitz toward the triple sun Fornax 1382, events were continuing to move with Starrett.

  In the city of New Chicago, for example, trade was brisk at Olde Doctor Christmas’s Booke and Brownie Shoppe. The proprietor, Will Lux, was having one his best seasons ever.

  In the Starrettian metropolis of Bombay VII on the western shore of the Muschelkalk Sea, Ponemperuna’s Pet Emporium had just closed for the day. Business in the pet trade was also excellent, and the Ponnemperuna family, Mohandis, Jitendra, and their beloved daughter Chitarhi, were preparing to sit down to a savoury dinner of dhal, curry, and ancient Bombay style bread.

  In the state of Florid also, it was spring training season for the baseball clubs from “up north” (whatever that term might mean in a tincan world like Starrett). The New St. Louis Browns were training in the village of Bahia Mar, and the sensation of the camp was a fabulously talented kid catcher. The kid was knocking the cover off the ball, he had a rifle for an arm, and the way he moved behind the plate, you’d think he had oiled machines for knees.

  What was most remarkable about him was this. He wore his catcher’s mask all the time. Behind the plate, up at bat, in the locker room—everywhere! Nobody on the club had seen his face, and it was rumored that he had been hideously scarred in an accident, so nobody tried to peek. Who cared, as long as he could perform the way he did?

  He wouldn’t even give his name, but since they needed to call him something, he asked for a roster of long-retired New St. Louis Browns players. And since he was a catcher, the kid took the name of a mugg who had once played in a single game for the club. “Joe Nieman Junior, that’s my name,” he told the manager. “You can just call me Joe.”

  The manager said, “Keep playing like that and I’ll call you anything you like.”

  And in Hollywood-between-the-Stars, they were still working on The Dunwich Horror, pending the return of Tarquin Armbruster IV and Golda Abromowitz with some new technology for the sequences involving the Whateley monsters.

  One of the nice things about Starrett was its size—this was a big tincan world. Out at the Colossal Galactic property they had built a complete New England village to provide scenery and backgrounds and sets for The Dunwich Horror. There were already rolling hillsides and green farmlands; it was a perfect place to make the flik.

  Marvin van Buren MacTavish had left behind a final (or nearly final) script when he went with Tarquin Armbruster IV and Gold Abromowitz to the shuttleport. He saw them off on the Clare Winger Harris, then returned to “Dunwich” at Colossal Galactic.

  Golda Abromowitz had appointed a director and the director had hired a special effects crew, a camera crew, a set-decoration crew, a costumer, and all the rest of the people necessary for the production.

  Gaza de Lure II, Nefertiti Logan, Rock Quartz, Roscoe Inelegante, and Karlos Karch were all rehearsed in their roles, and shooting had actually begun, under the careful supervision and control of the director Golda Abromowitz had left in charge. That was Josephine Anne Jones, whose directorial credits included such successes as Pirates of the Plains, The Haunted Garage, and one X-rated hit (she did this one under a pseudonym, and you will please not tell anyone!), The Garden of Shamballah.

  She had even worked from a Martin MacTavish script before, Marty’s early effort Betelgeuse Beach Party, a flik billed as “the universe’s first outer-space surfer spectacular.” The flik made money for years, selling over and over and over again wherever Starrett happened to visit.

  At the very moment that Tarquin Armbruster IV and Golda Abromowitz, travelling in the Clare Winger Harris, hove into sight of Fornax 1382 and exclaimed with pleasure at the lighting effects that the triple glare of Lemon, Lime, and Cherry produced inside their shuttle ship … at this very moment the day’s shooting was about to begin on the set of The Dunwich Horror.

  The scene they were shooting at Colossal Galactic that day was #237k on the master scene list. Josephine Anne Jones was present, dressed in puttees, cravat, beret, and long cigarette holder. (She was a traditionalist; she even wore a monocle tied to the end of a ribbon, but never screwed it into her eye in public; she hadn’t mastered that trick and it embarrassed her to make the effort and fail.)

  Martin van Buren MacTavish was also present, script-book in hand. He had not been pleased with his relationship with Josephine Anne Jones during Betelgeuse Beach Party and he was not happy to have her as director for The Dunwich Horror.

  They were shooting indoors. The scene took place inside the Miskatonic University library. Karlos Karch, as Wilbur Whateley, was decked out in fright-wig, putty nose, plenty of paint and distorters for his face, and even temporarily modified hands. He wore a slouch hat pulled down over his forehead. It was a triumph of costume and camera angle: it would give the illusion that Wilbur’s face was hidden from view while actually affording the audience a thorough examination of Wilbur’s frightening and distorted features.

  And Wilbur, naturally, wore his customary ankle-length overcoat.

  Gaza de Lure II, as Sally Sawyer, had been written into a new task, that of managing librarian for Miskatonic University.

  Gaza was a throwback to an old earth type of beauty. She was slim and fragile looking. She couldn’t have weighed more than four kilograms and she was barely 1.6 meters tall. She had softly flowing pale blonde hair and eyes of a deep yet brilliant emerald hue that were famous on a gross of planets.

  One holoflik historian had traced through prints of ancient fliks and stills from eve
n more ancient ones, and had found an amazing prototype or avatar for Gaza, an antique toodee film actress named Veronica Lake. If you can’t find a holo of Gaza de Lure II, see if you can turn up a toodee print of Veronica Lake or one of her films [that’s what they were called, “films,” or sometimes (I don’t know why) “moompichas”] and you’ll see what this is all about. Be prepared to fall in love.

  Well, there they were on the library set. Wilbur Whateley (Karlos Karch) shambled up to the checkout desk.

  Sally Sawyer (Gaza de Lure II) greeted him. Her face showed an amalgam of horror, fear, and disgust.

  Wilbur, in his strange, guttural tones, spoke to Sally. “There is a book I must have. It is a very rare, very old book.”

  Although Karlos in his natural speech was a most articulate and pleasant-spoken man, he adopted a very different voice as Wilbur Whateley. It was a combination gasp, hiss, and throaty groan.

  “The author of this book is a mad Arab named Abdul. Abdul al-Hazred.”

  The multisense receptors on the flik camera picked up a foetid odor of ancient alienness as Wilbur spoke.

  “I know the book you mean, sir,” Sally said. “I’m afraid it can’t be taken out of the library. If you would like to use it here, we have a special room with armed guards, heavy locks, and thickly armored walls, where you may be permitted to use the book for a limited period of tiktox.”

  “That will do,” Wilbur hissed. “That will have to do. Please show me to the locked chamber. Please fetch the book for me at once.”

  The camera showed Wilbur’s hairy, distorted hands writhing as with a life of their own.

  Josephine Anne Jones yelled, “Cut!”

  The set-lights dimmed back, the camera ground to a halt. “That looks pretty good.” Josephine gestured to the camera op. “Let’s take a quick peek at what we’ve got.”

  Even before she could see the rush, Marty MacTavish was standing before her, jumping up and down. “It isn’t right,” MacTavish yelled, “you changed the dialog! You’re wrecking my script again, just like you did on Betelgeuse Beach Party!”

  “I’m in charge here,” Josephine Anne Jones said. “Keep quiet or I’ll bar you from the set MacTavish.”

  “You can’t do this to me! I’ll talk to Golda about this! I’ll talk to Tarquin! I’ll blow the lid off The Garden of –”

  “Shut up,” Josephine hissed. “Mention that topic once more and I swear, I’ll let a contract and have you killed. I mean it, MacTavish. I’ll do what I say.”

  Marty backed away a step. He burst into a cold sweat. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

  Josephine Anne Jones merely nodded. She stood up and said, “Okay, everybody. Tea break, then 237b. Nobody leave the set, please.”

  After tea they started on 237b. That was the scene of Wilbur trying to smuggle the book out of the Miskatonic University library by concealing it under his overcoat. Being Wilbur Whateley, he’d have his hands free because he could hang onto the book with some of those tentacles and other bizarre appendages he possessed.

  Josephine Anne Jones settled in her director’s chair, ordered the actors to their places, and uttered the time-honored cry: “Lights! Camera! Action!”

  Martin van Buren MacTavish, standing behind Josephine, danced up and down in anxiety, clutching his master copy of the script.

  Karlos Karch came shambling out of the shadows, out of the dim corridor that led from the circulation desk to the locked and guarded rare book room.

  As Karlos passed the circulation desk, the voice of an extra came from off-camera. “Stop that man! He’s stealing a book!”

  Gaza de Lure II hit a button and an iron gate (this was Marty’s invention and he was proud of it) clanged into place, blocking Karlos’s exit from the room.

  Lemon and Lime were at the opposite ends of the sky, Lemon just rising and Lime just setting, with Cherry directly overhead as the Clare Winger Harris spiraled down toward a landing in Dinganzicht. The artificial world’s landing port was opened and the shuttle entered neatly.

  Within a matter of minutes, Tarquin Armbruster IV and Gold Abromowitz were greeted by marketing representatives from Macrotech Associates, and within a matter of minutes after that a conference was taking place between Tarquin, Golda, and a team of Macrotech sales and engineering people in a plush office with the Macrotech complex.

  Back in a service hangar, the shuttle ship Clare Winger Harris had been racked and fuelled and was being held for its owners’ return.

  Some of the service techs and space jockeys who worked in the hangar noticed that the Harris had a thin coating over most of its surface, a peculiarly textured greenish gunk that looked almost like an ultrathin layer of sponge. But, what the hey, the owners hadn’t requested a scrub-up, just a top-off of the fuel tanks. And what they asked for was what they got.

  Ch-ch-ch Junior was left pretty much to itself. It still had the thoughts that it had picked up from Tarquin and Golda to ponder, and although Junior had been alive for a fairly lengthy period of time—and although it was a remarkably intelligent bit of vegetation—Junior was still very new at this consciousness business, and was having quite a time for itself trying to deal with all of the perceptions and thoughts to which it had rather suddenly fallen heir.

  So, since nobody had bothered it any—hey, nobody had much noticed it!—Junior just hung onto the Clare Winger Harris and pondered.

  Golda and Tarquin, over at Macrotech, had pretty well sketched in their problem for the market and engineering folks. The Macrotech people invited them to have lunch in the executive dining room, but Golda, who was of somewhat proletarian attitudes, insisted on buying her own lunch in the employees’ cafeteria.

  Now you have to pay close attention at this point, because something very remarkable happened. Something that couldn’t have been planned. And it makes you wonder about the workings of chance, and whether they are altogether blind.

  Hmm.

  Golda and Tarquin were seated with some Macrotech honchos at a small table, eating a cold salad.

  Amy 2-3-4- Al-Khnemu and Alexander Ulianov were sitting nearby, also eating salad.

  Golda and Tarquin were talking about the movie business.

  Amy and Alex were talking about high-tech food-processors, having been “Pope Innocent the Sixth’ed as they left their communications lab at lunch time.

  At precisely the same moment during their respective meals, both Amy and Golda found it necessary to answer a call of nature. Both of them repaired to the facility. While there they struck up a casual conversation.

  Amy told Golda that she was working with Dr. Ulianov on a new line of food-processors.

  Golda expressed only polite interest.

  Then Golda told Amy that she was working for Mr. Armbruster of Colossal Galactic Studios, that she was production chief and they were planning a big-budget horror movie.

  Amy allowed as how she was interested in movies herself when she wasn’t busy designing food-processors. Especially old movies.

  Golda allowed as how she shared that interest. She was, in fact, probably the greatest Formalhautian film historian alive.

  Amy responded with enthusiasm, reeling off the names of her favorite old-time films, directors, writers, and actors.

  Gold responded with her own favorites. Now would you like to know the names of Golda Abromowitz’s favorite real-old-time movie actresses? You would? Good! Here they come:

  Sara Algood.

  Verree Teasdale.

  Butterfly McQueen.

  Anna May Wong.

  Jane Darwell.

  Dorothy Gish.

  Lupe Velez.

  Lynn Bari.

  Carmen Miranda.

  Vera Hruba Ralston.

  Bingo!

  No sooner had Golda mentioned Vera Hruba Ralston, the star of such memorable flix as The Lady and the Monster, Storm Over Lisbon, and Murder in the Music Hall, than Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu underwent a sudden, slight but noticeable, transition. Her face seemed to sag fo
r an instant before resuming an expression almost—but not quite—exactly the same that it had shown before the mention of Vera Hruba Ralston.

  Not for nothing was Golda Abramowitz regarded as one of the brightest talents in the entire flixbiz. She was knowledgeable, she was intelligent, she was talented, and she was perceptive. Wow, was she ever perceptive!

  That fleeting change in Amy 2-3-4 Khnemu’s expression, that momentary sag of the jaw muscles, that instant of disorientation in her eyes, would have gone unnoticed by almost anyone not carefully looking for such signs. But they didn’t get past Golda Abramowitz. She took hold of Amy’s hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.” Amy blushed. “Look, I’ve really enjoyed out little chat, I’m happy we met. Maybe we can get together for a mild intoxicant after work. But right now I have to get back to the instant commo project with Alex.”

  Did you catch that? Golda Abramowitz sure as hell did. “What instant commo project?”

  Amy shook her head. She pulled her hands free of Golda’s. “Look, I have to make a living. I’m working on an instant-communicator for Macrotech.” She checked the time. “I do have to get back to work.”

  “Now just hold on. There’s something very strange here.”

  Amy might have been inclined to push past Golda and just stalk away, but she thought better of that. After all, Golda Abramowitz was a seven-foot tall Formalhautan. You didn’t just brush past her. No you did not.

  Golda and Amy sat down on a cushioned sofa there in the ladies’ lounge, and before coffee could cool back at their respective tables, they had unravelled the whole scheme that Biff Connaught and Cyndora Vexmann had so skillfully and ruthlessly woven.

  The one thing they could not unravel was the key word that set Alex and Amy up to think they were working on food-processors. But even that part of the Macrotech scheme was shortly to fail—and in an equally unlikely and farfetched manner.

  Dig it:

  As Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and Golda Abramowitz sat in the lounge working out the details of the key-word security scheme, Tarquin Armbruster IV and his hosts were still seated in the cafeteria, sipping coffee, smoking cigars, and carrying on a conversation consisting of just the type of small talk that such new business acquaintances would indulge in under the circumstances.