The Best of Robert Bloch

by Robert Bloch

  "Prepare to be astonished again then," Dr. Prager said grimly. He pulled the small bottle from his pocket and with it a piece of paper.

  "What's that, Doc?" Eve Eden asked.

  "A certificate from Haddon and Haddon, industrial chemists," the psychiatrist told her. "I took this interesting souvenir, as your friend calls it, down to their laboratories for analysis." He handed her the report. "Here, read for yourself. If your knowledge of chemistry is insufficient, I can tell you that H2O means water." He smiled. "Yes, that's right. This bottle contains nothing but half an ounce of water."

  Dr. Prager turned and stared at Professor Laroc. "What have you to say now?" he demanded.

  "Very little." The old man smiled. "It does not surprise me that you were unable to find my name listed in any registry or directory of activities, legal or illegal. As Miss Eden already knows, I chose to cross over many years ago. Nor was 'Laroc' my actual surname. A moment's reflection will enable you to realize that 'Laroc' is an obvious enough anagram for 'Carroll,' give or take a few letters."

  "You don't mean to tell me—"

  "That I am Lewis Carroll, or rather, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson? Certainly not. I hold the honor of being a fellow alumnus of his at Oxford, and we did indeed share an acquaintance—"

  "But Lewis Carroll died in 1898," Dr. Prager objected.

  "Ah, you were interested enough to look up the date." The old man smiled. "I see you're not as skeptical as you pretend to be."

  Dr. Prager felt that he was giving ground and remembered that attack is the best defense. "Where is Wally Redmond?" he countered.

  "With the Duchess of Towers, I would presume," Professor Laroc answered. "He chose to cross over permanently, and I selected Peter Ibbetson for him. You see, I'm restricted to literature which was directly inspired by the author's dream, and there's a rather small field available. I still have Cabell's Smirt to sell, and The Brushwood Boy of Kipling, but I don't imagine I shall ever manage to dispose of any Lovecraft—too gruesome, you know." He glanced at Eve Eden. "Fortunately, as I told you, I've reserved something very special for you. And I'm glad you decided to take the step. The moment I saw you my heart went out to you. I sensed the little girl buried away beneath all the veneer, just as I sensed the small boy in Mr. Redmond. So many of you Hollywood people are frustrated children. You make dreams for others but have none of your own. I am glad to offer my modest philanthropy—"

  "At ten thousand dollars a session!" Dr. Prager exploded.

  "Now, now," Professor Laroc chided. "That sounds like professional jealousy, sir! And I may as well remind you that a permanent crossover requires a fee of fifty thousand. Not that I need the money, you understand. It's merely that such a fee helps to establish me as an authority. It brings about the necessary transference relationship between my clients and myself, to borrow from your own terminology. The effect is purely psychological."

  Dr. Prager had heard enough. This, he decided, was definitely the time to call a halt. Even Eve Eden in her present disturbed state should be able to comprehend the utter idiocy of this man's preposterous claims.

  He faced the elderly charlatan with a disarming smile. "Let me get this straight," he began quietly. "Am I to understand that you are actually selling dreams?"

  "Let us say, rather, that I sell experiences. And the experiences are every bit as real as anything you know."

  "Don't quibble over words." Dr. Prager was annoyed. "You come in and hypnotize patients. During their sleep you suggest they enter a dream world. And then—"

  "If you don't mind, let us quibble a bit over words, please," Professor Laroc said. "You're a psychiatrist. Very well, as a psychiatrist, please tell me one thing. Just what is a dream?"

  "Why, that's very simple," Dr. Prager answered. "According to Freud, the dream phenomenon can be described as—"

  "I didn't ask for a description, Doctor. Nor for Freud's opinion. I asked for an exact definition of the dream state, as you call it. I want to know the etiology and epistemology of dreams. And while you're at it, how about a definition of 'the hypnotic state' and of 'sleep'? And what is 'suggestion'? After you've given me precise scientific definitions of these phenomena, as you love to call them, perhaps you can go on and explain to me the nature of 'reality' and the exact meaning of the term 'imagination.' "

  "But these are only figures of speech," Dr. Prager objected. "I'll be honest with you. Perhaps we can't accurately describe a dream. But we can observe it. It's like electricity: nobody knows what it is, but it's a measurable force which can be directed and controlled, subject to certain natural laws."

  "Exactly," Professor Laroc said. "That's just what I would have said myself. And dreams are indeed like electrical force. Indeed, the human brain gives off electrical charges, and all life—matter—energy—enters into an electrical relationship. But this relationship has never been studied. Only the physical manifestations of electricity have been studied and harnessed, not the psychic. At least, not until Dodgson stumbled on certain basic mathematical principles, which he imparted to me. I developed them, found a practical use. The dream, my dear doctor, is merely an electrically charged dimension given a reality of its own beyond our own space-time continuum. The individual dream is weak. Set it down on paper, as some dreams have been set down, share it with others, and watch the charge build up. The combined electrical properties tend to create a permanent plane—a dream dimension, if you please."

  "I don't please," answered Dr. Prager.

  "That's because you're not receptive," Professor Laroc observed smugly. "Yours is a negative charge rather than a positive one. Dodgson—Lewis Carroll—was positive. So was Lovecraft and Poe and Edward Lucas White and a handful of others. Their dreams live. Other positive charges can live in them, granted the proper method of entry. It's not magic. There's nothing supernatural about it at all, unless you consider mathematics as magic. Dodgson did. He was a professor of mathematics, remember. And so was I. I took his principles and extended them, created a practical methodology. Now I can enter dream worlds at will, cause others to enter. It's not hypnosis as you understand it. A few words of non-Euclidean formula will be sufficient—"

  "I've heard enough," Dr. Prager broke in. "Much as I hate to employ the phrase, this is sheer lunacy."

  The professor shrugged. "Call it what you wish," he said. "You psychiatrists are good at pinning labels on things. But Miss Eden here has had sufficient proof through her own experience. Isn't that so?"

  Eve Eden nodded, then broke her silence. "I believe you," she said. "Even if Doc here thinks we're both batty. And I'm willing to give you the fifty grand for a permanent trip."

  Dr. Prager grabbed for his goatee. He was clutching at straws now. "But you can't," he cried. "This doesn't make sense."

  "Maybe not your kind of sense," Eve answered. "But that's just the trouble. You don't seem to understand there's more than one kind. That crazy dream I had, the one you say Lewis Carroll had first and wrote up into a book—it makes sense to you if you really live it. More sense than Hollywood, than this. More sense than a little kid named Wilma Kozmowski growing up to live in a half-million-dollar palace and trying to kill herself because she can't be a little kid anymore and never had a chance to be one when she was small. The professor here, he understands. He knows everybody has a right to dream. For the first time in my life I know what it is to be happy."

  "That's right," Professor Laroc added. "I recognized her as a kindred spirit. I saw the child beneath, the child of the pure unclouded brow, as Lewis Carroll put it. She deserved this dream."

  "Don't try and stop me," Eve cut in. "You can't, you know. You'll never drag me back to your world, and you've got no reason to try—except that you like the idea of making a steady living off me. And so does Dennis, with his lousy ten per cent, and so does the studio with its big profits. I never met anyone who really liked me as a person except Professor Laroc here. He's the only one who ever gave me anything worth having. The dream. So quit trying to arg
ue me into it, Doc. I'm not going to be Eve anymore or Wilma either. I'm going to be Alice."

  Dr. Prager scowled, then smiled. What was the matter with him? Why was he bothering to argue like this? After all, it was so unnecessary. Let the poor child write out a check for fifty thousand dollars—payment could always be stopped. Just as this charlatan could be stopped if he actually attempted hypnosis. There were laws and regulations. Really, Dr. Prager reminded himself, he was behaving like a child himself: taking part in this silly argument just as if there actually was something to it besides nonsense words.

  What was really at stake, he realized, was professional pride. To think that this old mountebank could actually carry more authority with Eve Eden than he did himself!

  And what was the imposter saying now, with that sickening, condescending smile on his face?

  "I'm sorry you cannot subscribe to my theories, Doctor. But at least I am grateful for one thing, and that is that you didn't see fit to put them to the test."

  "Test? What do you mean?"

  Professor Laroc pointed his finger at the little bottle labeled "Drink Me" which now rested on the table before him. "I'm happy you merely analyzed the contents of that vial without attempting to drink them."

  "But it's nothing but water."

  "Perhaps. What you forget is that water may have very different properties in other worlds. And this water came from the world of Alice."

  "You planted that," Dr. Prager snapped. "Don't deny it."

  "I do deny it. Miss Eden knows the truth."

  "Oh, does she?" Dr. Prager suddenly found his solution. He raised the bottle, turning to Eve with a commanding gesture. "Listen to me now. Professor Laroc claims, and you believe, that this liquid was somehow transported from the dream world of Alice in Wonderland. If that is the case, then a drink out of this bottle would cause me either to grow or to shrink. Correct?"

  "Yes," Eve murmured.

  "Now wait—" the professor began, but Dr. Prager shook his head impatiently.

  "Let me finish," he insisted. "All right. By the same token, if I took a drink from this bottle and nothing happened, wouldn't it prove that the dream-world story is a fake?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "No 'buts.' I'm asking you a direct question. Would it or wouldn't it?"

  "Y-yes. I guess so. Yes."

  "Very well, then." Dramatically, Dr. Prager uncorked the little bottle and raised it to his lips. "Watch me," he said.

  Professor Laroc stepped forward. "Please!" he shouted. "I implore you—don't—"

  He made a grab for the bottle, but he was too late.

  Dr. Prager downed the half ounce of colorless fluid.

  7

  Mickey Dennis waited and waited until he couldn't stand it any longer. There hadn't been any loud sounds from upstairs at all, and this only made it worse.

  Finally he got the old urge so bad he just had to go on up there and see for himself what was going on.

  As he walked down the hall he could hear them talking inside the bedroom. At least he recognized Professor Laroc's voice. He was saying something about, "There, there, I know it's quite a shock. Perhaps you'd feel better if you didn't wait—do you want to go now?"

  That didn't make too much sense to Mickey, and neither did Eve's reply. She said, "Yes, but don't I have to go to sleep first?"

  And then the professor answered, "No, as I explained to him, it's just a question of the proper formulae. If I recite them we can go together. Er—you might bring your checkbook along."

  Eve seemed to be giggling. "You too?" she asked.

  "Yes. I've always loved this dream, my dear. It's a sequel to the first one, as you'll discover. Now if you'll just face the mirror with me—"

  And then the professor mumbled something in a very low voice, and Mickey bent down with his head close to the door but he couldn't quite catch it. Instead his shoulder pushed the door open.

  The bedroom was empty.

  That's right, empty.

  But he could swear he heard voices just a second ago. What had the professor said? Something about facing the mirror?

  Mickey looked in the mirror, the big mirror above the mantelpiece.

  For a moment he got a screwy idea he could see the professor and Eve Eden reflected in the glass, with the light shining every which way and Eve somehow looking like a little kid with long golden curls. But that was crazy, of course.

  Then the dressed-up white rabbit came hopping out from behind the bed and began to scamper around the floor.

  Mickey didn't know how to explain that one either. There was going to be a lot he couldn't explain. He'd never find out where Eve and the professor had gone, because he'd never read Through the Looking-Glass. And he'd never understand where Doc went, for that matter.

  The rabbit began to scamper around the pile of clothing on the floor. Mickey recognized Doc's coat and trousers and shirt and necktie, but this didn't tell him anything either.

  Then he stooped and picked up the little bottle lying next to the empty clothes. He stared at the label reading "Drink Me."

  Right now he could use a drink, Mickey decided, but this bottle was empty.

  Maybe it was just as well. . . .

  Broomstick Ride

  IT WAS CLOSE to midnight when they gathered at the crater. Night raised its head across the pitted plains, and the twin moons opened their green eyes to stare down into the crater's depths.

  The pit was deep and dark. Forbes crouched on the rim with his companions, and his mind was full of d's. Deep, dark, dank, dismal, dolorous. Yes, he thesaurized, and also dreary, deathly, damned, and doomed. To say nothing of diabolical.

  Right now, crouching at the crater's edge, he mentally reviewed the work of Shakespeare, William. Macbeth was what he had in mind. Macbeth on the blasted heath. If this wasn't a blasted heath, then all his concepts were awry. A blasted heath at midnight, with two moons instead of one.

  Just behind him in the darkness, the three technicians checked the controls of the recorder units. Visio and audio extended full range to cover a 360° scan on a half-mile sweep, with a 20-20000 frequency. Fourteen lenses played upon the heath, the crater rim, and the crater depths.

  "Picking up anything yet?" Forbes whispered.

  "Not yet. But if anything happens—" The technician's tone implied, for himself and his two companions, that nothing was expected to happen. They couldn't quite understand what they were doing on a blasted heath at midnight, setting up their sensitive equipment to record emptiness and silence.

  Forbes couldn't blame them. This was supposed to be just a routine field trip.

  "You'll check Pyris," the director had told him. "Cartography did a run on it, and Doyle will give you the details. The atmosphere, I understand, is positively Earth-like, and it's a Class I planet—one of the anthropomorphic cultures. Doyle places it at about 900 spans behind us, and there are even language similarities. We'll want audio and visio records, of course, and an element analysis. Just a preliminary survey, in case we find mineralogical possibilities worth exploiting. Strictly a routine checkup."

  And Doyle hadn't added much more. "Outside of the craters and vegetation you'd think you were on Earth—a thousand spans ago, of course. The natives wear clothes, they have a primitive government, a religious pattern complete with totem and taboo—everything. Better get a hypnolearn on the language."

  Forbes took the hypnolearn, and that started him wondering. The language wasn't English, but there were odd similarities. And odd references—some of them so odd that Forbes spent the last week before departure checking Central Data files. He had covered all the available filmscannings from 1500 to 1700 Oldstyle.

  The comparison between life on Pyris and life on Earth in post-feudal times proved surprisingly apt after Forbes landed. He had paid a formal call upon the Kal, or ruler, and sued for permission to "visit" the planet. Gifts and courtesies had been exchanged, and then Forbes had taken his technical crew into the desert to study life in the vi
llages. A small force remained aboard the ship, which had landed close to the Kal's fortress.

  For three days Forbes and his men had taken records of daily existence in the mines and the subterranean grottoes where all the food for the planet was grown. He reviewed his conversation with the "peasants"—that's what they'd be called on Oldstyle Earth, and that's how he thought of them now. He remembered the hints of curious beliefs which the workers of Pyris held. They were afraid to dig in certain grottoes, they kept away from the pits after dark, and they whispered of certain things which meant nothing to the men in Forbes's crew. But he had scanned the Oldstyle past on Earth, and that's how he'd run into Shakespeare, and similarities. The similarities excited him sufficiently to have his equipment set up in what he thought was the logical spot at the logical time. The blasted heath at midnight.

  Now Forbes crouched there and waited for what appears on blasted heaths.

  It came.

  Audio got it first, faint and far away. The rush of matter through atmosphere, and above it the shriller sounds, splintering the silence.

  One of the technicians, Kalt, began to mutter. "Bedamned! Voices. Voices in the sky!"

  Visio took over now. The delicate cameras were on target, automatically focusing and feeding out infra and ultra to record what human eyes could not as yet perceive. And then the distant objects came into the range of normal viewing.

  "Look!" Kalt whispered to his companions. "Pyrans. Up there, in the sky. And what are they riding on?"

  Forbes could have told him. Forbes could have told him what comes to blasted heaths at midnight, and what they rode upon. But he kept silent, rather than disturb them at their work.

  A month ago he himself would not have been disturbed, but since then he'd done that filmscan. And now he knew about witches.

  They rode on broomsticks to the Sabbath, swooped from the skies—witches and warlocks, wizards and sorceresses, coming in coven to adore Satan, the Black Master of the Flock.