by Robert Bloch
'This man Colin is done for, I tell you. Incipient breakdown. Tried to attack me this afternoon when I told him I was removing his clay dolls. You'd think they were live pets of his. Perhaps he thinks so."
Colin clung to the pants-cloth below the knees. Blind, he could not know if he would be spied; but he must cling close, high, to catch words in the tumult.
Jerris was speaking.
"Perhaps he thinks so. Perhaps they are. At any rate what are you doing with a doll on your leg?"
Doll on your leg? Colin! —
Colin on the bed in his room tried desperately to withdraw life; tried to withdraw hearing and sensation from the limbs of his clay self, but too late. There was an incredulous roar; something reached out and grasped him, and then there was an agonizing squeeze. . . .
Colin sank back in bed, sank back into a world of red, swimming light.
3
Sun shone in Colin's face. He sat up. Had he dreamed?
"Dreamed?" he whispered.
He whispered again. "Dreamed?"
He couldn't hear. He was deaf.
His ears, his hearing faculty, had been focused on the clay figure, and it was destroyed last night when Starr crushed it. Now he was deaf!
The thought was insanity. Colin swung himself out of bed in panic, then toppled to the floor.
He couldn't walk!
The feet were on the clay figure, he'd willed it, and now it was crushed. He couldn't walk!
Disassociation of his faculties, his members. It was real, then! His ears, his legs, had in some mysterious way been lent vitally to that crushed clay man. Now he had lost them. Thank heaven he hadn't sent his eyes!
But it was horror to stare at the stumps where his legs had been; horror to feel in his ears for bony ridges no longer there. It was horror and it was hate. Starr had done this. Killed a man, crippled him.
Right then and there Colin planned it all. He had the power. He could animate his clay figures, and then give them a special life as well. By concentrating, utilizing his peculiar physical disintegration, he could put part of himself into clay. Very well, then. Starr would pay.
Colin stayed in bed. When Starr came in the afternoon, he did not rise. Starr mustn't see his legs, or realize that he could no longer hear. Starr was talking, perhaps about the clay figure he'd found last night, clinging to his leg; the clay figure he'd destroyed. Perhaps he spoke of destroying these clay figures that he now gathered up, together with the rest of the clay. Perhaps he asked after Colin's health; why he was in bed.
Colin feigned lethargy, the introspection of the schizoid. And Starr gathered up the rest of the clay and went away.
Then Colin smiled. He pulled out the tiny clay form from under the sheets; the one he'd hidden there. It was a perfect man, with unusually muscled arms, and very long fingernails. The teeth, too, were very good. But the figure was incomplete. It had no face.
Colin began to work, very fast there as the twilight gathered. He brought a mirror and as he worked on the figure he smiled at himself as though snaring a secret jest with someone—or something. Darkness fell, and still Colin worked from memory alone; worked delicately, skillfully, like an artist, like a creator, breathing life into clay. Life into clay. . . .
4
"I tell you the damned thing was alive!" Jerris shouted. He'd lost his temper at last, forgot his superior in office. "I saw it!"
Starr smiled.
"It was clay, and I crushed it," he answered. "Let's not argue any longer."
Jerris shrugged. Two hours of speculation. Tomorrow he'd see Colin himself, find out what the man was doing. He was a genius, even though mad. Starr was a fool. He'd evidently aggravated Colin to the point of physical illness, taking away his clay.
Jerris shrugged again. The clay—and last night, the memory of that tiny, perfectly formed figure clinging to Starr's pants-leg where nothing could have stuck for long. It had clung. And when Starr crushed it, there had been a framework of clay bones protruding, and viscera hung out, and it had writhed —or seemed to writhe, in the light.
"Stop shrugging and go to bed," Starr chuckled. It was a matter-of-fact chuckle, and Jerris heeded it. "Quit worrying about a nut. Colin's crazy, and from now on I'll treat him as such. Been patient long enough. Have to use force. And—I wouldn't talk about clay figures any longer if I were you."
The tone was a command. Jerris gave a final shrug of acquiescence and left the room.
Starr switched off the light and prepared to doze there at the night desk. Jerris knew his habits.
Jerris walked down the hall. Strange, how this business upset him! Seeing the clay figures this afternoon had really made him quite sick. The work was so perfect, so wonderfully accurate in miniature! And yet the forms were clay, just clay. They hadn't moved as Starr kneaded them in his fists. Clay ribs smashed in, and clay eyes popped from actual sockets and rolled over the tabletop —nauseous! And the little clay hairs, the shreds of clay skin so skillfully overlaid! A tiny dissection, this destruction. Colin, mad or sane, was a genius.
Jerris shrugged, this time to himself. What the devil! He blinked awake. And then he saw—it.
Like a rat. A little rat. A little rat scurrying down the hall, upright, on two legs instead of four. A little rat without fur, without a tail. A little rat that cast the perfect tiny shadow of—a man!
It had a face, and it looked up. Jerris almost fancied he saw its eyes flash at him. It was a little brown rat made of clay—no, it was a little clay man like those Colin made. A little clay man, running swiftly toward Starr's door, crawling under it. A perfect little clay man, alive!
Jerris gasped. He was crazy, like the rest, like Colin. And yet it had run into Starr's office, it was moving, it had eyes and a face and it was clay.
Jerris acted. He ran—not toward Starr's door, but down the hall to Colin's room. He felt for keys; he had them. It was a long moment before he fumbled at the lock and opened the door, another before he found the lights, and switched them on.
And it was a terribly long moment he spent staring at the thing on the bed —the thing with stumpy legs, lying sprawled back in a welter of sculpturing tools, with a mirror flat across its chest, staring up at a sleeping face that was not a face.
The moment was long. Screaming must have come from Starr's office for perhaps thirty seconds before Jerris heard it. Screaming turned into moans and still Jerris stared into the face that was not a face; the face that changed before his eyes, melting away, scratched away by invisible hands into a pulp.
It happened like that. Something wiped out the face of the man on the bed, tore the head from the neck. And the moaning rose from down the hall
Jerris ran. He was the first to reach the office, by a good minute. He saw what he expected to see.
Starr lay back in his chair, throat flung to one side. The little clay man had done its job and Doctor Starr was quite dead. The tiny brown figure had dug perfectly-formed talons into the sleeping throat, and with surgical skill applied talons, and perhaps teeth, to the jugular at precisely the most fatal spot in the vein. Starr died before he could dislodge the diabolically clever image of a man, but his last wild clawing had torn away the face and head.
Jerris ripped the monstrous mannikin off and crushed it; crushed it to a brown pulp between his fingers before others arrived in the room.
Then he stooped down to the floor and picked up the torn head with the mangled face, the miniature, carefully-modeled face that grinned in triumph, grinned in death.
Jerris shrugged himself into a shiver as he crushed into bits the little clay face of Colin, the creator.
Almost Human
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" whispered Professor Blasserman.
The tall man in the black slicker grinned.He thrust a foot into the half-opened doorway. "I've come to see Junior," he said.
"Junior? But there must be some mistake. There are no children in this house. I am Professor Blasserman. I — "
"Cut the stalling," said
the tall man. He slid one hand into his raincoat pocket and leveled the ugly muzzle of a pistol at Professor Blassermans pudgy waistline."Let's go see Junior," said the tall man, patiently.
"Who are you? What do you mean by threatening me?"
The pistol never wavered as it dug into Professor Blasserman's stomach until the cold, round muzzle rested against his bare flesh.
"Take me to Junior," insisted the tall man. "I got nervous fingers, get me? And one of them's holding the trigger."
"You wouldn't dare!" gasped Professor Blasserman.
"I take lots of dares," murmured the tall man. "Better get moving, Professor."
Professor Blasserman shrugged hopelessly and started back down the hallway. The man in the black slicker moved behind him. Now the pistol pressed against the Professor's spine as he urged his fat little body forward.
"Here we are." The old man halted before an elaborately carved door. He stooped and inserted a key in the lock. The door opened, revealing another corridor.
"This way, please." They walked along the corridor. It was dark, but the Professor never faltered in his even stride. And the pistol kept pace with him, pressing the small of his back.
Another door, another key. This time there were stairs to descend. The Professor snapped on a dim overhead light as they started down the stairs.
"You sure take good care of Junior," said the tall man, softly. The Professor halted momentarily.
"I don't understand," he muttered. "How did you find out? Who could have told you?"
"I got connections," the tall man replied. "But get this straight, Professor. I'm asking the questions around here. Just take me to Junior, and snap it up."
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and another door. This door was steel. There was a padlock on it, and Professor Blasserman had trouble with the combination in the dim light. His pudgy fingers trembled.
"This is the nursery, eh?" observed the man with the pistol. "Junior ought to feel flattered with all this care."
The Professor did not reply. He opened the door, pressed a wall switch, and light flooded the chamber beyond the threshold.
"Here we are," he sighed.
The tall man swept the room with a single searching glance — a professional observation he might have described as "casing the joint." At first sight there was nothing to "case."
The fat little Professor and the thin gunman stood in the center of a large, cheery nursery. The walls were papered in baby blue, and along the borders of the paper were decorative figures of Disney animals and characters from Mother Goose.
Over in the corner was a child's blackboard, a stack of toys, and a few books of nursery rhymes. On the far side of the wall hung a number of medical charts and sheafs of papers.
The only article of furniture was a long iron cot.
All this was apparent to the tall, thin man in a single glance. After that his eyes ignored the background, and focused in a glittering stare at the figure seated on the floor amidst a welter of alphabet blocks.
"So here he is," said the tall man. "Junior himself! Well, well — who'd have ever suspected it?"
Professor Blasserman nodded.
'Yah" he said. "You have found me out. I still don't know how, and I don't know why. What do you want with him? Why do you pry into my affairs? Who are you?"
"Listen, Professor," said the tall man. "This isn't Information Please. I don't like questions. They bother me. They make my fingers nervous. Understand?
'Yah."
"Suppose I ask you a few questions for a change? And suppose you answer them — fast!"
The voice commanded, and the gun backed up the command.
"Tell me about Junior, now, Professor. Talk, and talk straight."
"What is there to say?" Professor Blasserman's palms spread outward in a helpless gesture. "You see him."
"But what is he? What makes him tick?"
"That I cannot explain. It took me twenty years to evolve Junior, as you call him. Twenty years of research at Basel, Zurich, Prague, Vienna. Then came this verdammt war and I fled to this country.
"I brought my papers and equipment with me. Nobody knew. I was almost ready to proceed with my experiments. I came here and bought the house. I went to work. I am an old man. I have little time left. Otherwise I might have waited longer before actually going ahead, for my plans are not perfected. But I had to act. And here is the result."
"But why hide him? Why all the mystery?"
"The world is not ready for such a thing yet," said Professor Blasserman, sadly. "And besides, I must study. As you see, Junior is very young. Hardly out of the cradle, you might say. I am educating him now."
"In a nursery, eh?"
"His brain is undeveloped, like that of any infant."
"Doesn't look much like an infant to me."
"Physically, of course, he will never change. But the sensitized brain — that is the wonderful instrument. The human touch, my masterpiece. He will learn fast, very fast. And it is of the utmost importance that he be properly trained."
"What's the angle, Professor?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What are you getting at? What are you trying to pull here? Why all the fuss?"
"Science," said Professor Blasserman. "This is my lifework."
"I don't know how you did it," said the tall man, shaking his head. "But it sure looks like something you get with a package of reefers."
For the first time the figure on the floor raised its head. Its eyes left the building blocks and stared up at the Professor and his companion.
"Papa!"
"God — it talks!" whispered the tall man.
"Of course," said Professor Blasserman. "Mentally it's about six years old now." His voice became gentle. "What is it, son?"
"Who is that man, Papa?"
"Oh —he is — "
Surprisingly enough, the tall gunman interrupted. His own voice was suddenly gentle, friendly. "My name is Duke, son. Just call me Duke. I've come to see you."
"That's nice. Nobody ever comes to see me, except Miss Wilson, of course. I hear so much about people and I don't see anybody. Do you like to play with blocks?"
"Sure, son, sure."
"Do you want to play with me?"
"Why not?"
Duke moved to the center of the room and dropped to his knees. One hand reached out and grasped an alphabet block.
"Wait a minute — I don't understand — what are you doing?" Professor Blasserman's voice quivered.
"I told you I've come here to visit Junior," Duke replied. "That's all there is to it. Now I'm going to play with him awhile. You just wait there, Professor. Don't go away. I've got to make friends with Junior."
While Professor Blasserman gaped, Duke the gunman squatted on the floor. His left hand kept his gun swiveled directly at the scientist's waist, but his right hand slowly piled alphabet blocks into place.
It was a touching scene there in the underground nursery — the tall thin gunman playing with building blocks for the benefit of the six-foot metal monstrosity that was Junior, the robot.
Duke didn't find out all he wanted to know about Junior for many weeks. He stayed right at the house, of course, and kept close to Professor Blasserman.
"I haven't decided yet, see?" was his only answer to the old mans repeated questions as to what he intended to do.
But to Miss Wilson he was much more explicit. They met frequently and privately, in her room.
Outwardly, Miss Wilson was the nurse, engaged by Professor Blasserman to assist in his queer experiment of bringing up a robot like a human child.
Actually, Lola Wilson was Duke's woman. He'd "planted" her in her job months ago. At that time, Duke expected to stage a robbery with the rich and eccentric European scientist as victim.
Then Lola had reported the unusual nature of her job, and told Duke the story of Professor Blasserman's unusual invention.
"We gotta work out an angle," Duke decided. "I'd better take over.
The old man's scared of anyone finding out about his robot, huh? Good! I'll move right in on him. He'll never squeal. I've got a hunch we'll get more out of this than just some easy kale. This sounds big."
So Duke took over, came to live in Professor Blasserman's big house, kept his eye on the scientist and his hand on his pistol.
At night he talked to Lola in her room.
"I can't quite figure it, kid," he said. "You say the old guy is a great scientist. That I believe. Imagine inventing a machine that can talk and think like a human being! But what's his angle? Where's his percentage in all this and why does he keep Junior hidden away?"
"You don't understand, honey," said Lola, lighting Duke's cigarette and running slim fingers through his wiry hair. "He's an idealist, or whatever you call 'em. Figures the world isn't ready for such a big new invention yet. You see, he's really educating Junior just like you'd educate a real kid. Teaching him reading and writing—the works. Junior's smart. He catches on fast. He thinks like he was ten years old already. The Professor keeps him shut away so nobody gives him a bum steer. He doesn't want Junior to get any wrong ideas."
"That's where you fit in, eh?"
"Sure. Junior hasn't got a mother. I'm sort of a substitute old lady for him."
"You're a swell influence on any brat," Duke laughed, harshly. "A sweet character you've got!"
"Shut up!" The girl paced the floor, running her hands through a mass of tawny auburn curls on her neck. "Don't needle me, Duke! Do you think I like stooging for you in this nuthouse? Keeping locked away with a nutty old goat, and acting like a nursemaid to that awful metal thing?
Tm afraid of Junior, Duke. I can't stand his face, and the way he talks — with that damned mechanical voice of his, grinding at you just like he was a real person. I get jumpy. I get nightmares.
"I'm just doing it for you, honey. So don't needle me."
Tm sorry." Duke sighed. "I know how it is, baby. I don't go for Junior's personality so much myself. I'm pretty much in the groove, but there's something that gets me in the stomach when I see that walking machine come hulking up like a big baby, made out of steel. He's strong as an ox, too. He learns fast. He's going to be quite a citizen."
