Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  Ah, murmured the crowd, for surely there had never been a tattooed man like this! The beast eyes seemed to take red fire and blue fire, blinking and twisting. The roses on his fingers seemed to expel a sweet pink bouquet. The Tyrannosaurus rex reared up along his leg, and the sound of the brass trumpet in the hot tent heavens was a prehistoric cry from the red monster throat. Mr. William Philippus Phelps was a museum jolted to life. Fish swam in seas of electric-blue ink. Fountains sparkled under yellow suns. Ancient buildings stood in meadows of harvest wheat. Rockets burned across spaces of muscle and flesh. The slightest inhalation of his breath threatened to make chaos of the entire printed universe. He seemed afire, the creatures flinching from the flame, drawing back from the great heat of his pride, as he expanded under the audience’s rapt contemplation.

  The carny boss laid his fingers to the adhesive. The audience rushed forward, silent in the oven vastness of the night tent.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet!” cried the carny boss.

  The adhesive ripped free.

  There was an instant in which nothing happened. An instant in which the Illustrated Man thought that the Unveiling was a terrible and irrevocable failure.

  But then the audience gave a low moan.

  The carny boss drew back, his eyes fixed.

  Far out at the edge of the crowd, a woman, after a moment, began to cry, began to sob, and did not stop.

  Slowly, the Illustrated Man looked down at his naked chest and stomach.

  The thing that he saw made the roses on his hands discolor and die. All of his creatures seemed to wither, turn inward, shrivel with the arctic coldness that pumped from his heart outward to freeze and destroy them. He stood trembling. His hands floated up to touch that incredible picture, which lived, moved and shivered with life. It was like gazing into a small room, seeing a thing of someone else’s life so intimate, so impossible that one could not believe and one could not long stand to watch without turning away.

  It was a picture of his wife, Lisabeth, and himself.

  And he was killing her.

  Before the eyes of a thousand people in a dark tent in the center of a black-forested Wisconsin land, he was killing his wife.

  His great flowered hands were upon her throat, and her face was turning dark and he killed her and he killed her and did not ever in the next minute stop killing her. It was real. While the crowd watched, she died, and he turned very sick. He was about to fall straight down into the crowd. The tent whirled like a monster bat wing, flapping grotesquely. The last thing he heard was a woman, sobbing, far out on the shore of the silent crowd.

  And the crying woman was Lisabeth, his wife.

  In the night, his bed was moist with perspiration. The carnival sounds had melted away, and his wife, in her own bed, was quiet now, too. He fumbled with his chest. The adhesive was smooth. They had made him put it back.

  He had fainted. When he revived, the carny boss had yelled at him, “Why didn’t you say what the picture was like?”

  “I didn’t know, I didn’t,” said the Illustrated Man.

  “Good God!” said the boss. “Scare hell outa everyone. Scared hell outa Lizzie, scared hell outa me. Christ, where’d you get that damn tattoo?” He shuddered. “Apologize to Lizzie, now.”

  His wife stood over him.

  “I’m sorry, Lisabeth,” he said, weakly, his eyes closed. “I didn’t know.”

  “You did it on purpose,” she said. “To scare me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Either it goes or I go,” she said.

  “Lisabeth.”

  “You heard me. That picture comes off or I quit this show.”

  “Yeah, Phil,” said the boss. “That’s how it is.”

  “Did you lose money? Did the crowd demand refunds?”

  “It ain’t the money, Phil. For that matter, once the word got around, hundreds of people wanted in. But I’m runnin’ a clean show. That tattoo comes off! Was this your idea of a practical joke, Phil?”

  He turned in the warm bed. No, not a joke. Not a joke at all. He had been as terrified as anyone. Not a joke. That little old dust-witch, what had she done to him and how had she done it? Had she put the picture there? No; she had said that the picture was unfinished, and that he himself, with his thoughts and perspiration, would finish it. Well, he had done the job all right.

  But what, if anything, was the significance? He didn’t want to kill anyone. He didn’t want to kill Lisabeth. Why should such a silly picture burn here on his flesh in the dark?

  He crawled his fingers softly, cautiously down to touch the quivering place where the hidden portrait lay. He pressed tight, and the temperature of that spot was enormous. He could almost feel that little evil picture killing and killing and killing all through the night.

  I don’t wish to kill her, he thought, insistently, looking over at her bed. And then, five minutes later, he whispered aloud: “Or do I?”

  “What?” she cried, awake.

  “Nothing,” he said, after a pause, “Go to sleep.”

  The man bent forward, a buzzing instrument in his hand. “This cost five bucks an inch. Costs more to peel tattoos off than put ’em on. Okay, jerk the adhesive.”

  The Illustrated Man obeyed.

  The skin man sat back. “Christ! No wonder you want that off! That’s ghastly. I don’t even want to look at it.” He flicked his machine. “Ready? This won’t hurt.”

  The carny boss stood in the tent flap, watching. After five minutes, the skin man changed the instrument head, cursing. Ten minutes later he scraped his chair back and scratched his head. Half an hour passed and he got up, told Mr. William Philippus Phelps to dress, and packed his kit.

  “Wait a minute,” said the carny boss. “You ain’t done the job.”

  “And I ain’t going to,” said the skin man.

  “I’m paying good money. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, except that damn picture just won’t come off. Damn thing must go right down to the bone.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Mister, I’m in business thirty years and never seen a tattoo like this. An inch deep, if it’s anything.”

  “But I’ve got to get it off!” cried the Illustrated Man.

  The skin man shook his head. “Only one way to get rid of that.”

  “How?”

  “Take a knife and cut off your chest. You won’t live long, but the picture’ll be gone.”

  “Come back here!”

  But the skin man walked away.

  They could hear the big Sunday-night crowd, waiting.

  “That’s a big crowd,” said the Illustrated Man.

  “But they ain’t going to see what they came to see,” said the carny boss. “You ain’t going out there, except with the adhesive. Hold still now, I’m curious about this other picture, on your back. We might be able to give ’em an Unveiling on this one instead.”

  “She said it wouldn’t be ready for a week or so. The old woman said it would take time to set, make a pattern.”

  There was a soft ripping as the carny boss pulled aside a flap of white tape on the Illustrated Man’s spine.

  “What do you see?” gasped Mr. Phelps, bent over.

  The carny boss replaced the tape. “Buster, as a Tattooed Man, you’re a washout, ain’t you? Why’d you let that old dame fix you up this way?”

  “I didn’t know who she was.”

  “She sure cheated you on this one. No design to it. Nothing. No picture at all.”

  “It’ll come clear. You wait and see.”

  The boss laughed. “Okay. Come on. We’ll show the crowd part of you, anyway.”

  They walked out into an explosion of brassy music.

  He stood monstrous in the middle of the night, putting out his hands like a blind man to balance himself in a world now tilted, now rushing, now threatening to spin him over and down into the mirror before which he raised his hands. Upon the flat, dimly lighted tabletop were peroxide, acids, s
ilver razors, and squares of sandpaper. He took each of them in turn. He soaked the vicious tattoo upon his chest, he scraped at it. He worked steadily for an hour.

  He was aware, suddenly, that someone stood in the trailer door behind him. It was three in the morning. There was a faint odor of beer. She had come home from town. He heard her slow breathing. He did not turn. “Lisabeth?” he said.

  “You’d better get rid of it,” she said, watching his hands move the sandpaper. She stepped into the trailer.

  “I didn’t want the picture this way,” he said.

  “You did,” she said. “You planned it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know you,” she said. “Oh, I know you hate me. Well, that’s nothing. I hate you. I’ve hated you a long time now. Good God, when you started putting on the fat, you think anyone could love you then? I could teach you some things about hate. Why don’t you ask me?”

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  “In front of that crowd, making a spectacle out of me!”

  “I didn’t know what was under the tape.”

  She walked around the table, hands fitted to her hips talking to the beds, the walls, the table, talking it all out of her. And he thought: Or did I know? Who made this picture, me or the witch? Who formed it? How? Do I really want her dead? No! And yet. . . .He watched his wife draw nearer, nearer, he saw the ropy strings of her throat vibrate to her shouting. This and this and this was wrong with him! That and that and that was unspeakable about him! He was a liar, a schemer, a fat, lazy, ugly man, a child. Did he think he could compete with the carny boss or the tentpeggers? Did he think he was sylphine and graceful, did he think he was a framed El Greco? DaVinci, huh! Michelangelo, my eye! She brayed. She showed her teeth. “Well, you can’t scare me into staying with someone I don’t want touching me with their slobby paws!” she finished, triumphantly.

  “Lisabeth,” he said.

  “Don’t Lisabeth me!” she shrieked. “I know your plan. You had that picture put on to scare me. You thought I wouldn’t dare leave you. Well!”

  “Next Saturday night, the Second Unveiling,” he said. “You’ll be proud of me.”

  “Proud! You’re silly and pitiful. God, you’re like a whale. You ever see a beached whale? I saw one when I was a kid. There it was, and they came and shot it. Some lifeguards shot it. Jesus, a whale!”

  “Lisabeth.”

  “I’m leaving, that’s all, and getting a divorce.”

  “Don’t.”

  “And I’m marrying a man, not a fat woman—that’s what you are, so much fat on you there ain’t no sex!”

  “You can’t leave me,” he said.

  “Just watch!”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Go look at your pictures.”

  He reached out.

  “Keep your hands off,” she said.

  “Lisabeth.”

  “Don’t come near. You turn my stomach.”

  “Lisabeth.”

  All the eyes of his body seemed to fire, all the snakes to move, all the monsters to seethe, all the mouths to widen and rage. He moved toward her—not like a man, but a crowd.

  He felt the great blooded reservoir of orangeade pump through him now, the sluice of cola and rich lemon pop pulse in sickening sweet anger through his wrists his legs, his heart. All of it, the oceans of mustard and relish and all the million drinks he had drowned himself in in the last year were aboil; his face was the color of a steamed beef. And the pink roses of his hands became those hungry, carnivorous flowers kept long years in tepid jungle and now let free to find their way on the night air before him.

  He gathered her to him, like a great beast gathering in a struggling animal. It was a frantic gesture of love, quickening and demanding, which, as she struggled, hardened to another thing. She beat and clawed at the picture on his chest.

  “You’ve got to love me, Lisabeth.”

  “Let go!” she screamed. She beat at the picture that burned under her fists. She slashed at it with her fingernails.

  “Oh, Lisabeth,” he said, his hands moving up her arms.

  “I’ll scream,” she said, seeing his eyes.

  “Lisabeth.” The hands moved up to her shoulders, to her neck. “Don’t go away.”

  “Help!” she screamed. The blood ran from the picture on his chest.

  He put his fingers about her neck and squeezed.

  She was a calliope cut in mid-shriek.

  Outside, the grass rustled. There was the sound of running feet.

  Mr. William Philippus Phelps opened the trailer door and stepped out.

  They were waiting for him. Skeleton, Midget, Balloon, Yoga, Electra, Pop-eye, Seal Boy. The freaks, waiting in the middle of the night, in the dry grass.

  He walked toward them. He moved with a feeling that he must get away; these people would understand nothing, they were not thinking people. And because he did not flee, because he only walked, balanced, stunned, between the tents, slowly, the freaks moved to let him pass. They watched him, because their watching guaranteed that he would not escape. He walked out across the black meadow, moths fluttering in his face. He walked steadily as long as he was visible, not knowing where he was going. They watched him go, and then they turned and all of them shuffled to the silent car-trailer together and pushed the door slowly wide. . . .

  The Illustrated Man walked steadily in the dry meadows beyond the town.

  “He went that way!” a faint voice cried. Flashlights bobbled over the hills. There were dim shapes, running.

  Mr. William Philippus Phelps waved to them. He was tired. He wanted only to be found now. He was tired of running away. He waved again.

  “There he is!” The flashlights changed direction. “Come on! We’ll get the bastard!”

  When it was time, the Illustrated Man ran again. He was careful to run slowly. He deliberately fell down twice. Looking back, he saw the tent stakes they held in their hands.

  He ran toward a far crossroads lantern, where all the summer night seemed to gather: merry-go-rounds of fireflies whirling, crickets moving their song toward that light, everything rushing, as if by some midnight attraction, toward that one high-hung lantern—the Illustrated Man first, the others close at his heels.

  As he reached the light and passed a few yards under and beyond it, he did not need to look back. On the road ahead, in silhouette, he saw the upraised tent stakes sweep violently up, up, and then down!

  A minute passed.

  In the country ravines, the crickets sang. The freaks stood over the sprawled Illustrated Man, holding their tent stakes loosely.

  Finally they rolled him over on his stomach. Blood ran from his mouth.

  They ripped the adhesive from his back. They stared down for a long moment at the freshly revealed picture. Someone whispered. Someone else swore, softly. The Thin Man pushed back and walked away and was sick. Another and another of the freaks stared, their mouths trembling, and moved away, leaving the Illustrated Man on the deserted road, the blood running from his mouth.

  In the dim light, the unveiled Illustration was easily seen.

  It showed a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a dark and lonely road, looking at a tattoo on his back which illustrated a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a . . .

  A Scent of Sarsaparilla, by Ray Bradbury

  Mr. William Finch stood quietly in the dark and blowing attic all morning and afternoon for three days. For three days in late November, he stood alone, feeling the soft white flakes of Time falling out of the infinite cold steel sky, silently, softly, feathering the roof and powdering the eaves. He stood, eyes shut. The attic, wallowed in seas of wind in the long sunless days, creaked every bone and shook down ancient dusts from its beams and warped timbers and lathings. It was a mass of sighs and torments that ached all about him where he stood sniffing its elegant dry perfumes and feeling of its ancient heritages. Ah. Ah.

  Listening, downstai
rs, his wife, Cora, could not hear him walk or shift or twitch. She imagined she could only hear him breathe, slowly out and in, like a dusty bellows, alone up there in the attic, high in the windy house.

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered.

  When he hurried down for lunch the third afternoon, he smiled at the bleak walls, the chipped plates, the scratched silverware, and even at his wife!

  “What’s all the excitement?” she demanded.

  “Good spirits is all. Wonderful spirits!” he laughed. He seemed almost hysterical with joy. He was seething in a great warm ferment which, obviously, he had trouble concealing. His wife frowned.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Smell, smell, smell?”

  “Sarsaparilla.” She sniffed suspiciously. “That’s what it is!”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be!” His hysterical happiness stopped as quickly as if she’d switched him off. He seemed stunned, ill at ease, and suddenly very careful.

  “Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

  “You know I was cleaning the attic.”

  “Mooning over a lot of trash. I didn’t hear a sound. Thought maybe you weren’t in the attic at all. What’s that?” She pointed.

  “Well, now how did those get there?” he asked the world.

  He peered down at the pair of black spring-metal bicycle clips that bound his thin pants cuffs to his bony ankles.

  “Found them in the attic,” he answered himself. “Remember when we got out on the gravel road in the early morning on our tandem bike, Cora, forty years ago, everything fresh and new?”

  “If you don’t finish that attic today, I’ll come up and toss everything out myself.”

  “Oh, no,” he cried. “I have everything the way I want it!” She looked at him coldly.

  “Cora,” he said, eating his lunch, relaxing, beginning to enthuse again, “you know what attics are? They’re Time Machines, in which old, dim-witted men like me can travel back forty years to a time when it was summer all year round and children raided ice wagons. Remember how it tasted? You held the ice in your handkerchief. It was like sucking the flavor of linen and snow at the same time.”

  Cora fidgeted.