“I want a steak, if you’ve got one.”
“Mammoth, cow, or human?” the waitress asked, in an unpleasantly grating voice.
“Ug—cow,” Macklin said, suppressing a vague nausea.
He was aroused from his apathy by the arrival of the Hellfire cocktails. The liquor went down his throat with a stealthy sort of promise, which was immediately fulfilled in his stomach. The stuff was potent. It warmed. Macklin decided he wanted another.
He drank his way through the dinner, presently arriving at a state of hazy grandeur in which he could bring himself to look at the other diners, inhuman as most of them were. Presently Macklin giggled.
Broscop speared a tasty morsel of eel. “Something?”
“Vampire. Look at her teeth.”
“Oh, her,” Broscop “She’s an actress. Plays in nightmares, mostly.”
“There’s plenty of odd ducks here,” Macklin remarked, “but they seem pretty mild, compared to some of the nightmares I’ve had. I remember one big spider with eyes like soup plates—”
“Technical stuff,” the leprechaun murmured. “Special effects. Monsters like that are made in the laboratory and animated. Animated with life force—aqua vita. They’re all synthetic, of course. Our technicians are plenty clever. I saw a montage effect yesterday that—” He paused. Macklin was no longer listening. He was, instead, several feet away, plowing determinedly through the mob. With a quick bound Broscop caught up with him.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
Macklin pointed. “There. Old Growly. Stuffing himself in that booth. Probably eating human flesh. I’m gonna tell him a thing or two.”
“Oh-oh,” the startled leprechaun whistled. “Listen, Timothy me lad, I think we better get out of here. Right now! Remember, we have to find Skull. He’s in a bar. A big, beautiful bar,” Broscop tempted. “With lots of liquor in it.”
“Gonna see Old Growly,” Macklin objected. “Gonna tell him to pull in his horns.” He hesitated, an expression of amazed wonder creeping over his face. Then he laughed delightedly.
“Joke, see? Boy, that’s good. Gonna tell him—”
Chuckling gleefully to himself, Macklin allowed Broscop to urge him to the door. Once outside, the night air brought a measure of sobriety. He stared around.
“What happened to the restaurant? Where—”
“We’re going to find Skull. Remember?”
“You,” said Macklin thickly, “are drunk. Where’s a taxi.
There were taxis in this world, apparently, for one drew up almost immediately after Broscop had whistled. Macklin peered vaguely through a cloud of Hellfire cocktails and considered life. It wasn’t so bad, considering. Only one thing troubled him. A guy named Dunn. Jerome Dunn. A dirty little magician. A dirty, double-crossing—
“Pull in his horns,” Macklin giggled. “That’s a dilly.”
The taxi drew up before a cafe ablaze with neon lights. Broscop led his companion into the establishment and located a table.
“Hellfire cocktails,” Macklin screamed suddenly, during a lull in the orchestra’s din. “Six of em.
“Sh-h!” the leprechaun hissed. “You’ve got four of ’em right before you. Don’t you remember ordering them?”
There was something decidedly peculiar about those cocktails. Macklin had drunk almost every known variety of liquor, plain and mixed, but never had he swallowed anything that nullified gravity so easily. He kept floating up off his chair, and had to clutch at the table edge to drag himself down again.
“If I didn’t know better,” he remarked to the leprechaun, “I’d think I was floating.”
“You are,” Broscop told him. “You’re not drinking Earthly liquor now. This isn’t uisquebaugh. Hellfire cocktails, lad, really nullify gravity, just as Styro-liqueur alters you physically.”
“It . . . how?”
“Brings out your worst side. It shows,” Broscop explained cryptically.
Macklin said something about Jekyll and Hyde, and gulped another drink. This time he actually floated up till his toes got tangled with the tablecloth. A waiter, who was entirely covered with white plush, hurried over and replaced Macklin in his seat.
“I know,” the writer said, writhing free of the other’s arms. “Don’t tell me. You’re a werewolf.”
“No, sir. I’m a werebear,” murmured the waiter, and padded off.
About to reply, Macklin’s attention was attracted by a skeleton who sat in a booth some distance away. In his inebriated state, the sight seemed definitely amusing. He pointed out the horror to Broscop.
“You’d think he’d catch cold,” Macklin theorized, in a thoughtful manner. “Maybe he’s a she. A strip-teaser, eh? I’d hate to be its masseuse, anyway.”
“Sh-h!” the leprechaun admonished. “We’re in luck.”
“In luck!” Macklin stared, astonished. “What are we, grave robbers?”
“That’s Skull,” Broscop explained. “Remember what I told you? He’s the big boss here. Come over and be introduced.” He towed Macklin behind him, which wasn’t difficult, since the writer had by now, under the influence of the Hellfire cocktails, lost nearly all his weight.
“His tibia’s chipped,” Macklin remarked. “How do you say hello to a skeleton? Hope he’s feeling well? That’s plain silly. If I were a skeleton, I’m damn certain I’d be feeling lousy.”
“Sh-h! Sir, this is Timothy Macklin. He’s a new one. Wants to present his compliments.”
The skeleton looked friendly enough—at least, he was grinning. Macklin felt grateful that the horror did not offer to shake hands.
“Timothy Macklin, eh?” asked a deep, grating voice. “How are you, Timothy Macklin?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” said the man, wondering just how drunk he was. “I must be fine. If I wasn’t, I couldn’t be standing here talking to a fugitive from a graveyard.”
Broscop covered up hastily. “He’s a little drunk, sir. Hell-fire cocktails, you know—”
“He’s certainly floating,” the skeleton said, eying Macklin with hollow interest.
“I may be drunk, but I’m not dead.” Macklin was slightly aggrieved. Here he was, mustering up enough courage and courtesy to talk face to face with a skeleton, and all he got was insults. It was a hell of a note. He wanted another cocktail.
Just then Old Growly appeared, adding a note of further disharmony to the scene. By this time Macklin had lost all sense of caution. He remembered only insults.
Old Growly, ignoring everyone but Skull, sat down beside the skeleton. He waved a casual hand at Macklin and Broscop. “Go away, boys,” he rumbled. “We’ve business to discuss.” Macklin ignored the leprechaun’s frantic tugs. He looked around, located a bowl of pretzels on a nearby table, and annexed them. Then he took a careful stance and began tossing pretzels at Old Growly, trying to ring the creature’s horns.
“Timothy me lad! In the name of Titania, come away!”
“Have a pretzel,” Macklin invited. “Win a prize. Ha! A ringer!”
Old Growly carefully disengaged a pretzel from his left horn. He eyed Macklin up and down with slow hatred.
“I know you,” he said.
“To know me is to love me,” Macklin remarked at random. “Who asked you to horn in anyway—” He broke off to laugh wildly. “Horn in. Get it? Where was I? Oh, yeah—this is a private party, crocodile-puss, and you’re not invited.”
Old Growly seemed about to explode. Skull nodded to the leprechaun.
“Better get your friend out of here. He’s only a writer, isn’t he? Well, you ought to know that directors take precedence over writers.”
“I’ve eaten marrow out of better specimens than you,” Macklin said insultingly, his annoyance now transferred to the skeleton. “Don’t interrupt, or I’ll sic a worm on you.” He writhed free of Broscop’s clutch, and a sudden bound sent him shooting up to the ceiling, where he remained, maintaining his altitude by paddling slightly with his feet. He stared down at upturned f
aces—Old Growly’s horned one, the leprechaun’s small green face, and the skull. “I,” he announced, “rise to make a few remarks. You can’t treat me like one of your contract men. I don’t belong here. I was framed. And if you don’t send me back to Earth pronto, I’ll raise so much hell here that—”
Old Growly bellowed, “Where is the bouncer?”
Across the room something swooped—Dracula, Macklin thought in abrupt panic. It was black and shapeless and had the wings of a bat. He felt hard talons grip him, and fought frantically to free himself.
“Throw him out,” Skull said quietly.
Macklin felt himself being towed through the air. He caught a glimpse of Broscop’s horrified little face—and then the lights went out entirely. The ghosts of sixteen Hellfire cocktails drowned his senses in blackness.
Macklin felt much better for his spree, even though he awoke in Hell. His nerves were no longer under that unendurable nervous tension. He no longer doubted his own sanity. Liquor had purged and cleansed his mind till he could calmly accept the existence of magic, without falling back on psychoses and neuroses.
There were two drawbacks, though. One was Macklin’s hangover. The other was his surroundings—most disturbing. He felt uncomfortably hot, and, when he opened his eyes, the reason was obvious. He was in Hell.
The sky, far above his head, was of seething flames—tides of fire that rolled endlessly across the vault, with a noise of distant thunder. An acrid, sulphurous odor made him choke.
He sat up, giddy with sudden vertigo, and looked around. He was on a . . . a plateau. The black metal on which he sat was painfully warm. He was, apparently, on an island.
No. Perspective came back. He was atop a gigantic tower, and the ground was shockingly far down. He walked gingerly toward the edge, stopping well away from it. Beneath him a black city lay. It was a city ringed with flame, and the sounds that drifted faintly up to Macklin made him shiver a bit. Yes—this was Hell.
The heat was growing worse. Tongues of flame licked up, searing and blinding. Macklin instinctively dodged. He—
Woosh!
He was no longer in Hell. He was lying, fully clothed, on a rather hard bed, and the small green face of the leprechaun was hanging above him like a Christmas tree light.
“Thought it was time for you to get back,” Broscop sighed. “They only gave you twenty-four hours in Hell. Och, lad, why didn’t you listen to me?”
Macklin sat up. He was in a huge dormitory, filled with rows of beds, but otherwise empty.
Broscop was perched on the head-rail, looking worried. “You’re all right?”
“I . . . yeah. I think so. W-what happened?”
“Get up; you need food. And coffee. It’ll be time to work soon, anyway.”
“Work?” Macklin groaned at the thought, but obediently rose and followed Broscop into a washroom. There he made a hasty toilet, and was presently seated in the commissary, gulping down black coffee and shakily smoking a cigarette.
“It was thus,” Broscop explained. “After you insulted Skull and Old Growly—you do remember that, don’t you? Well, you were given a leave in Hell as a punishment. Insubordination’s a serious crime here. How’d you get on?”
Macklin said it wasn’t so bad. “Eh? Oh, I see. You were lucky. You slept through most of your sentence.”
“Just where was I?”
“On the tallest tower of the City Dis. That’s where we’re always sent. If we got closer to the ground, we’d be singed to cinders. You’d best mind your p’s and q’s from now on, lad—Old Growly hates you, and Skull has no reason to love you. Why did you act that way? You wanted to ask a favor of Skull, and—”
“That’s right,” Macklin said, biting his lip. “I did. I wanted to get assigned to writing Dunn’s dreams.”
“Have some more coffee,” Broscop urged. “You can’t go around here asking favors now, very well. You’ll get assigned to writing for your own psychology group, and that’s that.” The coffee was clearing Macklin’s head. For the first time in months he felt calm and clearheaded. The morning after was always a good time to plan.
“Broscop,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve kicked around Hollywood for some years. And I’m a pretty bright lad. Don’t lose any sleep over me. I even used to write movie serials, and after you’ve done that, nothing’s a problem. This business, now—” He stood up. “Let’s go. I want to get to work.”
Leprechaun and human went out into bright morning sunlight. Staring up, Macklin had a well-founded suspicion that the “sun” was something in the nature of an arc light, affixed to a . . . a ceiling. The world of the dream-makers was a curious one in many ways.
On the way they passed a set where actors were already working. The scenery reminded Macklin of Caligari, cubistic and distorted. From every window eyes peered. An oddly shaped camera was grinding away steadily—it reminded Macklin strongly of Hollywood.
Then—something—scuttled out of a doorway and hobbled rapidly down the street, and Macklin changed his mind. This wasn’t Hollywood. It was the place where nightmares were made.
Broscop finally deposited him in his office and vanished. Macklin went quickly to the desk, but the file on Jerome Dunn was gone—returned to its usual place, no doubt. He picked up the phone, smiling crookedly,
“Hello? Get me the file on Jerome Dunn again. Yeah. And the one on Timothy Macklin—Hollywood, Earth. That’s right. And send up some blank cards, too. Oh—I want to add a few things. Sure I’ve got authority,” he bluffed, and sat back with a sigh of relief. Presently he sprang into activity, hunting for a typewriter. It was concealed inside the desk, but leaped out at him when he pushed the right button.
The file cards arrived. Macklin studied his own, his brow wrinkling. “Good heavens,” he muttered. “Is that me? Oh, well—” He shoved a fresh card into the typewriter and went to work. Much of the information he copied verbatim. But the psychological data he cut out entirely, typing in its stead certain items from Dunn’s card.
It was finished at last. Macklin chuckled. According to the records—the slightly altered records!—Jerome Dunn and Timothy Macklin were kindred souls, with almost identical psychology patterns. It was, therefore, only logical that Macklin be assigned to writing Dunn’s dreams.
He sent the card files back, via the magic desk, and shrugged. Nothing to do now but wait. He lit a cigarette—there were still several in his case—and wandered into Broscop’s office. The little leprechaun was pacing the floor, glaring at the dictaphone and rubbing his eyes angrily.
“In trouble?”
“I’ve got to fit in an old dream—and it doesn’t fit. Sure, we use old dreams,” Broscop nodded, perching himself on the edge of the desk. “Figure it out for yourself. We supply dreams for every intelligent creature in the universe—and that’s plenty. Even working on double shifts, we couldn’t have a new dream for each person every night—or every week.”
“I’d wondered about that,” Macklin admitted.
“Time helps. Time has very little to do with dreams. A one-reel dream may last all night, but on the other hand, it’s possible to dream a ten-reeler in half a second. Here’s how it’s done, Timothy me lad. Yesterday I wrote a dream for Agara Zohn, on Rigel. He’s had it last night. Tonight the dream goes to—let’s see—at least a thousand people of the same psychology pattern as Zohn. Not on Rigel, of course. Betelgeuse, Avalon, Venus—all over. Tomorrow night, the same thing. Eventually there aren’t any people of Zohn’s pattern left. But there are plenty who are almost identical. The dream just needs a few changes to be applicable to them. We keep stock shots on file for such cases. The original dream is cut and changed as it goes down the line, till finally it’s unrecognizable. But in each case it fits the individual. See?”
“Vaguely,” said Macklin. “Maybe I can help you with this job. After all, I’ve got to learn the business.”
They worked together for a while. It wasn’t too difficult. Macklin was catching on, and Broscop was grat
eful for the help.
“I’m wondering something,” Macklin interrupted after a while. “How about audience reaction? Don’t you keep track of that?”
“Sure. We stick in test-dream sequences sometimes. Disguised questions, especially when we are not quite certain about the dreamer’s psychology. An individual changes, naturally . . . well, take this case. There’s a question about his pet neuroses—claustrophobia. He’s just been imprisoned in a lightless dungeon on Mercury, and that’ll either kill or cure him. I’ll run a test to find out how he’s changed.” Broscop turned to the dictaphone. “Sequence seven, pan shot. Inquisition scene. Word association test. Check time lapses carefully. Send this sequence back to writer for reclassification after preview. Test follows: Sun, stars, moon, ladz, wall, shell, eclipse, pressure—”
A bell rang in Macklin’s office. Broscop broke off to say, “That’s an assignment for you. If you need help, sing out.”
“Thanks,” said Macklin, and went out. On his desk a card lay. It said:
“Timothy Macklin—classification 7-B-132-JJ-90. Any persons in this code number are suitable as material. Warning: Don’t write dreams for any other group. Ask Information if in doubt.”
Macklin used the phone. Information said: “I’ll send up the files for that group. There’s a lot of them. Do you want them alphabetically or geographically?”
“Alphabetically. The D’s.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a copy of the censorship code? No? I’ll send that, too.”
The desk popped again. There was a drawer of cards visible, labeled “Daaaaaa-Daaaaab.” There was also a closely typewritten sheet. Macklin seized the last and sent back the cards.
“I want the Du index, please.”
“There are fourteen of them, sir. Which—”
“Dunn,” Macklin said desperately. “Jerome Dunn.”
He got what he wanted at last. The drawer was labeled, 7-B-132-JJ-90—Dunm—Duno.” Thumbing through the cards, Macklin gasped with relief when he found one headed “Jerome Dunn, born April 7, 1896.” So Dunn was within his jurisdiction, thanks to his tampering with the file record of his own history!
Collected Fiction Page 250
