by Various
It was unfortunate that Vanderhof did not leave at that moment. After his interview with the excitable Colonel Quester, he was mere protoplasm, and somewhat too receptive to suggestion. It was, of course, true, that Vanderhof had little character of his own. He had lost it, after years of associating with the virulent Walker. He was a complete yes-man, and needed only a catalyst to complete a certain chemical reaction that was already taking place.
"You're a chameleon," Walker said, with emphasis, and his eyes bored into Vanderhof's.
It was at that precise moment that Mr. Tim Vanderhof turned into a chameleon.
Not physically, of course. The metamorphosis was far more subtle. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, Vanderhof was rather shockingly receptive. Though all he did was to sit down in a chair opposite his boss.
Walker stared, frowned, and hesitated.
Vanderhof stared, frowned, and didn't say anything.
Walker lifted a large hand and pointed accusingly.
Vanderhof lifted a smaller hand and also pointed accusingly.
Walker flushed. So did Vanderhof.
The president of The Svelte Shop rose like a behemoth from his chair and growled, "Are you mocking me?"
Then he stopped, amazed, because Vanderhof had risen and said exactly the same thing.
"You—you—you—" Walker's face was purple. Vanderhof guessed what was coming. With a mighty effort he asserted what little remained of his will-power.
"D-don't go on!" he pleaded frantically. "P-please—"
"You chameleon!" S. Horton Walker thundered.
"You chameleon!" Vanderhof thundered.
Such bare-faced, impudent mockery was unendurable. Walker quivered in every muscle. "You're fired!" he said. "What's that? What did you say? What do you mean, I'm fired? Stop imitating me, you stupid clown. Don't call me a stupid clown! Nrrgh!"
"—nrrgh! " Vanderhof finished, not quite realizing what was happening to him. Walker sat down weakly. He was shaken a little, but his natural malignancy was still undimmed. A natural snake, S. Horton Walker.
"I—"
"I—" said Vanderhof.
Walker bellowed, "Shut up!" And, so strong was his will, for the moment Vanderhof remained perfectly quiet.
"Are you going to get out?" he asked at length, in a low, deadly voice. "Damn it, stop mocking me! I'll have you thrown out! What? Have me thrown out of my own office?"
Goaded to insensate fury by the fact that Vanderhof was repeating perfectly everything he said and did—and, curiously enough, at exactly the same time he said and did it—Walker stuck out his thumb to press a button on the desk. It collided with Vanderhof's thumb.
Walker sat back, palpitating, a mute Vesuvius. Obviously Vanderhof had gone mad. And yet—
"I wish you'd go and drown yourself," said the president, meaning every word. He was somewhat astonished when Tim Vanderhof quietly arose and left the office. He would have been even more surprised had he seen Vanderhof walk down 42nd Street to Times Square, and then board the Brighton Beach subway train bound for Coney Island. Somehow, it is doubtful whether Walker would have regretted the incident or recalled his words. He was evil to the core, and a hard man, as has been mentioned previously. He turned back to his preparations for the exclusive fashion show that afternoon, while the metamorphosed Tim Vanderhof hurried off to go and drown himself.
Now Tim was really a nice guy. He shot a fair game of golf, had once made ten straight passes while shooting craps at a stag party, and was kind to dogs, blind men, and small children. He explained the latter eccentricity by stating that he had once been a small child himself, which was no doubt true enough. Under other circumstances, Mr. Vanderhof might have achieved a genuine personality of his own, but he had the misfortune always to be associated with rats tike Walker. Self-riadc men invariably contend that they had to fight their way through obstacles, so they create new obstacles for those under them, probably with the best intentions in the world. The fact remains that Walker had provided the ultimate catalyst for Tim Vanderhof, who got off the subway at Coney Island—it had now, by some strange metamorphosis, been transformed into an elevated—and wandered along the boardwalk, peering contemplatively at the ocean.
It was large, gray, and wet. A great deal of H2O, to put it scientifically. Vanderhof s mind was dulled; he found it difficult to think clearly, and he kept hearing Walker's command over and over again.
"—go and drown yourself. Go and drown yourself."
The sky was cloudy. It had been a hot day, one of those Turkish bath affairs which make Manhattan, in the summer, a suburb of hell, and so there were vast quantities of people at Coney. Large bulging women lumbered about shepherding brats, who fed voraciously on ice-cream, pickles, hokey-pokey, hot dogs, and similar juicy tidbits. Brawny young men and flimsy girls, hot and perspiring, tried to gulp down air quite as humid as in the city. Meanwhile, the Atlantic Ocean beckoned to Tim Vanderhof.
His eyes were glazed as he made a beeline for the nearest pier. In the back of his mind a little remnant of sanity shrieked warning, but Vanderhof could not obey. Stripped of the last remnant of personality and will-power, he walked on....
"—go and drown yourself. Go and drown yourself."
Vanderhof made a mighty effort to break the spell, but it was useless. He walked on, his gaze riveted on the greasy slate-colored water at the end of the pier. Not a man, woman, or child among the crowd noticed him. He tried to call for help, but no sound came from his lips.
People were running. Rain began to splash down, first in droplets, then in ever-increasing torrents. The gray clouds were fulfilling their promise. People ran, with newspapers over their heads, to the nearest shelter.
Wavering on the edge of the pier, Vanderhof felt something pull him back. Magnetically he was made to retreat a few staggering steps, He turned. He started to walk back along the wharf, then he was running with the rest of the crowd. No longer did he hear Walker's voice demanding suicide. In its place was an urgent whisper that said:
"Run! Run!"
Hundreds of men, women, and children were rushing to shelter. The effect of this mass hegira was too much for the human chameleon. A wave seemed to bear him along with the others. Vainly he tried to struggle against the impulse. No use, of course. Rain splashed in his face.
It was like running in a dream, without conscious volition. Lines of force seemed to drag him onward. Off the pier. On the boardwalk, and along it, in the midst of the crowd. As various members of the mob dived for shelter, poor Vanderhof was tossed about like a leaf in a gale. A group leaped into a hot-dog stand, and Vanderhof veered after them. Then a larger group came past, and he skittered in their wake, utterly helpless.
They entered Luna Park, and he perforce followed.
Somehow he was caught in the eddy, and found himself, limp and perspiring, in a penny arcade, almost deserted. A semblance of sanity came back to him. Gasping and drenched to the skin, Vanderhof cowered behind a "grind-box" labeled "Paris Night—For Men Only," and wondered what in hell was happening to him.
He tried to think. What had Walker said? A human chameleon. It seemed to have come true. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, the ultimate transformation had taken place, ever he looked at anyone now, he assumed the traits of that person.
It was really far worse, only Vanderhof didn't realize it quite yet.
Logically, the only solution was to stay away from people. A man without personality is bound to reflect the personality of others. Vanderhof peeped out, looking glumly at a rotund little man with white whiskers who was standing at the entrance to the arcade, staring virtuously at nothing. A pleasant little man, he thought. He probably had not a worry in the world. Vanderhof wished he were that man.
He was startled by the sound of footsteps, and even more startled when a veritable giantess of a woman smacked him over the head with her umbrella. The unfortunate Vanderhof reeled, seeing stars. He gasped, "W-w-wha—"
"Worm!"
the Amazon boomed. "I told you not to enter this—this peep-show!" Her voice quivered with menace. Utterly at a loss, Vanderhof raised his hand to his stinging head, but it was entrapped halfway in what seemed to be a maze of dangling spaghetti. He investigated. It was a set of white whiskers, exactly like the man at whom he had been looking—only the whiskers were on Vanderhofs face!
The giantess had turned momentarily to wither the arcade with a glance, and Vanderhof caught sight of himself in a nearby mirror. It did not, however, much resemble Tim Vanderhof. What he saw was a rotund little man with white whiskers.
With an astonished shriek Vanderhof turned back to his normal self. The apparition in the mirror resumed its usual and familiar semblance. It was again Tim Vanderhof.
"Oh, my God," the man murmured faintly. "I'm dreaming."
"What?" The Amazon turned, her umbrella raised. Then her eyes dilated. How the devil had her husband managed to get out of sight so suddenly, leaving an utter stranger in place of himself? She didn't know. She stared balefully at Vanderhof, who shrank back, his eyes on the umbrella.
Just then the giantess caught sight of the fat little man at the arcade's entrance. She turned, lumbering away. This time she disdained the use of the umbrella. Going, apparently, on a variation of the principle that fingers were made before forks, she lifted a ham-like hand and smote the, fat little man athwart the ear. The beard rippled like a white banner as the wretched creature was hurled out into the rain.
He raised himself from the mud and dazedly contemplated his wife. She had never before struck him without good cause—what she considered good cause, anyway. If she was going to beat him on sudden, mad impulses, the future would be dark indeed, thought the fat little man.
He rose and ran rapidly away.
The giantess followed, crying threats.
Tim Vanderhof shuddered convulsively. He was going insane. Or else.... No, it was too ghastly. He couldn't be a jellyfish as well as a chameleon. He might, perhaps, assume the traits of somebody else, but he couldn't acquire their actual physical appearance as well!
"No," Vanderhof said urgently. "Please—no!"
Yet it was profoundly and disturbingly logical. He had looked at the fat little man, and had become the fat little man, white whiskers and all. The shock of seeing himself in the mirror had caused him to return to a more normal appearance. What would be the ultimate result? Would Tim Vanderhof fade into a shadow—a mere thing? Yipe.
Such was the cry that burst from Vanderhof's dry throat at the very prospect. He couldn't go about the world turning into everybody he met. And yet—chameleons did it, in so far as pigmentation went. A specialized animal like a man might go even further. The powers of the mind and the will were unplumbed. Vanderhof knew that, from much perusal of Sunday supplements and science-fiction magazines. Recalling stories he had read by such authors as H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, and Henry Kuttner, he groaned as he realized that the heroes of such tales usually met a sticky end.
"Oh, no!" Vanderhof whispered involuntarily. "I don't want to die. I'm too young to die."
Footsteps clumped into the arcade. Hurriedly Vanderhof whirled, burying his face in the nearest slot-machine, which featured a presumably authentic reel telling how native women were kidnapped by gorillas in the Congo. It was neither natural shyness nor a genuine interest in anthropology which caused Vanderhof's sudden retreat. He feared to face anyone, believing, logically enough, that he might turn into that person.
He dropped a penny in the slot and whirled the crank, scarcely seeing the faded cards that flickered into view and out again inside the machine. A gorilla was engaged in wandering through its native jungle.
Someone behind Vanderhof began to laugh maniacally. His cries rose into shrill screams.
There were answering, inquiring shouts. Feet thudded. Someone called, "What's the matter there."
"A monkey!" came the hysterical response. "There's a gorilla looking at dirty pictures! I've got the jumping jitters again!"
Vanderhof hurriedly turned to face a tall, skinny man with a horselike face and bloodshot eyes. He carried a cane and apparently a large cargo of Scotch.
"It's coming after me!" the man screeched, retreating. "First snakes, and now this. Ah-h, those awful glaring eyes!"
"Sh-h!" said Vanderhof, lifting a placating hand. The drunk shivered in every limb.
"It hisses like a snake!" he cried, and thrust out the cane like a fencer. Its metal tip caught Vanderhof in the middle, and he doubled up, breathless and gasping. And, simultaneously, he saw himself in a mirror.
It didn't look like Tim Vanderhof. It was wearing Tim Vanderhof's clothes, but it was, unquestionably a gorilla—the kind that kidnap native women in the Congo. The sound of footsteps grew louder. The new arrivals were almost at the arcade.
Vanderhof put forth a mighty effort of will, inadvertently baring his fangs. The drunk emitted a short, sharp cry and covered his eyes. But Vanderhof ignored him. He was glaring, wildly, at the mirror.
And, suddenly, the gorilla was gone. Vanderhof was himself again.
Tenderly rubbing his stomach, Vanderhof straightened to meet the red-rimmed gaze of the horse-faced man.
"Where is it?'* the latter babbled. "Where did it go?"
"Where did what go?" Vanderhof asked coldly, still maintaining the mental effort that enabled him to keep his rightful form.
"The gorilla—" There was a pause as people poured into the arcade, asking questions. There was confusion and tumult. And shouting. This died, eventually, as Vanderhof indicated the horse-faced man and explained that he was drunk.
"I'm not that drunk," was the surly response. "Snakes, yes. But not gorillas. Where is it? I know." The man's glazed eyes brightened. "You hid it!"
"You're drunk," Vanderhof said.
"Yeah? For two cents I'd punch your face in. Gr-r!" His confusion crystallized into belligerency, the drunk rolled forward, waving the cane. Vanderhof fled—
It was a hard life, he thought dismally, as he slunk through Luna Park, carefully avoiding crowds. The rain had stopped now, but people were still wary. This was all to the good. Vanderhof could, he found, retain his normal shape by putting forth a strong mental effort, but this could not be kept up for long. Already he felt weak.
Yet, at the back of his mind, a queer, perverse excitement was slowly, imperceptibly growing. In a way, it was rather fun. Imagine being able to turn yourself into a gorilla! Everybody was afraid of gorillas!
People shot them, too, Vanderhof recalled, and shut his eyes. He wavered, hearing faintly the tones of a hoarse, rasping voice that plucked at his nerves. It was like—like—what?"
Like Walker's voice. Urgent—commanding. Demanding that he do something—
He opened his eyes and found himself before a side-show. The barker stood above him on a box, derby tilted back, checkered suit, garish, thrusting out a commanding finger.
"C'mon, folks! Here it is, greatest sideshow on Earth! Tiniest dwarf ever born of woman, tallest giant since Creation, all the wonders of the Universe gathered here for your inspection. Step inside! You, there—only a dime. Step right forward, mister! The girl will take your dime!"
"No!" Vanderhof squeaked faintly, and tried to retreat. Instead, he found himself walking forward.
"Right this way, mister! Pay your dime! R-r-right in here! Step inside—"
Vanderhof found a dime and paid the admission charge. He didn't want to go into the side-show. He had a singularly horrid idea of what might happen there. But the barker's will-power was too strong for him,, and he could no longer exert the mental effort that partially insulated him from danger. He was exhausted.
"I'm a jellyfish," poor Vanderhof "mourned as he entered the show. "That's what I am. Walker was right. Oh, damn!" he ended futilely, tears of frustrated rage in his eyes. "I wish this would stop!"
But wishing didn't do any good. The chameleon man found himself in the sideshow—surrounded by freaks!
He caught one glimpse of innumerabl
e people—terrifying to him, under the circumstances—ranged around the big room, and then fled through a doorway on his right. It was definitely no time to face giants, dwarfs, dog-faced boys, or wild men from Sumatra. Vanderhof wanted only peace and quiet.
He got neither.
He found himself in a small anteroom containing a mirror and a dwarf. The latter whirled and snapped. "Didn't you see the sign over the door? This is private! I-huh?"
He stopped talking, and presently resumed. "Say, that's a clever trick. Are you one of the boys? A magician, huh?"
"Yeah," said the now dwarfish Mr. Vanderhof. "I d-do it with mirrors."
"Damn good," returned the little man, whose name was Bingo. "Wait a minute. I want Ajax to see this."
"Don't bother," Vanderhof started, but he was too late. Bingo whistled, and immediately the room was darkened by the shadow of Ajax, who was seven feet nine inches tall, and would have had no need for snowshoes.
Vanderhof shut his eyes. He tried to assert his will-power, or what little remained of it, and was rewarded with pleased noises from giant and dwarf. "Clever!" said the latter. "Did you see that? He was little a minute ago. Now he isn't."
"That's right," the giant rumbled. "He looked like you, too, Bingo. Did you notice? Who are you, Mister?"'
"I wish I knew," Vanderhof gasped, feeling lost and helpless. He dared not open his eyes. He was again in his normal semblance, but the very sight of either Ajax or Bingo might cause another metamorphosis.
"You!" a new voice broke in—one familiar to Vanderhof as that of the drunk in the arcade. "I been looking for you. I want to punch you in the snoot."
Vanderhof, feeling set-upon, almost had a mad impulse to sock the drunk, but habit prevailed. He took refuge in flight, or tried to. Unfortunately, he ran into the mirror, bumped his nose, and turned, opening his eyes.
He saw Ajax and Bingo.
The drunk lunged forward, lifting his cane. Then he halted, and a scream of stark terror burst from his throat.
"Yaaaah!" he shrieked. Apparently considering this an insufficient comment, he threw up his hands and added, "Waaaah!"
