"No, he speculated that these other universes were nothing at all like Earth's, that they had different physical 'laws,' that many of them would be completely incomprehensible to Earthmen who might broach the 'walls' between the universes."
"Then he said that there might be 'gates' or 'breaks' in the 'walls' and that occasionally a dweller of one universe might go into another?"
"He said more than that. He called his speculation a theory, but he believed that the theory was a fact. He believed that there were temporary breaks in the walls, accidental cracks, or openings which sometimes existed because of weaknesses or flaws.
"He said that creatures--sentient and non-sentient--sometimes entered our universe through these breaks. But they have forms so alien that the human brain has no forms to fit them. And so the human brain gives them forms to explain them. He said that it is not just a matter of humans seeing the aliens as such and such. It is a matter of the aliens actually being molded into these forms because they cannot survive long in this universe unless they have forms that conform to the physical 'laws' of this universe. The forms may not conform one hundred percent, but they are close enough. And, in fact, an alien may have more than one form, because that is the way the human sees him. Hence, the werewolf, who had a human form and wolf form, and the vampire, who has a human form and a bat form."
This man is really putting me on, Childe thought. Or else he is so insane that he actually believes this. But what is he leading up to, that he is one of the aliens?
The baron said, "Some of the extra-universals came here accidentally, were caught in the flaws, and were unable to get back. Others were exiles or criminals, sent by the people of their world to this Botany Bay--this Earth."
"Fascinating speculation," Childe said. "But why do these take certain forms and not others?"
"Because, in their case, the myth, the legend, the superstition, call it what you will, gave birth to the reality. First, there were the beliefs and tales about the werebeast and the vampire and the ghost and the et cetera. These beliefs and tales existed long ago, long before history, long before civilization. In one form or another, these beliefs existed in the Old Stone Age."
Childe shifted to relieve his discomfort. He felt cold again, as if a shadow had slid over him. That shadow was of a hulking half-brute figure, bulge-browed, ape-jawed. And behind it were other shadows of figures with long fangs and great claws and strange shapes.
The baron continued, "There is, according to Le Garrault, a psychic imprinting. He did not use the word imprinting, but his description meant that. He said that the aliens are able to survive for a short while in their own form when they come to this universe. They are in a state of fluidity, of dying fluidity."
"Fluidity?"
"Their forms are trying to change to conform to the physical laws of this universe. A universe which is as incomprehensible to them as theirs would be to an Earthman. The effort sets up stresses and strains which would inevitably tear them apart, kill them. Unless they encounter a human being. And, if they are lucky enough to be from a universe which enables them to receive--telepathically, I suppose, although that term is too restricted--enables them to receive the impressions of the human mind, then the alien is able to make the adaptation. He is enabled because he comprehends the form in which he can survive in this world. Do you follow me?"
"In a way. But not too well."
"It's almost as difficult to explain this as it is for a mystic to explain his visions. You realize that my explanations no more fit the facts, the true processes, than the description of the atom as a sort of miniature solar system fitted the true processes."
"I understand that, at least. You're using analogies."
"Strained analogies. But the theory says that the alien, if he is lucky, encounters human beings who perceive him as something unnatural, which he is, in a sense, since he is not natural to the human universe. The humans do not absolutely reject him; it is the nature of humans to try to explain every phenomenon or, I should say, describe it, classify it, fit it into the order of natural things.
"And so the alien is given his form, and a certain part of his nature, by the humans. There is a process of psychic imprinting, you understand. And so, willy-nilly, the alien becomes what the human believes him to be. But the alien still retains some of his otherworld characteristics, or I should say powers or abilities, and these he can use under certain circumstances. He can use them because they are part of the structure of this universe, even though most humans, that is, the educated, that is, the reconditioned, deny that such powers, or even such beings, can exist in this universe."
"You were enjoying your filet mignon and your salad," Childe said. "I thought vampires lived only on blood?"
"Who said I was a vampire?" the baron replied, smiling. "Or who said that vampires live on blood only? Or, who, saying that, knew what he was talking about?"
"Ghosts," Childe said. "How does this theory explain ghosts?"
"Le Garrault said that ghosts are the results of imperfect psychic imprinting. In their case, they assume, partially assume, the form of the human being first encountered or, sometimes, they result from the belief of a human being that they are the ghost of a departed. Thus, a man who believes in ghosts sees something he thinks is the ghost of his dead wife, and the alien becomes that ghost. But ghosts have a precarious off-and-on existence. They are never quite of this world. Le Garrault even said that it was possible that some aliens kept shuttling back and forth between this world and the native world and were actually ghosts in both worlds."
"Do you really expect me to believe that?" Childe said.
The baron puffed again and looked at the smoke as if it were a suddenly realized phantom. He said, "No. Because I don't believe the ghost theory myself. Not as Le Garrault expounded it."
"What do you believe then?"
"I really don't know," the baron said, shrugging. "Ghosts don't come from any universe I am familiar with. Their origin, their modus operandi, are mysterious. They exist. They can be dangerous."
Childe laughed and said, "You mean that vampires and werewolves, or whatever the hell they are, fear spooks?"
The baron shrugged again and said, "Some fear them." Childe wanted to ask more questions but decided not to do so. He did not want the baron to know that he had found the room with the cameras and the Y-shaped table. It was possible that the baron intended to let him go, because he could dispose of the incriminating evidence before Childe could get the police here. For this reason, Childe did not ask him why Colben and Budler had happened to be his victims. Besides, it seemed obvious that Budler had been picked up by one of this group as a victim of their "fun." Magda or Vivienne or Mrs. Krautschner, probably, had been the woman Colben had seen with Budler. And Colben, following Budler and the woman, had been detected and taken prisoner.
The baron rose and said, "We might as well rejoin the others. From the sounds, I'd say the party is far from dead."
Childe stood up and glanced at the open doorway, through which laughter and shrieks and hand-clapping spurted.
He jumped, and his heart lurched. Dolores del Osorojo was walking by the doorway. She turned her head and smiled at him and then was gone.
* * *
CHAPTER 15
If the baron had seen her, he gave no sign. He bowed slightly and gestured Childe to precede him. They went down the hall--no Dolores there--and were back in the dining room. O'Faithair was playing wildly on the grand piano. Childe did not recognize the music. The others were sitting at the table or on sofas or standing by the piano. Glam and the two women had cleared off the table and were carrying off the dishes from the sideboards. Mrs. Grasatchow was now drinking from a bottle of champagne. Magda Holyani was sitting on an iron skeletal chair, her formal floor length skirt pulled up around her waist to expose her perfect legs to the garter belt. Dark-red hair stuck out from under the garter belt. A half-smoked marijuana cigarette was on the ashtray on the table by her side.
&
nbsp; She was looking through an old-time stereoscope at a photograph. Childe pulled her skirt down because the sight of her pubic hairs bothered him, and he said, "That's a curious amusement for you. Or is the picture...?"
She looked up, smiling, and said, "Here. Take a look yourself."
He placed the stereopticon against his eyes and adjusted the slide holding the picture until the details became clear and in three-dimensions. The photograph was innocent enough. It showed three men on a sail boat with a mountain in the distant foreground. The photograph had been taken close enough so that the features of the men could be distinguished.
"One of them looks like me," he said.
"That's why I got this album out," she said. She paused, drew in deeply on the marijuana, held the smoke in her lungs for a long time, and then puffed out. "That's Byron. The others are Shelley and Leigh Hunt."
"Oh, really," Childe said, still looking at the picture. "But I thought...I know it...the camera wasn't invented yet."
"That's true," Magda said. "That's not a photograph."
He did not get a chance to ask her to explain, because two enormous white arms went around him from behind and lifted him off his feet. Mrs. Grasatchow, shrieking with laughter, carried him to a sofa and dropped him on it. He started to get up. He was angry enough to hit her, and had his fist cocked, when she shoved him back down. She was not only very heavy; she had powerful muscles under the fat.
"Stay there, I want to talk to you and also do other things!" she said.
He shrugged. She sat down by him, and the sofa sank under her. She held his hand and leaned against him and continued the near-monologue she had been maintaining at the table. She told him of the men who had lusted after her and what she'd done to them. Childe was beginning to feel a little peculiar then. Things were not quite focused. He realized that he must be drugged.
A moment later, he was sure of it. He had seen the baron walk to the doorway and looked away for a second. When he looked back, he saw that the baron was gone. A bat was flying off down the hallway.
The change had taken place so quickly that it was as if several frames of film had been spliced in.
Or was it a change? There was nothing to have kept the baron from slipping off around the corner and releasing a bat. Or it was possible that there was, objectively, no bat, that he was seeing it because he had been drugged and because of the suggestions that Igescu was a vampire.
Childe decided to say nothing about it. Nobody else seemed to have noticed it. They were not in shape to have noticed anything except what they were concentrating upon. O'Faithair was still playing madly. Bending Grass and Mrs. Pocyotl were facing each other, writhing and shuffling in a parody of the latest dance. The redhead beauty, Vivienne Mabcrough, was sitting on another sofa with Rebecca Ngima, the beautiful Negress. Vivienne was drinking from a goblet in one hand while the other was slipped into the front of Ngima's dress. Ngima had her hand under Vivienne's dress. Pao, the Chinese, was on his back, his legs bent to support Magda, who was standing on his feet and getting ready to do a backward flip. She had taken off her shoes and dress and was clad only in her garter belt, stockings, and net bra. She steadied herself and then, as Pao shoved upwards, soared up and over and landed on her feet. Childe thought that her unshod feet would have broken with the impact, but she did not seem to be bothered. She laughed and ran forward and did a forward flip over Pao and landed in front of a sofa on which Igescu's great-grandmother sat. The old woman reached out a claw and ripped off Magda's bra. Magda laughed and pirouetted away across the floor.
The baron had sauntered over to behind the baroness and had leaned over to whisper something to her. She smiled and cackled shrilly.
And then Magda ended her crazy whirl on Childe's lap. His head was pressed forward against her breasts. They smelled of a heady perfume and sweat and something indefinable.
Mrs. Grasatchow shoved Magda so vigorously that she fell off Childe's lap and onto the floor. She looked up dizzily for a moment, her legs widespread to reveal the red-haired slit.
"He's mine!" Mrs. Grasatchow shrilled. "Mine! You snake-bitch!"
Magda got to her feet unsteadily. Her eyes uncrossed. She opened her mouth and her tongue flickered in and out and she hissed.
"Stay away!" Mrs. Grasatchow said in a deeper voice. Had she really grunted?
Glam entered the room. He scowled at Magda. Evidently he did not like to see her in the almost-nude and making a play for Childe. But the baron froze him with a glare and motioned for him to leave the room.
"Stay away, huh?" Magda said. "You have no authority over me, pig-woman, nor am I afraid of you!"
"Pigs eat snakes," Mrs. Grasatchow replied. She grunted--yes, she grunted this time--and put one flesh-festooned arm over his shoulders and began to unzip his fly with the other hand.
"You've eaten everything and everybody else, but you haven't, and you aren't going to, eat this snake," Magda said, spraying saliva.
Childe looked around and said, "Where are the cameras?"
"Everything's impromptu tonight," Mrs. Grasatchow said. "Oh, you look so much like George."
Childe presumed that she meant George Gordon, Lord Byron, but he could not be sure and he did not care to play her game, anyway.
He pushed her hand away just as she closed two fingers on his penis, which, to his chagrin, was swelling. He felt nothing but repulsion for the fat woman, yet a part of him was responding. Or was it seeing Magda and also sharing in the general atmosphere of excitement? The drug, which he was sure he had been given, was basically responsible, of course.
Magda sat down on his lap again and put her arms around his neck. Mrs. Grasatchow, snarling, raised her hand as if to strike Magda, but she let it drop when the baroness called shrilly across the room. At that moment, a pair of large doors swung open. Childe, catching the movement at the corner of his eyes, turned his head. The baron was standing in the doorway. Behind him was the billiard room or a billiard room. It looked much like the first one he had seen. The blond youths, Chornkin and Krautschner, were playing.
The baron advanced across the room and, when a few paces behind Childe, said, "The police don't know he's here."
Childe erupted. He came off the sofa, tossing Magda away and then leaping over her and running toward the nearest door. He got to the hallway and was jerked violently off his feet, swung around, and pressed close to Glam. The great arms made him powerless to do anything except kick. And Glam must have been wearing heavy boots under his pants legs. Certainly he acted as if he did not feel the kicks. Perhaps he didn't. Childe may have had little strength.
As if he were a small child, he was led into the room, Glam holding his hand. The baron said, "Good. Good for him and good for you. You restrained your impulse to kill him. Very commendable, Glam."
"My reward?" Glam said.
"You'll get it. A share. As for Magda, if she doesn't want you, and she says she doesn't, she can continue to tell you to go to hell. My authority has its limits. Besides, you aren't really one of us."
"You're lucky I haven't killed you, Glam!" Magda said.
"You have depraved taste, Glam," Mrs. Grasatchow said. "You'd fuck a snake if someone held its head, wouldn't you? I've offered you help..."
"That's enough of that," Igescu said. "You two can play dice or a game of billiards for him. But the winner saves a piece for me, understood?"
"Dice won't take so long," Magda said.
The baron nodded at Glam, who clamped a hand on Childe's shoulder from behind and steered him out of the room. Magda called, "See you soon, lover!"
Mrs. Grasatchow said, "In a pig's ass, you will!" and Magda laughed and said, "He'll be in a pig's ass if you win!"
"Don't push me too far!" the fat woman shrilled.
Then Childe was being steered down the hall to its end and around the corner and down two flights of stairs. The hall here was of large gray blocks of stone. The door before which they halted was of thick black wood with iron bosses forming t
he outline of an archaic and grinning face. Glam shifted his grip from the shoulder to the neck and squeezed. Childe thought the blood would be pushed out of the top of his head. He went to his knees and leaned his head against the wall while his senses, and the pain in his neck, returned. Glam unlocked the door, dragged Childe into the room by one hand, and dropped the hand when he came to the far wall. He completely undressed the feebly resisting Childe, lifted him up and snapped a metal collar shut around his neck. Glam picked up the clothes and went out, locking the door behind him.
There was a single unshaded light in the center of the ceiling. The floor was covered with straw and a few blankets. The walls and ceilings were painted a light red.
When his strength came back, Childe found that the metal collar was attached by a four-foot-long lightweight chain to an eyebolt sunk into the stone of the wall. He looked around but could see nothing to indicate that cameras or eyes were on him. The walls and ceiling seemed to be unbroken. However, it was possible that one or more of the stones was actually a one-way window.
There was a rattle at the door. A key clicked in the lock. The door swung open. Magda entered. She wore nothing--unless you could count the key in her hand. She stood there smiling at him. Suddenly, she whirled. She said, "Who is that?" and he got a glimpse of her back, of the egg-shaped hips, as she went swiftly into the hall.
There was a thump and a gasp. Then, silence.
Childe had no idea of what was happening, but he supposed that Glam or Grasatchow had attacked Magda. He had not thought that they would dare, since the baron had made it plain exactly how far they might go.
He waited. A sound as of a bare body being dragged along the stone floor came to him. Then, more silence. Then, a whispering. This sound was not that of a human voice but the friction of silk against silk.
He jerked with fright.
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