COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 173
"You believe the evidence of your senses?" the beard inquired. "Do you really think the moon is round?"
"Oh, gosh," said Moore, and drank again.
"It looks round to you," said the midget, "but does round have the same significance to everybody else? What you call round may be square to another man. How do you know how the moon looks to me?"
"If you're so interested in the moon, go away and look at it," Moore said. But the midget was persistent.
"How do you know how I look to somebody else? How do you know how you look to me? The five senses aren't arbitrarily fixed. They are illusory. All is illusion."
"Listen," said—Moore, losing his temper and getting a headache, "your beard's an illusion. My hand's an illusion. I'm pulling your beard."
He did so, vigorously. "That's illusion, too. Laugh that off."
There was tumult. The midget yelled and screamed and fought. Presently Moore fell back in his chair, clutching a tuft of curly whiskers.
"Now by Kronos and Nid!" said the midget in a soft, deadly voice. "You're going to catch hell for this, my fine fellow. If you think—nrgh!" The beard bristled terrifyingly. "I'll show you whether all is illusion or not!" He found a slender, short rod of polished dark wood and pointed it at Moore. "I lay on you the curse of illusion," he continued. "The blight of the five senses! I put upon you the veil of Proteus!"
Moore knocked away the wand with a wavering blow. He felt suddenly sobered. Why, he couldn't tell. But abruptly he was filled with an ardent desire to leave this smoky, insane dive. Without another word he rose and unsteadily made for the door.
The malicious laughter of the bearded midget followed him. It continued as he walked across the street, and died as he stepped upon the opposite curb. Moore turned.
The tavern was gone. Only the empty lot remained.
-
FOR A BRIEF second Moore felt unwell. Then he realized what had happened. He was more drunk than he thought; obviously the tavern must lie several blocks away, and he had walked the distance without realizing it. Grunting, he looked at his watch.
Just eight twenty. Time for a cup of coffee before Corinne's train got in. Moore entered the depot, made his way toward the restaurant, and then, struck by a sudden thought, turned instead to the drugstore, where he purchased caffeine citrate and downed several tablets rapidly. That done, he returned to the restaurant and drank coffee. He sobered rapidly.
He sat at the counter, lost in introspection. Thus at first he did not realize that curious and amused glances were being cast at him. Presently he heard an audible sniff.
Moore looked up. The man at his left, a hulking bronzed gentleman, suppressed a grin and stared hastily down at his feet.
That was only the beginning. Moore at length realized that he was the cynosure of all eyes. Apprehensive, he furtively examined his clothing. O. K. He looked at his face in a nearby mirror, and was rather pleased than otherwise. A distinctive sort of face. Not handsome, but strong. Like Gary Cooper's. Perceiving that his thoughts were beginning to veer, Moore drank more coffee.
A loud-speaker said that the train was in. Moore paid for his potation, and, avoiding various glances, went out to the runway and waited for Corinne. He saw her at last amid the crowd, a brittle blonde with inquisitive eyes and a firm chin. She hadn't changed much. A competent, businesslike, but rather sardonic young woman. There were short, sharp cries and awkward embraces. Corinne sniffed and drew back.
"Who spilled perfume on you?" she demanded.
"Perfume?"
Corinne looked at him steadily. "I detect a strong aroma of violets about your person. Offensively strong."
"Funny," Moore said, blinking. "I don't smell it."
"Then your nose is stultified," Corinne remarked. "I could smell it on the train. Bert, I'll have to take you in hand. A little motherly guidance is what you need. A dash of perfume, perhaps, if you insist— but not violets. It is not done. You must have taken a bath in. the stuff."
"Well," said Moore, rather at a loss, "I'm glad to see you. Want a drink?"
"Yes," Corinne told him, "very much. But not enough to accompany you into a cocktail bar. People might think that offensive odor emanated from me."
Touched to the quick, the man led his sister outside and superintended the extrication and disposal of baggage. Presently he was driving his sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, Corinne at his side. The girl had opened the window and stuck out her head. Moore grimly kept his eyes straight ahead: Corinne had changed for the worse, he decided.
-
CORINNE'S head re-entered the car. She touched Moore's arm.
"What's wrong with your car, Bert?" she inquired.
"Eh?" Moore depressed the accelerator and let the steering wheel play loosely. "Nothing. Why?"
"That noise,"
The man listened intently. "That's the engine."
"It isn't the engine. There's a whistle—"
"Sh-h," said Moore, and, after a. pause, "no, it's in your ears. Must be."
Corinne eyed him steadily. Suddenly she collapsed in his lap. Moore jammed on the brake before he realized that his sister had bent forward in order to apply her ear to his chest. She straightened and eyed the man speculatively.
"That whistle," she said, "is coming, out of you. You're making it. A noise like a ... a—"
"A what?"
"A policeman. His whistle, I mean. Why don't you stop it? It doesn't amuse me."
"I'm not whistling," Moore snapped.
"You mean you can't help it?"
"I mean I'm not doing it."
"Maybe you swallowed something," Corinne said, and sighed. People acted less unexpectedly in New York. There one could foresee things. A whiff of violets blew on the girl, and she shut her eyes.
Just then a motorcycle officer appeared and motioned Moore to the curb. The man dismounted and put one foot on the running board. His mouth opened, and abruptly, closed. He stared hard at the driver, his nostrils twitching slightly.
"What's the matter?" Moore asked. "I wasn't speeding."
The officer didn't answer. He peered into the car, scrutinized Corinne, and looked into the back. Finally he said, "Who's doing that whistling?"
Before Moore could speak, Corinne broke in swiftly, "It's the motor, officer. The overhead gasket valve sprang a leak. We're going now to get it fixed."
"The—overhead-gasket valve?"
"Yes," Corinne said with great firmness. "The gasket valve. The overhead one, you know."
There, was a brief pause. Finally the officer scratched his head and remarked, "If I were you, I'd get it fixed as soon as you can. You're disturbing the peace."
The girl smiled sweetly. "Thank you;" she returned. "We'll get it fixed. Right away. You know how those gasket-valves are."
"Yeah," said the officer, and watched the car speed away. Then he thoughtfully climbed on his .motorcycle. Under his breath he inquired plaintively, "Just what in hell is an overhead-gasket valve, anyway?"
-
CORINNE was slightly nervous by the time they arrived home. Moore owned a two-story house in a suburb. It was surrounded by a small lawn, a tree or two, and a dog. The dog was named Banjo. He was not a small dog, and this seemed to be something he could never quite realize. Banjo had once seen a Pekingese, and ever since labored under the delusion that he, too, was a lap dog. Inasmuch as part of his sinister ancestry was collie, he was exceptionally hairy, and he had managed to attain the unique distinction of being able to shed all the year round. This vast and behemothic creature came galloping around the corner of the house, saw the car, and came to an immediate decision.
Banjo had theories about automobiles. They moved; ergo, they were alive. And his master was now obviously a captive of one of these eerie beings. With courage worthy of a greater cause, Banjo charged forward and sank his teeth in a tire.
The tire retaliated by hissing at Banjo in a threatening manner. This completely unnerved the beast, who promptly lost his courage and fled trembling under the house, where he cowered, moaning softly.
Moore emerged from the car, cursing in a low, vicious monotone. He left the vehicle parked at the curb and conveyed Corinne and her luggage to the front door. This was opened by a skeleton who had somewhere got hold of a supply of parchment and drawn it about his crumbling bones in a rather haphazard fashion. The skeleton's surname was Peters. His Christian name, if, indeed, he had ever possessed one, was lost in the mists of decades. He was the general factotum of the Moore household, and for the last forty years had concentrated on the single purpose of growing old ungracefully. For at least twenty years he had been cheating the undertaker. Moore had a well-founded suspicion that on Peter's days off the man would make the rounds of various mortuaries and tauntingly cackle at the proprietors.
"Ha," said Peters in a rather gloating fashion, "a flat tire, hey?"
Corinne eyed the fellow intently, but he was apparently not referring to her.
Moore said, "Yeah. A flat tire. That fool dog bit it."
"I shall fix it," Peters stated, and looked at the girl. Quite suddenly the man seemed to go mad. His toothless, shrunken jaws quivered, his face, with a faint crackling, broke into a horrid grin, and he began to cackle like a hen. "Well, well," he shrilled. "Miss Corinne, as I live and breathe. What a surprise."
"How do you mean, surprise?" Moore asked coldly. "You knew she was coming."
Peters ignored this brutal attempt to throw cold water on his enthusiasm. His skeletal frame jiggled and shook with senile amusement. "Ha," he said, "it's been a long time. A long time. You've changed, Miss Corinne."
Corinne returned. "You haven't changed a bit."
The humor of this remark almost finished Peters. He commenced a bizarre dance among the luggage, wheezing and flailing his arms in mad amusement. Leaving the old fellow to his octogenarian whims, Moore escorted Corinne into an adjoining room.
-
SUSAN, Moore's wife, was playing solitaire in a distracted fashion. She was small, plumpish, and still pretty, though inclined to hysteria. Patterns, she contended, puzzled her. Practically everything comprised a pattern. Preparing food was one pattern she had mastered, but such abstruse confusion as the vacuum cleaner, the radio, and solitaire left her utterly baffled. However, she rose to the occasion and greeted Corinne with a hospitable smile.
Not until the welcome was over did Susan sniff. "Oh," she exclaimed, pleased. "Violets. For me?"
Corinne said, "Susan, I want to ask you a question. Do you hear a ... a peculiar noise?"
Susan shook her head. "Why, no. Nothing peculiar. Why?"
"Not even a ... a whistle?"
"Oh, of course," said Susan, beaming. "But that isn't peculiar. It's just a whistle."
Corinne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Finally she was able to ask, "Do you know where it's coming from?"
"No. Do you?"
Moore was annoyed at the turn the conversation had been taking. He whirled as fingers snapped, with a repugnant popping noise, behind him. Peters stood beckoning on the threshold.
"Must you make that noise?" Moore asked irritably, coming over to the man. "It sounds like firecrackers."
Peters contemplated his knotted knuckles with satisfaction. "Sure does," he agreed. "I've filled the tub for you."
For a second Moore was puzzled. What tub? Then light dawned. "Oh," he said vaguely. "But I didn't ask you to fill the tub."
"I put in bath salts," Peters said enticingly. "Lots of bath salts."
"Why in Heaven's name should I take a bath now?" Moore asked.
"Because you smell," said Peters, clinching the argument.
-
There was company for dinner. This was due to Susan's efforts. She had always been worried about Corinne's unmarried state, and took the opportunity of inviting Steve Watson, an eligible young man, to call that night. Moore cared little for Steve, who was a fine upstanding, specimen of young American manhood, with a hearty booming laugh and a penchant for mirrors.
Somebody had let Banjo into the house. When Moore came downstairs, shaved and cleansed, he was greeted by the mastodonic dog, who went into a frenzy of mad delight. The beast flung himself upon his master, nearly precipitating the startled man to the floor.
"Down, damn you," Moore said in a vicious undertone. "Go away and die. Scram."
But Banjo could not take a hint. Something seemed to have aroused the demon within his furry breast, and he pranced about Moore, sniffing with all his strength, until the man carried the dog away by main force and thrust him into the outer darkness. Banjo protested loudly.
Straightening his apparel, Moore went in to meet the others. Susan was sitting happily in a corner, beaming upon Corinne and Steve Watson, who were conversing animatedly.
"Hello, there," Steve said, rising. "What ill wind blew you in? How've you—"
There was a sudden pause. A deadly silence fell on the room. Finally Susan observed, "What a peculiar odor. We're not having fish for dinner, are we?"
Moore sniffed. He could detect nothing amiss. Corinne was eying her brother with a singularly incredulous expression.
"Fish?" she inquired. "For dinner? I doubt it, Susan. You wouldn't have any fish that dead."
Susan called Peters, who presently shuffled in. "Are we having fish for dinner?" she asked.
"No," Peters said firmly. "But somebody is. Not for dinner, though." He turned to stare at Moore. "You didn't take that bath, after all," he accused.
"Peters, open the windows," Susan said hastily. This was done, though it didn't help a great deal. There was an unmistakable reminder of fish in the room—very old and very dead.
Steve had recovered his aplomb. "Ill wind is right," he said, grinning and advancing on Moore. "Been long time, old man."
Moore eyed the other's extended hand distastefully. Silently he gripped it. Simultaneously Steve let out an ear-piercing yell and sprang back, shaking his hand with vigor. Oaths bubbled up in his throat, and he suppressed them only by a mighty effort. The others looked at him wonderingly.
"What on earth, Steve?" Susan asked.
"Ha, ha," Steve said, forcing his face into some semblance of a smile. "Always the joker, eh, Bert? How'd you do that? Nearly burned my fingers off." He blew on the fingers in question.
"What are you talking about?" Moore asked ill-temperedly.
Moore disliked practical jokes, and especially pointless ones. But Steve seemed determined to carry the joke to its bitter end. With a quick dive he captured Moore's hand and inspected it.
"Funny," he said after a pause. "Got wires up your sleeve, maybe?"
"Why should I have wires up my sleeve?" Moore wanted to know.
Steve looked annoyed. "Oh, very well," he said. "Suit yourself. But it wasn't very funny."
"I'm glad you realize it," Moore returned tartly, and glanced at the puzzled faces of Susan and Corinne.
Peters dragged in his shriveled frame. "Dinner's ready," he announced, and departed, mumbling something about bath salts.
-
The meal was not an unqualified success. A seagull might have devoured it with good appetite, but seagulls have a weakness for fish, dead or otherwise. The guests were somewhat nicer about such matters. Both Susan and Corinne kept handkerchiefs firmly pressed against their quivering nostrils. Only Steve was unprotected. He ate very little and got paler and paler as time wore on.
To cap it all, a siren began screaming from some point suspiciously close at hand. Corinne, after a startled glance at her brother's stomach, shut her eyes and took a deep breath. This was a mistake, as she immediately realized. Susan, luckily, was not much perturbed by the mysterious siren. Strange noises were continually making themselves heard. And radios were a pattern she could never understand.
The unfortunate Steve, however, left early, after making an appointment to see Moore at the latter's office, the next day. At least, Steve thought it was the next day. That infernal siren kept whooping deafeningly, and he seemed almost certain that Moore was responsible for it. Steve decided that his host was going mad, or else had developed a shocking propensity for practical jokes.
Both Corinne and Susan retired early. Susan decided to sleep in the guest room with her sister-in-law, who sympathetically acceded to the woman's request. As for Peters, he was detected stealthily sprinkling lysol about Moore's bedroom. Moore told him to get the hell out and angrily disrobed. He had an incipient hangover and was trying to solve a number of mystifying problems. Either he was crazy, or the world had become so. Moreover, there was a disturbing recollection of a certain bearded midget who had threatened—what? Some curse—the curse of Proteus, wasn't it? The "blight of the five senses."
