Again, Dangerous Visions Part 43

"Give daddy a big hug," he told her.

She came to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He felt the warmth of her body, and he remembered Jimmy and Beth.

"Come along to bed." Thea took the child's hand.

Laughing, Lorette began to tell her mother some story about Tammy and the kittens.

"Be sure you drink all your milk," Winston called after them as Thea led the child from the room.

He leaned back, sipping his c.o.c.ktail and not thinking anything at all. He reclined in quiet, blank comfort, hardly aware of the soft music and Tammy's steady purr.

When Thea returned, he asked, "You gave her the capsule?"

Thea nodded. Wordlessly, she pa.s.sed by him and went on into her bedroom.

He found himself getting to his feet. For no reason he went to Lorette's room. She was curled on her side in the bed, her hair in a loose tow tousle, her face soft and smooth by the dim nightlight. Small pink lips. Long pale lashes. A tiny ear, perfectly formed, half-hidden under stray hair. The sheet over her stirred slightly at the gentle shallow motion of her breathing.

Even as he watched, the motion stopped.

He turned his back. The collection service would be here soon. They would take care of everything now, just as they had twice before. It was all very simple.

He walked back into the living room. Tammy was still purring. The silence seemed very deep, the purr very loud. He looked down at the squirming suckling pieces of Tammy's self that worked their dim-formed forepaws at her belly.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that he could understand, Winston began to cry.

Afterword.

"Soundless Evening" is a nexus of a mult.i.tude of ideas, thoughts, theories and possible ramifications. It isn't a prophecy but an exploration. It is set in a future but, like most of Dangerous Visions Dangerous Visions and this book, it concerns and this book, it concerns now now. With this particular story I must agree with Robert Silverberg, who said in DV that the story has to speak for itself. Anything else I might add would be superfluous. At least it should be, if the story is at all successful.

Introduction to [image]

Many years ago, when the Earth was young and dinosaurs like Collier's, The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post Collier's, The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post and and Blue Book Blue Book roamed the world, I was in Philadelphia for a sf convention. Or maybe it was New York. After a while all sf conventions look alike. At some, Heinlein makes a surprise entrance just as he wins a Hugo award, wearing a white dinner jacket, scaring the h.e.l.l out of those who believed a) he was on the opposite coast and b) there is an order to the Universe. At others, fans fall through motion picture screens and make it difficult for Samaritans to he good. But that's another story. Sadly, as this is written, I learned that John W. Campbell, since 1937 editor of roamed the world, I was in Philadelphia for a sf convention. Or maybe it was New York. After a while all sf conventions look alike. At some, Heinlein makes a surprise entrance just as he wins a Hugo award, wearing a white dinner jacket, scaring the h.e.l.l out of those who believed a) he was on the opposite coast and b) there is an order to the Universe. At others, fans fall through motion picture screens and make it difficult for Samaritans to he good. But that's another story. Sadly, as this is written, I learned that John W. Campbell, since 1937 editor of a.n.a.log a.n.a.log (formerly (formerly Astounding Astounding), will never attend another convention: his death on July nth, 1971 has thrown the entire field into shock and, whether he was loved, admired, tolerated or disliked, there is no denying he was the single most important formative force in modern sf, a man who was very much his own man, who lived by his own lights and by dint of enormous personal magnetism influenced everyone in the genre. The overwhelming sentiment is that he will be sorely missed and we will never be the same again. Nor will conventions, where John Campbell's presence was always felt.

But back in the antediluvian era when I attended the convention I'm trying to recall, John Campbell was very much with us, and meeting him at a convention was not as startling as the encounter I'm about to relate.

Wandering through one of the many party suites late one night in Chicago (or was it Seattle?) I chanced upon a very very tall, slim man, with a sketch pad, leaning against a wall, drawing sketches like mad. I managed to get behind him and I crawled up onto a window ledge to look over his shoulder (I tall, slim man, with a sketch pad, leaning against a wall, drawing sketches like mad. I managed to get behind him and I crawled up onto a window ledge to look over his shoulder (I said said tall, didn't I?) so I could see what he was drawing. He was cartooning his impressions of the weird fans in the room at the time. I instantly struck up a kins.h.i.+p with him, for tall, didn't I?) so I could see what he was drawing. He was cartooning his impressions of the weird fans in the room at the time. I instantly struck up a kins.h.i.+p with him, for I I, too, saw the fans with one big eye in the middle of the forehead, with green, ichor-dripping hides, with claws instead of hands, with slavering jaws and hairy ears.

I asked him his name, and he said, "Gahan Wilson."

He p.r.o.nounced it GAY-un.

He said he was from Collier's Collier's, and he was going to do a cartoon-and-text piece on sf conventions.

Even then, in San Francisco-or possibly Cleveland-I was a slavish fan of the peculiar and singular cartoons of Gahan Wilson. Now it is fifteen years later and that piece on conventions never appeared, Collier's Collier's is gone, but Gahan Wilson is still very much alive. I would have said alive and is gone, but Gahan Wilson is still very much alive. I would have said alive and well well, but...well...one need only examine the contents of his three books (Gahan Wilson's Graveside Manner [Ace, 1965]; [Ace, 1965]; The Man in the Cannibal Pot The Man in the Cannibal Pot [Doubleday, 1967]; I [Doubleday, 1967]; I Paint What I See Paint What I See [Simon & Schuster, 1971]) to realize that Gahan is anything but well. At least in terms acceptable to straights the world over. Nonetheless, Gahan Wilson has become-through his regular cartoons in [Simon & Schuster, 1971]) to realize that Gahan is anything but well. At least in terms acceptable to straights the world over. Nonetheless, Gahan Wilson has become-through his regular cartoons in Playboy, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction Playboy, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and other periodicals-the premier cartoonist of the bizarre. It has been many years, in fact, since even Chas. Addams gave him a run for the money. When someone at a party says, "I saw the and other periodicals-the premier cartoonist of the bizarre. It has been many years, in fact, since even Chas. Addams gave him a run for the money. When someone at a party says, "I saw the wildest wildest cartoon..." and begins to describe it, chances are nine out of ten that they'll be describing a Wilson monstrousness. (Who, after all, can forget that desiccated Santa clogging the chimney, or the death of the sandwich man, or the vampire in the Intensive Care ward?) cartoon..." and begins to describe it, chances are nine out of ten that they'll be describing a Wilson monstrousness. (Who, after all, can forget that desiccated Santa clogging the chimney, or the death of the sandwich man, or the vampire in the Intensive Care ward?) What few people who admire Gahan Wilson know, is that he writes. Not just captions, you understand, but criticism, book reviews, and stories. Ah, mm, yes. Stories.

When it came time to a.s.semble this book, I contacted Gahan and suggested he invent a whole new kind of story, a combination of words and pictures in which one could not survive without the other. A verbalization, as it were, of the peculiarly Gahanoid humor seeping (one might even venture festooned festooned) from his cartoons. I said it could be possibly termed a "vieword" story. Gahan liked the sound of the word, and what he contributed follows. I think you will find this initial vieword offering a nonpareil addition to the rotting body of Mr. Wilson's deranged work. Further, he promises us more vieword stories, in other places, from time to time. It behooves each of us to indulge our vile masochism by insisting that he keep that promise.

But for the nonce, here is[image] and here is Wilson for himself. Gahan? Are you there? Oh, and here is Wilson for himself. Gahan? Are you there? Oh, there there you are; well, drop down at once, clean up all that sickly green stuff, and tell the people about yourself. you are; well, drop down at once, clean up all that sickly green stuff, and tell the people about yourself.

"I am a simple, Midwestern lad, born in Evanston, Illinois. I had a delightful early youth, dwelling in a brick warren with a cinder back yard which crawled with other infants. Hallowe'ens were of the Bradburian genre genre in Evanston, leaves scuttling down the broad streets, a delightfully scary old gentleman in a huge old house nearby to torment, soaping of windows (only the rotten kids used wax), and like that. We played games in the bas.e.m.e.nts, behind the parked cars (some of which had window-shades in the back windows), until we dropped. We wore shorts, the boys, at least, and the girls had pigtails. Then organized sports. .h.i.t the scene and life turned, by degrees, into a ghastly h.e.l.l which still raises the small hairs at the back of my neck when I think of it. With the approach of high school this ghastly phase of my life drew to its end and I discovered the world was full of creeps, back alley wanderers, dreamers, chickens, twitching cripples, and that we were not at all as bad as we had been convinced, and that we could have our own kind of fun. This led to a fantastic blossoming which has not yet stopped. From birth, I guess, I wanted to be a cartoonist. There exists a crude, hand-drawn comic strip (showing some s.p.a.ce opera type battling robots) which has scrawls in the balloon instead of words, indicating my bent was set before literacy. I went to a couple of commercial art schools during summers and found they taught a superficial kind of art, that n.o.body could teach being funny, and so took a full four years at The Art Inst.i.tute of Chicago, a good course, consisting entirely of actual work, painting, drawing, graphics, under teachers of various persuasions. A solid trade school approach. Then a brief stay in the Air Force (it turned out I in Evanston, leaves scuttling down the broad streets, a delightfully scary old gentleman in a huge old house nearby to torment, soaping of windows (only the rotten kids used wax), and like that. We played games in the bas.e.m.e.nts, behind the parked cars (some of which had window-shades in the back windows), until we dropped. We wore shorts, the boys, at least, and the girls had pigtails. Then organized sports. .h.i.t the scene and life turned, by degrees, into a ghastly h.e.l.l which still raises the small hairs at the back of my neck when I think of it. With the approach of high school this ghastly phase of my life drew to its end and I discovered the world was full of creeps, back alley wanderers, dreamers, chickens, twitching cripples, and that we were not at all as bad as we had been convinced, and that we could have our own kind of fun. This led to a fantastic blossoming which has not yet stopped. From birth, I guess, I wanted to be a cartoonist. There exists a crude, hand-drawn comic strip (showing some s.p.a.ce opera type battling robots) which has scrawls in the balloon instead of words, indicating my bent was set before literacy. I went to a couple of commercial art schools during summers and found they taught a superficial kind of art, that n.o.body could teach being funny, and so took a full four years at The Art Inst.i.tute of Chicago, a good course, consisting entirely of actual work, painting, drawing, graphics, under teachers of various persuasions. A solid trade school approach. Then a brief stay in the Air Force (it turned out I was was 4F, after all) and then a brief stay in Europe (France, mostly), and then an attack on the New York markets which paid off, mostly because of a series of flukes as I was then considered 4F, after all) and then a brief stay in Europe (France, mostly), and then an attack on the New York markets which paid off, mostly because of a series of flukes as I was then considered really really far out and all the usual entrances to the better markets seemed hopelessly closed. What happened was that the regular cartoon editor of far out and all the usual entrances to the better markets seemed hopelessly closed. What happened was that the regular cartoon editor of Collier's Collier's left for left for Look Look, and the art director, who'd taken over on a temporary basis, not knowing what sort of cartoons he should buy, bought mine. Then, when they got a new man in, he kept on doing it, bless his heart. After Collier's Collier's vanished I tied in with Hef at vanished I tied in with Hef at Playboy Playboy, and have never regretted it. He is a superb editor and exceptionally fair in his treatment of those who work for him. And, yes, the Mansion is all they say it is. I took a wander in Europe for a couple of years (for me, at least, London is the best big city in the world) and enjoyed it very, very much. I am now married to a beautiful, intelligent, and talented woman who writes for major magazines under the name of Nancy Winters. She is far better than I deserve but, so far, I am getting away with it."

[image]

Gahan Wilson The first time Reginald Archer saw the thing, it was, in its simplicity, absolute. It owned not the slightest complication or involvement. It lacked the tiniest, the remotest, the most insignificant trace of embellishment. It looked like this:

[image]

A spot. Nothing more. Black, as you see, somewhat lopsided, as you see-an unprepossessing, unpretentious spot.

It was located on Reginald Archer's dazzlingly white linen tablecloth, on his breakfast table, three and one half inches from the side of his egg cup. Reginald Archer was in the act of opening the egg in the egg cup when he saw the spot.

He paused and frowned. Reginald Archer was a bachelor, had been one for his full forty-three years, and he was fond of a smoothly running household. Things like black spots on table linens displeased him, perhaps beyond reason. He rang the bell to summon his butler, Faulks.

That worthy entered and, seeing the dark expression upon his master's face, approached his side with caution. He cleared his throat, bowed ever so slightly, just exactly the right amount of bow, and, following the direction of his master's thin, pale, pointing finger, observed, in his turn, the spot.

"What," asked Archer, "is this this doing here?" doing here?"

Faulks, after a moment's solemn consideration, owned he had no idea how the spot had come to be there, apologized profusely for its presence, and promised its imminent and permanent removal. Archer stood, the egg left untasted in its cup, his appet.i.te quite gone, and left the room.

It was Archer's habit to retire every morning to his study and there tend to any little ch.o.r.es of correspondence and finance which had acc.u.mulated. His approach to this, as to everything else, was precise to the point of being ritualistic; he liked to arrange his days in reliable, predictable patterns. He had seated himself at his desk, a lovely affair of l.u.s.trous mahogany, and was reaching for the mail which had been tidily stacked for his perusal, when, on the green blotter which entirely covered the desk's working surface, he saw: [image]

He paled, I do not exaggerate, and rang once more for his butler. There was a pause, a longer pause than would usually have occurred, before the trustworthy Faulks responded to his master's summons. The butler's face bore a recognizable confusion.

"The spot, sir-" Faulks began, but Archer cut him short.

"Bother the spot," he snapped, indicating the offense on the blotter. "What is this? this?"

Faulks peered at the[image] in bafflement. in bafflement.

"I do not know, sir," he said. "I have never seen anything quite like it."

"Nor have I," said Archer. "Nor do I wish to see its likes again. Have it removed."

Faulks began to carefully take away the blotter, sliding it out from the leather corner grips which held it to the desk, as Archer watched him icily. Then, for the first time, Archer noticed his elderly servant's very odd expression. He recalled Faulks' discontinued comment.

"What is it you were trying to tell me, then?" he asked.

The butler glanced up at him, hesitated, and then spoke.

"It's about die spot, sir," he said. "The one on the tablecloth. I went to look at it, after you had left, sir, and, I cannot understand it, sir-it was gone! gone!"

"Gone?" asked Archer.

"Gone," said Faulks.

The butler glanced down at the blotter, which he now held before him, and started.

"And so is this this, sir!" he gasped, and, turning round the blotter, revealed it to be innocent of the slightest trace of a[image]

Conscious, now, that something very much out of the ordinary was afoot, Archer gazed thoughtfully into s.p.a.ce. Faulks, watching, observed the gaze suddenly harden into focus.

"Look over there, Faulks," said Archer, in a quiet tone. "Over yonder, at the wall."

Faulks did as he was told, wondering at his master's instructions. Then comprehension dawned, for there, on the wallpaper, directly under an indifferent seascape, was: [image]

Archer stood, and the two men crossed the room.

"What can it be, sir?" asked Faulks.

"I can't imagine," said Archer.

He turned to speak, but when he saw his butler's eyes move to his, he looked quickly back at the wall. Too late-the[image] was gone. was gone.

"It needs constant observation," Archer murmured, then, aloud: "Look for it, Faulks. Look for it. And when you see it, don't take your eyes from it for a second! don't take your eyes from it for a second!"

They walked about the room in an intensive search. They had not been at it for more than a moment when Faulks gave an exclamation.

"Here, sir!" he cried. "On the window sill!"

Archer hurried to his side and saw: [image]

"Don't let it out of your sight!" he hissed.

As the butler stood, transfixed and gaping, his master chewed furiously at the knuckles of his left hand. Whatever the thing was, it must be taken care of, and promptly. He would not allow such continued disruption in his house.

But how to get rid of it? He s.h.i.+fted to the knuckles of his other hand and thought. The thing had, he hated to admit it, but there it was, supernatural supernatural overtones. Perhaps it was some beastly sort of ghost. overtones. Perhaps it was some beastly sort of ghost.

He shoved both hands, together with their attendant knuckles, into his pants pockets. It showed the extreme state of his agitation, for he loathed nothing more than unsightly bulges in a well-cut suit. Who would know about this sort of thing? Who could possibly handle it?

It came to him in a flash-Sir Harry Mandifer! Of course! He'd known Sir Harry back at school, only plain Harry, then, of course, and now they shared several clubs. Harry had taken to writing, made a good thing of it, and now, with piles of money to play with, he'd taken to spiritualism, become, perhaps, the top authority in the field. Sir Harry was just the man! If only only he could persuade him. he could persuade him.

His face set in grimly determined lines, Archer marched to his telephone and dialed Sir Harry's number. It was not so easy to get through to him as it had been in the old days. Now there were secretaries, suspicious and secretive. But he was known, that made all the difference, and soon he and Sir Harry were together on the line. After the customary greetings and small talk, Archer brought the conversation around to the business at hand. Crisply, economically, he described the morning's events. Could Sir Harry find it possible to come? He fancied that time might be an important factor. Sir Harry would! Archer thanked him with all the warmth his somewhat constricted personality would allow, and, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, put back the receiver.

He had barely done it when he heard Faulks give a small cry of despair. He turned to see the old fellow wringing his hands in abject misery.

"I just blinked, sir!" he quavered. "Only blinked!"

It had been enough. A fraction of a second unwatched, and the[image] was gone from the sill. was gone from the sill.

Resignedly, they once again took up the search.

Sir Harry Mandifer settled back comfortably in the cus.h.i.+oned seat of his limousine and congratulated himself on settling the business of Marston Rectory the night before. It would not have done to leave that dangerous affair in the lurch, but the bones of the Mewing Nun had been found at last, and now she would rest peacefully in a consecrated grave. No more would headless children decorate the Cornish landscape, no more would the nights resound with mothers' lamentations. He had done his job, done it well, and now he was free to investigate what sounded a perfectly charming mystery.

Contentedly, the large man lit a cigar and watched the streets go sliding by. Delicious that a man as cautious and organized as poor old Archer should find himself confronted with something so outrageous. It only showed you that the tidiest lives have nothing but quicksand for a base. The snuggest haven's full of trap doors and sliding panels, unsuspected attics and suddenly discovered rooms. Why should the careful Archer find himself exempt? And he hadn't.

The limousine drifted to a gentle stop before Archer's house and Mandifer, emerging from his car, gazed up at the building with pleasure. It was a gracious Georgian structure which had been in Archer's family since the time of its construction. Mandifer mounted its steps and was about to apply himself to its knocker when the door flew open and he found himself facing a desperately agitated Faulks.

"Oh, sir," gasped the butler, speaking in piteous tones, "I'm so glad you could come! We don't know what to make of it, sir, and we can't hardly keep track of it, it moves so fast!"

"There, Faulks, there," rumbled Sir Harry, moving smoothly into the entrance with the unstoppable authority of a great clipper s.h.i.+p under full sail. "It can't be as bad as all that, now, can it?"

"Oh, it can, sir, it can," said Faulks, following in Mandifessr's wake down the hall. "You just can't get a hold hold on it, sir, is what it is, and everytime it's back, it's on it, sir, is what it is, and everytime it's back, it's bigger bigger, sir!"

"In the study, isn't it?" asked Sir Harry, opening the door of that room and gazing inside.

He stood stock still and his eyes widened a trifle because the sight before him, even for one so experienced in peculiar sights as he, was startling.

Imagine a beautiful room, exquisitely furnished, impeccably maintained. Imagine the occupant of that room to be a thin, tallish gentleman, dressed faultlessly, in the best possible taste. Conceive of the whole thing, man and room in combination, to be a flawless example of the sort of styled perfection that only large amounts of money, filtered through generations of confident privilege, can produce.

Now see that man on his hands and knees, in one of the room's corners, staring, bug-eyed, at the wall, and, on the wall, picture: [image]

"Remarkable," said Sir Harry Mandifer.

"Isn't it, sir?" moaned Faulks. "Oh, isn't it?"

"I'm so glad you could come, Sir Harry," said Archer, from his crouched position in the corner. It was difficult to make out his words as he spoke them through clenched teeth. "Forgive me for not rising, but if I take my eyes off this thing, or even blink, the whole-oh, G.o.d d.a.m.n d.a.m.n it!" it!"

Instantly, the[image] vanished from the wall. Archer gave out an explosive sigh, clapped his hands to his face, and sat back heavily on the floor. vanished from the wall. Archer gave out an explosive sigh, clapped his hands to his face, and sat back heavily on the floor.

"Don't tell me where it's got to, now, Faulks," he said, "I don't want to know; I don't want to hear about it."

Faulks said nothing, only touched a trembling hand on Sir Harry's shoulder and pointed to the ceiling. There, almost directly in its center, was: [image]

Sir Harry leaned his head close to Faulks' ear and whispered: "Keep looking at it for as long as you can, old man. Try not to let it get away." Then in his normal, conversational tone, which was a kind of cheerful roar, he spoke to Archer: "Seems you have a bit of a sticky problem here, what?"