The Howling Man (28 page)

For The Ol' Massuh, just for him. Spoof's own song:

Black Country
.

There was a time, not too long ago, when people talked about short stories and television shows--that is, the individual stories on television shows--with as much enthusiasm as they do today about movies or the latest novel by Stephen King or, for that matter, the most recent
Batman
or
Superman
universe.

They really did.

"Did you read that story by Bradbury in the Saturday Evening Post? The one about the dinosaur and the foghorn?"

"Did you catch Harlan Ellison in the recent
Rogue
? The girl who only carries folding money and doesn't have a dime for an emergency phone call?"

"Did you watch
Twilight Zone
last night? Where the old lady tries to escape Mr. Death?"

It was during the fifties and the late sixties and short stories were one of the major pillars of popular culture. We talked about them, we told the plots to one another, we waited for the magazines when they hit the newsstand and, of course, we never missed
Twilight Zone
. That was a period when the men's magazines were a little racy and a lot of fun (before they traded in a casual wink and a chuckle for short courses in gynecology and exercises in "personal journalism') and the last mass market for short fiction.

There were giants in those days and their names were Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont and Rod Serling. .

Then
Twilight Zone
died in 1 965 and Charles Beaumont died in 1967 and when they were gone, an era started to die.
Night Gallery
, Serling's last anthology series, died in 1972 and about the same time, fiction as a mainstay of the mass market men's magazines also began to vanish. (Everybody knew the magazines sold because of the stapled-in-the-navel nudes and the latest exhaustive interview with some transient VIP. Fiction was given the old heave-ho. None of the publishers noticed that when you took out the works, the old watch might look the same but it no longer kept time very well. By the mid-80's, circulation had plummeted. Readers turned on by soft-core porno were renting the real thing to watch on their VCR's)

Of all the disasters to hit the short fiction market, one of the saddest was the decline and death of Charles Beaumont. A mainstay of
Twilight Zone
, he was also a mainstay of
Playboy
and
Rogue
.

He was a prolific talent and a unique one. Every writer reaches into himself for his characters, mines his own childhood for dramatic nuggets that he can adapt for his latest story.

Charlie's talent was broader than that. He could reach beyond his own life--he could reach into the hearts of the friends he knew and the people he met and construct his characters and stories from the living tissue of the everyday life around him.

Some musicians are credited with "soul," which is a very personal, internal thing. Charlie had that but he also had empathy, which is external. If you were hurting, he knew it. More importantly than that, he knew why--without you ever saying a word. It was this quality that gave his characters life, a quality that enabled his characters to engage the reader in a way those of few other writers could. In the science.fiction and fantasy field, dominated by mechanical plots and senseless action with cardboard cut outs going through the motions, stories by Charlie Beaumont stood out in vivid contrast.

It's with a great deal of bitter personal regret that I have to admit that both soul and empathy were not the sort of qualities that two-fifteen-year-olds in Chicago would notice in one another. I had to wait until my 30s to discover them in Charlie.

Harlan Ellison was largely responsible for Charles Beaumont appearing as "C.B. Loveh ill" in the old
Rogue
. We loved his stories and we bought every one he submitted (
Playboy
had first pick--they paid more--and we took the leavings. But Beaumont was so consistently good that purchase by
Playboy
reflected editorial taste more than innate quality).

Of all the stories we published, I especially loved, "Gentlemen, Be Seated." Dated only slightly, it deals with the death of humor and the Society for the Preservation of Laughter and could serve more as a metaphor for the late 1 980s than for the early I 960s, when it was written.

A clever idea . . .

Bur far more than that, it's the pathetic story of man who finally Got It (like most of us)--one day too late.

Of course, Kindaid's first thought was: I'm going to be sacked. A vision of disgrace, endless wandering, and inevitable death by starvation floated before his mind. Then, to his surprise, he relaxed. The terror vanished, and he found himself thinking: Well, at least I won't have to look at his stupid face any more. That's something. And I won't have to say yes to him when I mean no, hell no, you're as wrong as it's possible to get, you miserable fathead!

He pushed away from his desk and walked down the long aisle of drafting tables to a little gray door marked, simply: William A. Biddle--District Manager. He stood there a moment, wondering how he had sinned, not doubting that he had, for why else would he have been summoned? Then, swallowing, he knocked.

"Come in."

Kinkaid turned the plain metal knob and walked inside. The room, Model 17-B, "Regional Executive," was scientifically-designed for comfort and efficiency, but Kinkaid did not feel either comfortable or efficient. The Mov-E-Mural, depicting a wind-rippled mountain lake, the scent of rain and forests (#8124--"Huntsman"); the Day-Lite; and the distant strains of music (
La Gioconda
)--all chosen to keep the mind undeflected from its ordained course--served only to upset him further. He walked across the Earth 'n-Loam floor to the desk.

It was a perfectly ordinary desk, uncluttered by items of memorabilia, solid as a butcher's block, functional as the State. Yet it frightened Kinkaid. Perhaps because of the way it seemed to be not in the room but of it, perhaps because of the way it seemed to grow vertically from the floor and horizontally from the paunch of William A. Biddle.

"Sit down."

Kinkaid perched on the edge of the Relax-O-Kushion and met the gaze of his superior. Biddle drum-rolled his fingers on the Teletalk and frowned. Presently he spoke, in the unlubricated voice Kinkaid had come to despise: "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come in."

"Yes, sir."

Biddle opened a drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "I have here," he said, "a dossier. It contains a full report on your life to date." He flipped through the lightgreen pages. "I see that you were born in 1952, that you are unmarried, and that you have been employed at Spears' Research Laboratories for seven years. At no time have you arrived at the office late or left early. You are a member of Rotary, and attend the Young Men's Political Forum every other Tuesday. Outside interests and hobbies; none. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are, in short, the perfect employee."

"I do what I can, sir."

"Precisely. No more and no less. One could scarcely tell you from a billion other laborers. Yet I believe there is a difference." Biddle continued to frown. "You may recall that on the way to my office yesterday morning, I tripped."

"Yes, sir."

"What was your reaction?"

"Regret, sir."

"Indeed?" Very slowly, Biddle removed a cigar from his breast pocket. He skinned off the cellophane wrapping and moistened the tip. "It's a serious world we live in," he said, "and that is why we are serious people." He touched a spring on his silver lighter and sucked flame into the cigar. "Don't you agree?"

Kinkaid nodded. "Definitely, sir."

"Definitely," said William Agnew Biddle, whereupon the cigar in his mouth exploded.

Kinkaid leapt to his feet.

He stared at his superior, whose face was now covered with the splayed ends of the demolished cigar, and then felt a curious constriction in his chest and a peculiar, uncontrollable force which caused the corners of his mouth to stretch upward.

"What are you doing?" asked Biddle, suddenly.

Kinkaid's hands twitched in a futile gesture. The more Kinkaid looked at his superior, the greater and more uncontrollable the constriction, the higher the corners of the mouth. It was a frightening sensation. "I don't know," he said.

"Then I'll tell you," said Biddle, scraping the tobacco from his blackened face. "You're doing the same thing you did when I tripped. You're
grinning
."

"Sir, I assure you--"

"Kinkaid, I have eyes in my head, and I say you're
grinning!
Why?"

"I don't know, sir!"

Biddle took a step closer. "I do, You're amused, Kinkaid. That's why. An incident has just occurred which might have caused blindness or permanent injury to my face. I ask you, is there anything funny in that?"

"No, sir."

"And yet you grinned."

"It was involuntary."

"That hardly matters, Kinkaid. The point is, you
did
grin. I knew it!"

"Sir?"

"How did it feel?"

Kinkaid shifted on the Relax-O-Kushion. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said.

"Did it feel ... strange?"

"Yes."

"But not unpleasant?"

Kinkaid shook his head.

"Good! Splendid!" Biddle wiped the remaining patches of soot from his face. "Kinkaid," he said, "what are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Would you care to spend an evening with me?"

"That would be fine, sir. But--"

"No buts! Meet me at Kelly's, Ninth and Spring, at eight o'clock. Your questions will be answered then. In the meantime, say nothing of this episode--to anyone. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Kinkaid rose.

"Kinkaid."

"Yes, sir?"

"Why do firemen wear red suspenders?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Poor boy," said Biddle. "You will."

Kelly's was unlike any restaurant Kinkaid had ever seen; except, of course, in the historicals. Entering, he felt peculiarly suspect. Instead of the usual bright light, there was darkness. Instead of the normal cataract of voices, silence. Instead of the endless rows of tables, emphasizing Togetherness, a few booths by the wall. At the last booth, he stopped. William Agnew Biddle was seated before a glass which contained a colorless fluid.

"James, I'm so glad you decided to come. Thought I saw you changing your mind by the door." Kinkaid sat down across from his superior. Somehow Biddle was different. His voice was no longer dry and mechanical. His eyes seemed to have little lights in them.

"Ever been to a real restaurant?"

"Like this? No."

"Pity. I can't say the food is particularly health-giving--but once you've tried it, you can't go back to the lab stuff. Care to try?"

"I'm not very hungry, sir, to tell the truth."

"Oh. Well, you won't mind if I go ahead." Biddle drained the glass, then snapped his fingers. A man in a red jacket appeared out of the shadows. "A nice porterhouse, Sam. Salad, with roquefort. My usual."

"Yes, sir," the man said, and vanished.

"Being waited on is agreeable, too," said Biddle. "Now. I suppose at this point you're thinking: Poor old boy, he's flunked his mentals."

"Oh, no, sir. It's just that I'm a little--"

"Confused. Yes. And with good reason. First it appears you're going to be fired, then it appears you're being subjected to some sort of test. As it happens, neither is the case."

Kinkaid said, "Oh."

"You see, James, I've had my eyes on you for quite a while. Not that there was ever anything overt, anything one could put one's finger on . . . But I sensed something about you."

The man in the red jacket reappeared, bearing trays. He set many dishes in front of Biddle. Then he vanished again.

Biddle began to eat. "They'll tell you there's no such thing as intuition," he said, between bites, "but they're wrong. I knew, somehow, that you'd grin when the cigar exploded. Of course, I'd
hoped
for a laugh, but we can't have everything can we?
How
did I know about the grin?" He shrugged, cocking his sparse-haired, pink-fleshed head to one side. "For a long time I've felt your hatred. Highly unscientific! But I've felt it nonetheless. The way you say 'good morning,' for instance. It's not a greeting, it's a curse. What you
mean
is: 'I hate you, Mr. Biddle. I hate everything about you.' Am I right?"

"Well . . ."

"Of
course
I'm right!" Biddle chewed lustily. "The district manager of Spear's Research is, by and large, a horse's ass. He is pompous and rude and officious and cold. But he is also highly competent, and therefore above suspicion. The authorities would believe him, no matter what they were told. No matter
what
. Remember that."

"All right," said Kinkaid.

Biddle glanced at his watch, then snapped his fingers again, loudly. The man in the red jacket materialized.

"Check, Sam," said Biddle. Then, rising: "Come along, James. It's just about that time."

They rode the moving belts to the dark north end of the city, then they walked. Soon Kinkaid's legs began to hurt. He wanted to stop and rest, but pride prevented him. Biddle, who was over seventy, appeared to be totally unaffected by the exertion.

After a while, the district manager said: "Been out this way before?"

Kinkaid shook his head.

"It's called No Man's Land. They'll have it torn down in a few years, torn down, swept away, forgotten." Biddle sighed. "All these lovely, impractical buildings ..." He pointed to a huge, dark, sightless structure, untenanted for decades, poised, it seemed, on the fine edge of collapse. "A lot of unhappiness there, James. But a lot of happiness, too. Stop a moment. Close your eyes. Can't you almost hear the crying and the laughter?"

Kinkaid closed his eyes. He heard nothing but the hum of the city.

"It will come. Don't force it." Biddle reached into his pocket. "Now I'll have to ask you to cooperate." He withdrew a pair of glasses, opened them, and hooked them on Kinkaid's ears. "Can you see?"

"No."

"Good."

Kinkaid felt himself being revolved. Dizziness set in immediately.

"It's necessary the first time," said Biddle. "In case you're rejected."

Feeling slightly ill, Kinkaid walked what he considered a terrible distance, turning innumerable corners, doubling back, climbing steps. After perhaps an hour of this, Biddle said: "Take 'em off."

They were in an alcove of some sort. Biddle winked, walked to the paint-peeling door and knocked three times. There was a pause. Then a panel slid open and a face appeared.

"Why does a chicken cross the road?" inquired a voice.

"To get to the other side," said Biddle.

The door opened.

Kinkaid followed his superior into a plush-hung hallway. Standing in the hallway, blocking a second door, was a tall man in a peppermint-striped suit. His face was glistening black, except for the mouth, which was broadly outlined in white. His hair was short and kinky. He held a circular, bangled instrument which Kinkaid recognized as an ancient
tambourine
.

"Good evening, Mister Bones," said Biddle.

"Good evenin'," said the man with the black face.

"Is he in?"

"Yassuh."

"Tell him member seven-oh-nine is here, with the recruit."

"Yassuh, boss!" said the man. He tapped the
tambourine
, turned and walked out the doorway.

Within moments he was back.

"Dis yere way."

Kinkaid and Biddle accompanied the man up a long, narrow flight of stairs to a small red door and there they stopped. The man with the black face pressed a button.

From an overhead speaker a voice called: "Why does the fireman wear red suspenders?"

"To keep his pants up," said the
tambourine
man, flipping a toggle.

"So make the scene."

There was a sharp buzzing sound. The door swung open. Kinkaid and Biddle followed their guide in.

Instinctively, Kinkaid gasped and clutched at Biddle for support. His first impression had been that the room was upside down. He closed his eyes. Slowly, he opened them. The impression remained.

Biddle made a peculiar noise in his throat. "Don't be alarmed," he said. "This is known as a gag."

"A gag?" Kinkaid stared up at what could only be the floor. He saw a couch, a chair, a table, and even a small sleeping dog.

"Exactly. It will be explained." Biddle marched across the ceiling, from which sprouted a long chain topped by an antique light bulb. "Come along."

Taking care to look straight ahead, Kinkaid made his way forward. His employer pressed a second button and a panel slid back, exposing a second room.

It was hardly a comfort.

Here there were mirrors, stationed along the four walls. As Kinkaid passed them, he saw himself turn fat, slim, big-headed, pin-headed, three-faced, and invisible.

"Deposit the can titherwards, ofay," said the man know as Mister Bones, gesturing.

"How's that?" Kinkaid looked at the chair which had been pulled up. "Oh." He sat down. As he sank into the frayed brown cushion, there was a loud, embarrassing noise.

"Yak, yak!" said Mister Bones.

Kinkaid rose, unsteadily. "I think," he said, "that I'd better go."

"Too late," said Biddle.

"
Boo!
"

Kinkaid jumped backward, colliding with a large desk. When equilibrium returned, he found himself staring at a figure alongside which the man with the black face seemed absolutely humdrum. This figure reflected a hundred times throughout the room, wore a golden mask and a skin-tight suit of many colors, each color in the shape of a diamond, each diamond a different hue from the other. The figure approached, and as it did so, the tiny bells attached to its ankles and to its wrists and to its high-peaked cap tinkled wildly.

"What goes up the chimney down but not down the chimney up?"

"I don't understand the question," said Kinkaid. "Would you repeat it?"

"No," said the belled figure. Pointing the stick at Biddle: "Tell him."

"An umbrella," said Biddle.

The man with the black face slapped his knees. Peculiar noises issued from his throat. They were, Kinkaid thought, like the noises of the Laff-Tracks on TV; but also not like them.

"Mister Bones," said the belled figure, "it's toodle-oosville,
s'il vous plait
."

The man with the black face tapped his
tambourine
, turned and walked headlong into the wall. Again Kinkaid felt the strange constriction in his chest. The ends of his mouth curled upwards as the man crashed to the floor, rolled, picked himself up and staggered through the doorway.