Read Online Image of the Beast and Blown by Philip José Farmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip José Farmer
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room beyond was smaller but also much more
cluttered.
Woolie gestured vaguely—all his gestures were as
vague as ectoplasm—at the leaning and sometimes
collapsed piles of books and magazines.
"I got a shipment in from a collector in Utica, New
York," Heepish said. "He died recently."
His voice deepened and richened almost to oiliness.
"Very sad. A fine man. A real fan of the horror. We
corresponded for years, more than I care to say, although
I never actually got to meet him. But our minds met,
we had much in common. His widow sent me this stuff,
told me to price it at whatever I thought was fair. There's
a complete collection of Weird Tales from 1923 through
1954, a first edition of Chambers' King in Yellow, a first
edition of Dracula with a signature from Bram Stoker
and Bela Lugosi, and, oh! there is so so much!"
He rubbed his hands and smiled. "So much! But the
prize is a letter from Doctor Polidori—he was Byron's
personal physician and friend, you know—author of an
anonymous book—I have several first editions of the first
vampire novel in English— THE VAMPYRE. Doctor
Polidori! A letter from him to a Lady Milbanks de-
scribing how he got the idea for his novel! It's
unique! I've been lusting—literally lusting—for it ever
since I heard about it in 1941! It'll occupy a prominent
place—perhaps the most prominent—on the front
room wall as soon as I can get a suitable frame!"
Childe refrained from asking where he would find a
bare place on the wall.
Heepish showed him his office, a large room con-
stricted by many rows of ceiling-high bookcases and by
a huge old-fashioned rolltop desk engulfed by books,
magazines, letters, maps, stills, posters, statuettes, toys,
and a headsman's axe that looked genuine, even to the
dried blood.
They went back to the room between the office and
living room, where Heepish led Childe into the kitchen.
This had a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator, but other-
wise was full of books, magazines, small filing cases,
and some dead insects on the edges of the open cup-
boards and on the floor.
"I'm having the stove taken out next week," Heepish
said. "I don't eat in, and when I give a party, I have
everything brought in."
Childe raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Jeremiah
had told him that the refrigerator was so full .of micro-
films that there was little room for food. And at the
rate the film was coming in, there would soon not be
space enough for a quart of milk.
"I am thinking about building an extension to my
house," Heepish said. "As you can see, I'm a teeny-
weeny bit crowded now, and heaven knows what it will
be like five years from now. Or even one."
Woolston Heepish had been married—for over fifteen
years. His wife had wanted children, but he had said no.
Children could not be kept away from his books, mag-
azines, paintings and drawings, masks and costumes,
toys and statuettes. Little children were very destruc-
tive.
After some years, his wife gave up her wish to have
babies. Could she have a pet, a cat or a dog? Heep-
ish said that he was indeed very sorry, but cats clawed
and dogs chewed and piddled.
The collection increased; the house shrank. Furniture
was removed to make room for more objects. The day
came when there was no room for Mrs. Heepish. The
Bride of Frankenstein was elbowing her out. She knew
better than to appeal for even a halt to the collecting,
and a diminution was unthinkable. She moved out and
got a divorce, naming as co-respondent The Creature
from the Black Lagoon.
It was only fair to Heepish, Jeremiah had said, to let
Childe know that Heepish and his wife were the best of
friends and went out together as much as when they had
lived together. Perhaps, though, this was the ex-Mrs. Heep-
ish's way of getting revenge, because she certainly rode
herd on him, and he meekly submitted with only a few
grumbles now and then.
Now Heepish himself was being forced out. One day, he
would come home after a late meeting of The Count Drac-
ula
cluttered.
Woolie gestured vaguely—all his gestures were as
vague as ectoplasm—at the leaning and sometimes
collapsed piles of books and magazines.
"I got a shipment in from a collector in Utica, New
York," Heepish said. "He died recently."
His voice deepened and richened almost to oiliness.
"Very sad. A fine man. A real fan of the horror. We
corresponded for years, more than I care to say, although
I never actually got to meet him. But our minds met,
we had much in common. His widow sent me this stuff,
told me to price it at whatever I thought was fair. There's
a complete collection of Weird Tales from 1923 through
1954, a first edition of Chambers' King in Yellow, a first
edition of Dracula with a signature from Bram Stoker
and Bela Lugosi, and, oh! there is so so much!"
He rubbed his hands and smiled. "So much! But the
prize is a letter from Doctor Polidori—he was Byron's
personal physician and friend, you know—author of an
anonymous book—I have several first editions of the first
vampire novel in English— THE VAMPYRE. Doctor
Polidori! A letter from him to a Lady Milbanks de-
scribing how he got the idea for his novel! It's
unique! I've been lusting—literally lusting—for it ever
since I heard about it in 1941! It'll occupy a prominent
place—perhaps the most prominent—on the front
room wall as soon as I can get a suitable frame!"
Childe refrained from asking where he would find a
bare place on the wall.
Heepish showed him his office, a large room con-
stricted by many rows of ceiling-high bookcases and by
a huge old-fashioned rolltop desk engulfed by books,
magazines, letters, maps, stills, posters, statuettes, toys,
and a headsman's axe that looked genuine, even to the
dried blood.
They went back to the room between the office and
living room, where Heepish led Childe into the kitchen.
This had a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator, but other-
wise was full of books, magazines, small filing cases,
and some dead insects on the edges of the open cup-
boards and on the floor.
"I'm having the stove taken out next week," Heepish
said. "I don't eat in, and when I give a party, I have
everything brought in."
Childe raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Jeremiah
had told him that the refrigerator was so full .of micro-
films that there was little room for food. And at the
rate the film was coming in, there would soon not be
space enough for a quart of milk.
"I am thinking about building an extension to my
house," Heepish said. "As you can see, I'm a teeny-
weeny bit crowded now, and heaven knows what it will
be like five years from now. Or even one."
Woolston Heepish had been married—for over fifteen
years. His wife had wanted children, but he had said no.
Children could not be kept away from his books, mag-
azines, paintings and drawings, masks and costumes,
toys and statuettes. Little children were very destruc-
tive.
After some years, his wife gave up her wish to have
babies. Could she have a pet, a cat or a dog? Heep-
ish said that he was indeed very sorry, but cats clawed
and dogs chewed and piddled.
The collection increased; the house shrank. Furniture
was removed to make room for more objects. The day
came when there was no room for Mrs. Heepish. The
Bride of Frankenstein was elbowing her out. She knew
better than to appeal for even a halt to the collecting,
and a diminution was unthinkable. She moved out and
got a divorce, naming as co-respondent The Creature
from the Black Lagoon.
It was only fair to Heepish, Jeremiah had said, to let
Childe know that Heepish and his wife were the best of
friends and went out together as much as when they had
lived together. Perhaps, though, this was the ex-Mrs. Heep-
ish's way of getting revenge, because she certainly rode
herd on him, and he meekly submitted with only a few
grumbles now and then.
Now Heepish himself was being forced out. One day, he
would come home after a late meeting of The Count Drac-
ula
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