They Bite and Another Eerie Tale | Podcast

They Bite and Mr. Lipescu, both written by Anthony Boucher, a prolific writer of mystery novels, short stories, science fiction and radio dramas. His story Nine Times Nine was voted the best locked room master of all time. Boucher founded the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and edited it from 1949 to 1958. He was a friend and mentor of Philip K. Dick. His first story was published in 1927 in Weird Tales when he was 15. It was entitled: Ye Good Olde Ghost Stories.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Do you feel a shier up your spine from fear. Yes,
it's another story from the Night's Shade Diary. You know
what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror

(00:22):
and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
it's a dark and stormy night, and remember, screaming like
a little girl is permitted. They bite by Anthony Boucher.
There was no path, only the most vertical ascent crumbled

(00:45):
the rock for a few yards, with the roots of
stage finding their scanty life in the dry soil, then
jagged outcroppings of crude crags, sometimes with accidental footholds, sometimes
of the overhanging and untrustworthy branches of greasewood, sometimes with
no aid to climbing but the leverage of your muscles
and the ingenuity of your balance. The sage was as

(01:06):
drably green as the rock was grabbly brown. The only
color was the occasional rosy spikes of a barrel cactus.
Hugh Talent swung himself up onto the last pinnacle. It
had a deliberate shape. Looked about it a petrified fortress
of Liliputians, a gibraltar of pygmies. Talent perched on its
battlements and unslung his field glasses. The desert valleys spread

(01:30):
below him, the tiny cluster of buildings that was Oasis,
the exsiduous cluster of palms that gave name to the town,
and sheltered to his own tent, and to the shack
he was building, The dead ended highway leading straightforwardly to nothing,
the oiled roads diagramming the vacant blocks of an optimistic subdivision.

(01:51):
Talent saw none of these. His glasses were fixed beyond
the oasis and the town of Oasis, on the dry lake.
The gliders were clear and vivid to him, and the
uniform men busy with them were as sharply and minutely
visible as a nest of ants under glass. The training
school was more than usually active. One glider, in particular,

(02:12):
strange to Talent, seemed the focus of attention. Med would
come and examine it and glance back at the older
models in comparison. Only the corner of Talent's left eye
was not preoccupied with a new glider. In that corner,
something moved, something little and thin and brown as the earth,
too large for a rabbit, much too small for a man.

(02:34):
It darted across the corner of vision and talent found
glider's oddly hard to concentrate on. He set down the
bifocals and deliberately looked a bottom. His pinnacle surveyed the narrow,
flat area of the crust. Nothing stirred, Nothing stood out
against the sage and rock, but one barrel of rosy spikes.

(02:55):
He took up the glasses again and resumed his observation.
When he was done, he methoughtic entered the results in
the little black notebook. His hand was still white. The
desert is cold and often sunless in winter. But it
was a firm hand, and as well trained as his eyes,
fully capable of recording faithfully the designs and dimensions which

(03:15):
they had registered so accurately. Once his hand slipped and
he had to erase and redraw, leaving a smudge that
displeased him. The lean brown thing had slipped across the
edge of his vision again, going toward the east edge,
he would swear where that set of rocks jutted like
the spines on the back of a stegosaur. Only when
his notes were completed did he yield to curiosity, and

(03:38):
even then with cynical self reproach. He was physically tired
for him, an unusual state from his daily climbing and
from clearing the ground for his shack to be The
eye muscles play odd nervous tricks. There could be nothing
behind the stegosaur's armor. There was nothing, nothing, alive and moving,
only the torn and half pluck carcass of a bird,

(04:00):
which looked as though I had been gnawed by some
small animal. It was half way down the hill hill
and western terminology, though anywhere east of the rockies it
would have been considered a sizeable mountain. That talent again
had a glimpse of a moving figure. But this was
no trick of a nervous eye. It was not little

(04:20):
the north, thin, nor brown. It was tall and broad,
and wore a loud red and black lumber jacket, a
bellowed talent and a cheerful and lusty voice. Talent drew
near the man. He said, hullo. He paused, and added
yer advantage. I think the man grinned broadly. Don't know me. Well,
I dare say ten years is a long time, and

(04:41):
the California desert ain't exactly the Chinese rice fields. How
stuff still loaded down with secrets for sale. Talent tried
desperately not to react to that shot, but he stiffened
a little. Sorry the prospector get up, had me fooled.
Good to see you again, Morgan. The man's eyes had
narrowed just having my little joke, he smiled. Of course,

(05:02):
you wouldn't have no serious reason for mountain climbing around
a glider school, now would you. And you'd kind of
need field glasses to keep an eye on the pretty birdies.
I'm out here for my health. Talent's voice sounded unnatural
even to himself. Sure, sure, you're always in it for
your health. And come to think of it, my own
health ain't been none too good lately. I've got my

(05:24):
little cabmin Way to Helen gone around here, and i'd
do me a little prospecting now and then. And somehow
it just strikes me, Talent, like maybe I hit a
pretty good load to day. Nonsense, old man, you can see,
I'd sure hate to tell any of them arm men
out of the fields. Some of the stories I know
about China and the kind of men I used to

(05:44):
know out there wouldn't cotton to them stories a bit.
The army wouldn't. But if I was to have a
drink too many and get all talkative like tell you what,
Talent suggested brusquely. It's getting near sunset now, and my
has chili for evening visits. But drop around in the
morning and we'll talk over old times. Is rum still

(06:06):
your tipple? Sure is kind of expensive. Now you understand,
I'll lay some min you can find a place easily
over by the oasis, and we we might be able
to talk about your prospecting too. Talents and lips were
set firm as he walked away. The bartender opened a
bottle of beer and plunked it on the damp circled counter.

(06:29):
That'll be twenty cents, he said, then at as an
afterthought when a glass sometimes tourists do. Talent looked at
the other sitting at the counter, the red eyed and
unshaven old man, the flight sergeant, unhappily drinking a coke.
It was after army hours for beer. The young man
with a long, dirty trench coat and the pipe and

(06:49):
the new looking brown beard and saw no glasses. I
guess I won't be a tourist, he decided. This was
the first time Talant had had a chance to visit
the desert sport spot. It was as well to be
seen around in a community. Otherwise people begin to wonder
and say, who is that man out by the oasis?
Why don't you ever see him any place? The sports

(07:11):
spot was quiet that night, the four of them at
the counter, two army boys shooting pool, and half a
dozen other local men gathered about a round poker table
soberly and wordlessly cleaning. A construction worker whose mind seemed
more on his beer than on his cards. He just
passing through. The bartender asked sociably. Talent shook his head.
I'm moving in. When the army turned me down for

(07:33):
my lungs, I decided better do something about it. Heard
so much about your climate here, I thought I might
as well try it. Sure thing, the bartender nodded, you
take up until they started this glider school. Just about
every other guy you meet in the desert is here
for his health. Me a'd sinus, and look at me now,
it's the air, Talent breathed. The atmosphere smoke and beer SuDS,

(07:57):
but did not smile. I'm looking forward to miracles, you'll
get em. Where about you? Staying over that way a bit?
The agent called it the old Carker place. Talent felt
the curiously stening silence and frowned. The bartender had started
to speak and then thought better of it. The young
man with the beard looked at him oddley. The old

(08:17):
man fixed them with red and watery eyes that a
faded glint of pity in them. For a moment, Talent
felt a chill that had nothing to do with the
night air of the desert. The old man drank his
beer in quick gulps and frowned as though trying to
formulate a sentence at Lassie wiped beer from his bristly
lips and said, you wasn't aimin to stay in the adobe,

(08:38):
was you? No, it's pretty much gone to pieces. Easier
to rig me up a little shocked and try to
make the adobe livable. Meanwhile, I've got a tent. That's
all right then maybe, but mind you don't go pokin
round that they're adobe. I don't think I'm up to
but why not one another beer? The old man shook

(08:58):
his head reluctantly and from his stool to the ground.
Oh thanks, I don't rightly know as I yes, nothing,
thanks all the same, He turned and shuffled to the door.
Talan smiled, But why should I stay clear of the adobe?
He called after him. The old man mumbled what they bite?

(09:19):
Said the old man, and went out, shivering into the night.
The bartender was back at his post. I'm glad he
didn't take that beer you offered him, he said, along
about this time in the evening. I have to stop
serving him. For once he had the sense to quit.
Talon pushed his own empty bottle forward. I hope I
didn't frighten him away. Frightened, well, mister, I think maybe

(09:42):
that's just what you did do. He didn't want beer.
That sort of came like you might save from the
old Carker place. Some of the old timers here, they're
funny that way. Talent grinned, is it haunted? Not what
you call haunted? No, no goes there that iver heard of.
He wiped the counter with a cloth and seemed to
wipe the subject away with it. The flight sergeant pushed

(10:05):
his coat bottle away, hunted in his pocket for Nichols
and went over to the pinball machine. The young man
with the beard slid into his vacant stool. Hope Old
Jake didn't worry you, he said. Talent laughed. I suppose
every town has its deserted homestead with a grisly tradition,
but this sounds a little bit different. No ghosts and
they bite. Do you know anything about it? A little?

(10:28):
The young man said, seriously, a little, just enough to
Talent was curious. Have one on me and tell me
about it. The flight sergeant swore bitterly at the machine.
Beard gurgled through the beard. You see, the young man began.
The desert's so big you can't be alone in it ever.
Notice that it's all empty, and there's nothing in sight,

(10:48):
But there's always something moving over there, or you can't
quite see it. It's something very dry and thin and brown.
Only when you look around it isn't there ever see it?
Optical fatigue? Talent began, Sure, I know, every man, to
his own legend, there isn't a tribe of Indians hasn't
got some way of accounting for it. You've heard of

(11:09):
the watchers, and the twentieth century white man comes along
in it's optical fatigue. Only in the nineteenth century things
weren't quite the same, and there were the carkers. You've
got a special localized legend, call it that you glimpse
things out of the corner of your mind, sam like
you glimpse lean dry things out of the corner of

(11:29):
your eye. You encase them in solid circumstance, and they're
not so bad. That is known as the growth of legend,
the folk mind in action. You take the carkers and
the things you don't quite see, and you put them
together and they bite. Talent wondered how long that beard
had been absorbing beer? And what were the carkers, you

(11:50):
promptly asked, Ever hear of sawny Bean, Scotland raign of
James the first or maybe the sixth, though I think
Rough's head's wrong on that one for once. Or let's
be more modern. Ever here of the benders Kansas in
the eighteen seventies, No every here of Procrustes or Polyphemus

(12:13):
or fee five fox FuMB. They're ogres. You know, they're
no legend, they're fact. They are The inn were nine
guests left for every ten that arrived. The mountain cabin
that sheltered travelers must snow, sheltered them all winter till
the melting spring uncovered their bones. The lonely stretches of
road that so many passengers traveled half way. You'll find

(12:36):
them everywhere all over Europe, and pretty much in this
country too, before communication became what they are profitable business,
and it wasn't just the profit. The benders made money, sure,
but that wasn't why they killed other victims as carefully
as a kosher butcher. Sonny being God, so he didn't
give them about the profit. He just needed to lay

(12:58):
in more meat for the winter, and think of the
chances you'll have at an oasis. So these Carkers of
yours were as you call them, ogres, carkers ogres, maybe
they were benders. The benders were never seen alive, you know,
after the townspeople found those curiously butchered bodies. There's a

(13:19):
rumor they got this far west, and the time checks
pretty well. There wasn't any town here in the eighties,
just a couple of Indian families, last of a dying tribe,
living on the oasis. They vanished after the Carkers moved
in that's not so surprising. You know, nobody worried about them,

(13:40):
But they used to worry about why so many travelers
never got across this stretch of desert. The travelers used
to stop over at the carkers, you see, and somehow
they often never got any further. Their wagons be found
maybe fifteen miles beyond in the desert. Sometimes they found
the bones too parched and white, not looking, they said. Sometimes,

(14:02):
and nobody ever did anything about these carkers. We sure
we didn't have King James the sixth only I still
think it was first to ride up on a great
white horse for a gesture. But twice army detachments came
here and wiped them all out twice. One wiping out
would do for most families. Talent smiled, Uh huh, that

(14:24):
was no slip. They wiped out the carkers twice because
you see, once it didn't do any good. They wiped
them out, and still travelers vanished, and still there were
nod bones, so they wiped them out again. After that
they gave up and people detoured the oasis. It made
a longer, harder trip. But after all, Talent laughed, You
mean to say these Carkers were immortal. I don't know

(14:47):
about immortal. They somehow just didn't die very easily. Maybe
if they were the benders, and I sort of liked
to think they are, they learned a little more about
what they were doing out here in the desert. Maybe
they put together what the Indians knew and what they
knew and it worked. Maybe whatever they made their sacrifices
to understood them better out here than any Kansas. And

(15:11):
what's become of them aside from seeing them out of
the corner of the eye. There's forty years between the
last of the Carker history and this new settlement at
the oasis, and people won't talk much about what they
learned here in the first euro or so, only that
they stay away from that old Carker adobe. They tell
some stories. The priest says he was sitting in the

(15:32):
confessional one hot Saturday afternoon and thought he heard a
penitent come in. He waited a long time and finally
lifted the gozze to see was anybody there? Something was there,
and it bit. He got three fingers on his right
hand now, which looks funny as how. When he gives
the benediction talent pushed her two bottles towards the bartender.

(15:54):
That yarn, My young friend has earned another beer. How
about a bartender? Is he always cheerful like? Or is
this just something is improvised for my benefit? The bartender
set out the fresh bottles with great solemnity. Me I
wouldn't have told you all that by myself. But then
he's a stranger too, and maybe don't feel the same
way we do here for him. It's just a story.

(16:16):
It's more comfortable that way, said the young man with
a beard, and he took a firm hold on his
beer bottle. But as long as you've heard this much,
said the bartender, you might as well. It was last
winter when we had that cold spell. You heard funny
stories that winter wolves coming into prospectors' cabins just to
warm up. Well, business wasn't so good. We don't have

(16:39):
a license for hard liquor, and the boys don't drink
much beer when it's that cold. But they used to
come in anyway because we've got that big oil burner.
So one night there's a bunch of them in here.
Old Jake was here that you was talking to, and
his dog Jigger, And I think I hear someone else
come in. The door creaks a little, but I don't
see nobody. And the poker game's on and we're talking,

(17:01):
just like we're talking now, And all of a sudden
I hear a kind of noise like crack over there
in that corner behind the juke box, near the burner.
I go over to see what goes, and it gets
away before I can see it very good, But it
was little and thin. It didn't have no clothes on.
It must have been damned cold, that winner, And what
was a cracking noise? Talent asked dutifully that that was

(17:25):
a bone. It must have strangled jigger without any noise.
He was a little dog. It ate most of the flesh,
and if it hadn't cracked the bone for the marrow,
it could have finished. You can still see the spots
over there. The blood never did come out. There had
been silence all through the story. Now suddenly all hell
broke loose. The flight sergeant let out a splendid yell

(17:47):
and began pointing excitedly at the pinball machine and yelling
for his payoff. The construction worker dramatically deserted the poker game,
knocking his chair over in the process and announced la
booglessly that these guys were had their own rules. Any
atmosphere Carker inspired horror was dissipated. Talent whistled as he
walked over to put a nickel in the juke box.

(18:09):
He glanced casually at the floor. Yes, there was a stain.
For what that was worth, He smiled cheerfully and felt
rather grateful to the Carkers. They were going to solve
his blackmail problem very neatly. Talent dreamed of power that night.
It was a common dream with him. He was a
ruler of the new American corporate state that would follow

(18:29):
the war. And he said to this man come, and
he came, and to that man go, and he went
to his servants, do this, and they did it. Then
the young man with a beard was standing before him
in a dirty trench coat, was like the robes of
an ancient prophet. And the young man said, you see
yourself riding high, don't you riding the crest of the wave,
the wave of the future, you call it. But there's

(18:52):
a deep, dark undertow that you don't see. And that's
a part of the past and the present and even
your future. There's evil in man kind that is blacker
even than your evil, and infinitely more ancient. And there
was something in the shadows behind the young man, something
little and lean and brown. Talon's dream did not disturb

(19:13):
him the following morning, nor did the thought of the
approaching interview with Morgan. He fried his bacon and eggs
and devoured them cheerfully. The wind had died down for
a change, and the sun was warm enough so that
he could strip to the waist while he cleared land
for a shock. His machete glinted brilliantly as it swung
through the air and struck at the roots to the brush.
When Morgan arrived, his full face was red and sweating.

(19:35):
It's cool over there, in the shade of the adobe,
Talent suggested, we'll be more comfortable. And in the comfortable
shade of the adobe, he swung the machete once and
clothed Morgan's full red, sweating face. And two, it was
so simple. It took less effort than uprooting a clump
of sage, And it was so safe. Morgan lived in
a cabin way to Helen Gone, and was often away

(19:58):
on prospecting trips. No one would notice his absence for months.
If then no one had any reason to connect him
with Talon, and no one at Oasis would hunt for
him and the Carker haunted adobe. The body was heavy
and the blood dripped warm on Talent's bare skin. With relief,
he dumped what had been morgan on the floor of
the adobe. There were no boards, no flooring, just to

(20:20):
earth hard but not too hard to dig a grave in,
and no one was likely to come poking around in
this taboo territory to notice the grave. Let a year
or so go by, and the grave in the bones
that contained would be attributed to the Carkers. The corner
of Talon's eye bothered him again. Deliberately, he looked about
the interior of the adobe. The little furniture was crude

(20:42):
and heavy, with no attempt to smooth down the strokes
of the axe. It was held together with wooden pegs
or half rotted thongs. There were age old cinders in
the fireplace, and the dusty shards of a cooking jar
among them, And there was a deeply hollowed stone covered
with stains that might have been rust if rusted. Behind
it was a tiny figure clumsily fashioned of clay and sticks.

(21:06):
It was something like a man, and something like a lizard,
and something like the things that flit across the corner
of the eye. Curious now, talent peered about further. He
penetrated to the corner that the one unglassed window light died,
but dimly, And there he led out a little, choking ghast.
For a moment he was rigid with horror. Then he

(21:27):
smiled and all but laughed aloud. This explained everything. Some
curious individual had seen this, and from his accounts had
burgeoned the whole legend. The Carkers had indeed learned something
from the Indians, but that secret was the art of embalming.
It was a perfect mummy. Either the Indian art had
shrunk bodies, or this was a ten year old boy.

(21:51):
There was no flush, only skin and bone, and taut,
dry stretches of tendon between The eyelids were closed. The
sockets looked taller under them. The nose was sunken and
almost lost. The scant lips were tightly curled back from
the long and very white teeth, which stood forth all
the more brilliantly against the deep brown skin. It was

(22:12):
a curious little trove of this mummy. Talent was already
calculating the chances for raising a decent sum of money
from an interested anthropologist. Murderer can produce such delightfully profitable
chance by products. When he noticed the infinitismal rise and
fall of the chest, the Carker was not dead, it
was sleeping. Talent did not dare stop to think beyond

(22:33):
the instant. This was no time to pause to consider
such things were possible in a well ordered world. It
was not a time to reflect on the disposal of
the body of Morgan. It was a time to snatch
up your machete and get out of there. But in
the doorway he halted. There, coming across the desert heading
for the adobe. Clearly seen this time was another, a female.

(22:55):
He made an involuntary gesture of indecision. The blade of
the machete clangringly again as to the adobe wall. He
heard the dry shuffling of a roused sleeper behind him.
He turned fully now the machete raised dispose of this
nearer one first than faced the female. There was no
room even for terror in his thoughts, only for action.
The lean brown shapes darted at him, avidly. He moved

(23:18):
lightly away and stood poised for its second charge. A
shot forward again, he took one step back, matchetti arm
raised and fell headlong over the corpse of Morgan. Before
he could rise, the thin thing was upon him. His
sharp teeth had met through the palm of his left hand.
The machete moved swiftly. The thin, dry body fell headless
to the floor. There was no blood. The grip of

(23:41):
the teeth did not relax. Pain coursed up Talon's left arm,
a sharper, more bitter pain than you would expect from
the bite, almost as though venom. He dropped a machete
in his strong white hand, plucked and twisted at the dry,
brown lips. The teeth stayed clenched, unrelaxing. He sat, bracing
his back against the wall, and gripped the head between

(24:03):
his knees. He pulled. His flesh ripped, and blood formed
dusty clots on the dirt floor, But the bite was firm.
His world had become reduced now to that hand and
that head. Nothing outside mattered. He must free himself. He
raised his aching arm to his face, and with his
own teeth, he tore at that unrelenting grip. The dry

(24:25):
flesh crumbled away in desert dust, but the tree were
locked fast. He tore his lips against their white keenness,
and tastes in his mouth the sweetness of blood and
something else. He staggered to his feet again. He knew
what he must do. Later, he could use cotterery, a tourniquet,
seid doctor with a story of a Gila monster. Their
heads gripped too, don't they? But he knew what he

(24:47):
must do. He raised a machete and struck again. His
white hand lay on the brown floor, gripped by the
white teeth in the brown face. He propped himself against
the adobe wall, momentarily unable to move. His open wrists
hung over the deeply hollowed stone. His blood and his
strength and his life poured out before the little figure
of sticks and clay. The female stood in the doorway, now,

(25:10):
the sun bright on her thin brownness. She did not move.
He knew that she was waiting for the hollow stone
to fill. Mister lupiscue. The teacups rattled in flames flickered
over the logs. Alan, I do wish you would do
something about Bobby isn't that rather Robert's place? Oh, you

(25:32):
know Robert. He's so busy doing good and nice abstract
ways with committees in them and headlines. He can't be
bothered with things like mister lupis Cue. After all, Bobby's
only son, and yours, Marjorie and mine. But things like
this take a man, Allan. The room was warm and peaceful.

(25:53):
Alan stretched his long legs by the fire and felt domestic.
Marjorie was soothing, even when she fretted. The firelight did
things to her hair and the curve of her blouse
a small whirl when injured at high velocity, and stopped
only when Marjorie said, Bobby, say hello nicely to Uncle Alan.
Bobby said hello and stood tentatively on one foot. Alan,

(26:14):
Marjorie prompted. Alan sat up straight and tried to look paternal. Well, Bobby,
he said, and where are you off to in such
a hurry? See mister Lupiscue. Of course he usually comes afternoons.
Your mother's been telling me about mister Lupescue. He must
be quite a person. Oh gee, I'll say he is,
Uncle Alan. He's got a great, big red nose, and

(26:39):
red gloves and red eyes, not like when you've been crying,
but really red like yours, brown and little red wings
that twitch. Only he can't fly with them because they're rudimentary,
he says, And he talks like, oh gee, I can't
do it. But he's swell he is. Lupiscue's a funny
name for a fairy godfather, isn't it, Bobby? Why mister

(27:02):
Lupisq always says? Why do all the fairies have to
be irish? Because it takes all kinds, doesn't it. Alan
Majorie said, I don't see that you're doing a bit
of good. You talk to him seriously like that, and
you simply make him think it is serious. And you
do know better, don't you. Bobby. You're just joking with us,

(27:24):
joking about mister Lupiscue. Marjorie, you don't listen, Bobby. Your
mother didn't mean to insult you or mister Lupisque. She
just doesn't believe in what she's never seen, and you
can't blame her. Now, supposing you took her and me
out in the garden and we could all see mister Lupisque,
wouldn't that be fun? Uh huh? Bobby shook his head,

(27:47):
gravely not from mister lupis Q. He doesn't like people,
only little boys, and he says if I ever bring
people to see him, then he'll let Gorgy get me.
Goodbye now, and the whorld parted, Marjorie sighed. At least,
thanks heavens for go go. I never get a very
clear picture out of Bobby, but he says, mister Lupscue

(28:10):
tells the most terrible things about him. And if there's
any trouble about vegetables or brushing teeth, all have to
say is gorgo and hey, presto, Alan Rose. I don't
think you need to worry, Marjorie. Mister Lupiscue seems to
do more good than harm. An active imagination is no
curse to a child you haven't lived with, mister Lupiscue.

(28:31):
To live in a house like this, i'd chance it,
Alan laugh, but please forgive me. Now, back to the
cottage and the typewriter. Seriously, why don't you ask Robert
to talk with him? Marjorie spread her hands helplessly. I
know I'm always the one to assume responsibilities, and yet
you married Robert. Marjorie laughed. I don't know. Somehow, there's

(28:53):
something about Robert. Her vague gesture happened to include the
original daegas over the fireplace, the sterling tea service, and
even delivered footman who came in at the moment the
clear way. Mister Lupscue was pretty wonderful that afternoon, all right.
He had a little kind of an itch like in
his wings, and they kept twitching all the time. Stardust,

(29:14):
he said it tickles. Got it up in the Milky Way.
Friend of mine has a wagon route up there. Mister
Lupiscue had lots of friends, and they all did something
you wouldn't ever think of, not in a squillion years.
That's why he didn't like people. His people don't do
things you can tell stories about. They just work or
keep house, or are mother's or something. But one of

(29:37):
mister Lupscue's friends now was a captain of a ship.
Only it went in time, and mister Lupscue took trips
with him and came back and told you all about
what was happening this very minute, five hundred years ago.
And another of the friends was a radio engineer. Only
he could tune in on all the kingdoms of Ferry,
and mister Lupiscue would squiggle up his red nose and

(29:59):
twistle like a dial and make noises like all the
kingdoms of Faery come in and on the set. And
then there was Gorgo, only he wasn't a friend, not exactly,
not even to mister Lupisque. They've been playing for a
couple of weeks, only it must have been really hours
because Mademoiselle hadn't yelled about supper yet. But mister Lupisque says,

(30:21):
time is funny. When mister Lupiscue screwed up his red
eyes and said, Bobby, let's go in the house. But
there's people in the house, and you don't I know,
I don't like people. That's why we're going in the house.
Come on, Bobby, or I'll So what could you do
when you didn't even want to hear him say Gorgo's name.

(30:42):
He went into father's study through the French window. And
it was a strict rule that nobody ever went into
father's study, But rules weren't for mister Lupisque. Father was
on the telephone telling somebody he'd tried to be at
a luncheon, but there was a committee meeting that same morning.
But he'd see, well, he was talking. Mister Luke went
over to a table and opened the drawer and took

(31:02):
something out. When father hung up, he saw Bobby first
and started to be very mad. He said, young man,
you've been trouble enough to your mother and me with
all your stories about your red wing mister Lupiscue, and
now if you're starting to burst in, you have to
be polite. Introduce people. Father, this is mister Lupisque, and
see he does to have red wings. Mister lupis Q

(31:25):
held out the gun he'd taken from the drawer and
shot father once right through the forehead and made a
little clean hole in front and a big messy hole
in the back. Father fell down and was dead. Now, Bobby,
mister Lupexcu said, a lot of people are going to
come and ask you a lot of questions, and if
you don't tell the truth about exactly what happened, I'll

(31:46):
send gorgo to fetch you. Then mister Lupisku was gone
through the French window. It's a curious case, Lieutenant, the
medical examiner said, it's fortunate I've dabbled a bit in psychiatry.
I can at least give you a lead until you
get the experts in the child's statement that his fairy
godfather shot his father's obviously a simple flight mechanism susceptible

(32:08):
of two interpretations. A, the father shot himself. The child
was so horrified by the sight that he refused to
accept it and invented this explanation. B. The child shot
the father, let us say, by accident, then shifted the
blame to his imaginary scapegoat. B has, of course, its
more sinister implications. If the child had resented his father

(32:30):
and created an ideal substitute, he might make the substitute
destroy the reality. But there's a solution to your eye
witness testimony. Which alternative is true? Lieutenant, I leave up
to your researches into motive and the evidence of ballistics
and finger prints, the angle of the wound gibes with either.
The man with the red nose and eyes and gloves

(32:50):
and wings walked down the back lane to the cottage.
As soon as he got inside, he took off his
coat and removed the wings and the mechanism of strings
and rubber that made the twitch. He laid them on
top of the ready pile of kindling and lit the fire.
When it was well started. He added the gloves. Then
he took off the nose, kneaded the putty until the
red of it outside vanished into neutral brown of the mass,

(33:13):
jammed it into a crack in the wall and smoothed
it over. Then he took the red Irish contact lenses
out of his brown eyes and went into the kitchen,
found the hammer, pounded them to powder, and washed the
powder down the sink. Alan started to pour himself a
drink and found, to his please surprise, that he didn't
especially need one, but he did feel tired. He could

(33:34):
lie down and recapitulate it all from the invention of
mister Lupuskew and Gorgo and the man with the Milky
Way route too, to day's success and on into the
future with Marjorie pliant, trusting Marjorie would be more desirable
than Everest Robert's widow and heir, and Bobby would need
a man to look after him. Alan went into the bedroom.

(33:57):
Several years passed by in a few seconds. It took
him to recognize what was waiting on the bed. But
then time is funny, Alan said nothing. Mister Lupscue, I presume,
said Corgo