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  and the cloth was quiet again.

  The Commissioner, two seats away from Childe,

  said, "What the hell could that be?" He blew out cigar

  smoke and then began coughing. Childe coughed, too.

  "It could be something mechanical up her cunt," Childe

  said. "Or it could be …" He let the words, and his

  thoughts, hang. No hermaphrodite, as far as he knew,

  had a penis within the vaginal canal. Anyway, that

  wasn't a penis sliding out; that looked like an independent

  entity—gave the feeling of one, rather—and certainly the

  thing had beat against the cloth at more than one place.

  Now the camera swung around at a level a few inches

  above Colben and several feet in front of him. It showed

  the feet, seemingly enormous at this narrow distance,

  the thickly muscled and hairy calves and thighs spread

  out on the Y-shaped table, the big testicles, the fat

  worm of the penis, no longer lolling against the thigh but

  beginning to get fatter and to lift its swollen red head.

  Colben could not have seen the woman enter, but he

  had evidently been conditioned so that he knew she

  would come in within a certain time after he was strapped

  to the table. The penis was coming to life as if its ears—

  buried within the flesh like a snake's—had heard her or

  as if the slit in its head were a detector of body heat—

  like an adder's nose pits—and it knew that she was in

  the room.

  The camera moved to one side so that it could start

  with the profile of Matthew Colben's head. The thick

  curly gray-and-black hair, the big red ears, the smooth

  forehead, the big curved nose, the thin lips, massive

  jawbone, chin thick and heavy as the head of a sledge,

  big fat chest, the outcurve of a paunch grown with much

  stuffing of steak and beer, the down-curve to the penis,

  now fully up and swollen and hard. The camera moved

  in for a close shot; the veins were ropes run into the

  lanyard of lust (Childe could not help thinking in such

  images; he fingered concepts with a Midas touch). The

  head, fully exposed, glistened with lubricating fluid.

  Now the camera moved up and away and took a posi-

  tion where both the man and woman could be seen. She

  approached slowly, swaying her hips, and came up to

  Colben and said something. Her lips moved, but there was

  no sound, and the police lip-reader could not tell what she

  was saying because her head was bent too far over. Col-

  ben said something too, but his words were undecipher-

  able for the same reason.

  The woman bent over and let her left breast fall so

  that Colben could take it in his mouth. He sucked for a

  while; and then the woman removed it. The camera

  moved in to show the nipple, which was wet and swollen.

  She kissed him on the mouth; the camera moved in side-

  wise to show her as she raised her head a little to

  permit the camera to record the tongue sliding back and

  forth into Colben's mouth. Then she began to kiss and

  to lick his chin, his neck, his chest, his nipples, and she

  smeared his round belly with saliva. She worked slowly

  down to his pubic hairs, slobbered on them, gently tapped

  his penis with her tongue many times, kissed it lightly

  several times, flicked out her tongue to dab its head with

  the tip while she held it at the root. Then she walked

  around the leg of the Y and between the legs and began

  to suck on his penis energetically.

  At this point, a tinny piano, like those played in the

  old-time bars or in the silent movie theaters, began

  Dvorak's humoresque. The camera shifted to a position

  above Colben's face; his eyes were closed and he was

  looking ecstatic, that is, stupidly happy.

  For the first time, the woman spoke.

  "Tell me just before you're ready to come, darling.

  Maybe thirty or so seconds before, yes? I have a beauti-

  ful surprise for you. Something new."

  The voice had been printed and run off by the police

  on an oscilloscope and studied. But distortions had been

  introduced into it. That was why the voice sounded so

  hollow and wavery.

  "Go slower, baby," Colben said. "Take it easy, put it

  off like you did the last time. That was the greatest

  orgasm I ever had in my life. You're going a little too

  fast now. And don't stick your finger up my ass like you

  did then. You cut my piles."

  The first time the scene had been shown, some of the

  cops had snickered. Nobody snickered now. There was

  an unheard but easily felt shift in the audience now.

  The smoke seemed to get hard and brittle; the green

  milk in the light beam became more sour. The Commis-

  sioner sucked in air so hard a rattle sounded in his throat

  and then he began coughing.

  The piano was playing The William Tell Overture

  now. The tinny music was so incongruous, and yet it was

  the incongruity that made it seem so horrible.

  The woman raised her head and said, "You about

  ready to come, mon petit?"

  Colben breathed, "Oh, Jesus, just about!"

  The woman looked into the camera and smiled. The

  flesh seemed to fade away, the bones beneath were

  faintly glowing and cloudy. Then the flesh was cloudy;

  the skull was hard and bright. And then the skull faded

  and flesh fell back into place.

  She leered into the camera and put her head down

  again, but this time she went past the corner of the Y

  and squatted down below the table, where the camera

  followed her. There was a small shelf fixed to one leg of

  the table. She picked up something off it; the light bright-

  ened, the camera moved in nearer.

  She held a pair of false teeth. They looked as if they

  were made of iron; the teeth were sharp as a razor and

  pointed like a tiger's.

  She smiled and put the iron teeth on the shelf and

  used both hands to remove her own teeth. She looked

  thirty years older. She placed the white teeth on the shelf

  and then inserted the iron teeth into her mouth. She

  held the edge of her forefinger between the two teeth and

  bit gently down. Then she removed the finger and held

  it so that the camera could zero in on it. Bright red blood

  was welling out from the bite.

  She stood up and wiped the cut on the fat glans of

  Colben's penis and she bent over and licked the blood off.

  Colben groaned and said, "Oh, God, I'm going to come!"

  Her mouth went around the head and she sucked in

  loudly. Colben began to jerk and to groan. The camera

  showed his face for a second before it moved back to a

  position alongside the woman's.

  She raised her head quickly. The penis was jerking and

  spurting the thick oily whitish fluid. She opened her

  mouth widely, bent down swiftly, and bit. The muscles

  along her jaw lumped; her neck muscles became cords.

  Colben screamed.

  She whipped her head back and forth and bit again

  and again. Blood
ran down from her mouth and reddened

  the pubic hairs.

  The camera moved away from her to show the draper-

  ies through which she had entered. There was a flourish

  of trumpets. A cannon boomed in the distance. The piano

  played Tschaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

  Trumpets sounded again as the music faded. The

  draperies shot open, propelled by two stiff arms. A man

  stepped inside and posed for a moment, his right arm

  raised so that his black cloak half-hid his face. His hair

  was black and shiny as patent leather and was parted

  down the middle. His forehead and nose were white as

  the belly of a shark. His eyebrows were thick and black

  and met over his nose. The eyes were large and black.

  He was dressed as if he were going to a movie

  premiere. He had on a formal suit, a stiff white shirt with

  a black formal tie and a diagonal red band across his

  chest and a medal or order on his lapel.

  He wore blue sneakers.

  Another comic element which only made the situa-

  tion more horrible.

  The man lowered the cloak to show a large hooked

  nose, a thick black moustache which curved down around

  the ends of his thick rouged lips, and a prominent cleft

  chin.

  He cackled, and this deliberately corny element was

  even more horrible than the sneakers. The laugh was a

  parody of all the gloating laughs cranked forth by all

  the monsters and Draculas of every horror movie.

  Up went the arm, and, his face hidden behind the

  cloak, the man rushed toward the table. Colben was still

  screaming. The woman jumped away swiftly and let the

  man into the Y. The penis was still jerking and emitting

  blood and spermatic fluid; the head was half-bitten off.

  The camera switched to the woman's face. Blood was

  running down her chin and over her breasts.

  Again, the camera panned back to the Dracula (so

  Childe thought of him). Dracula cackled again, showing

  two obviously false canines, long and sharp. Then he

  bent down and began to chew savagely on the penis but

  within a short time raised his head. The blood and

  spermatic fluid was running out of his mouth and making

  the front of his white shirt crimson. He opened his mouth

  and spit out the head of the penis onto Colben's belly

  and laughed, spraying blood over himself and Colben.

  The first time, Childe had fainted. This time, he got

  up and ran toward the door but vomited before he

  reached it. He was not alone.

  2

  The Dracula and the woman had looked into the camera

  and laughed wildly as if they had been having a hilarious

  time. Then, fade-out, and a flash of TO BE CONTIN-

  UED? End of film.

  Herald Childe did not see the ending the second time.

  He was too occupied with groaning, with wiping the tears

  from his eyes and blowing his nose and coughing. The

  taste and odor of vomit were strong. He felt like apolo-

  gizing, but he repressed the impulse. He had nothing to

  apologize for.

  The Commissioner, who had not thrown up but who

  might have looked better if he had, said, "Let's get out

  of here."

  He stepped over the mess on the wooden floor. Childe

  followed him. The others came out. The Commissioner

  said, "We're going to have a conference, Childe. You

  can sit in on it, contribute, if you wish."

  "I'd like to keep in touch with the police, Commis-

  sioner. But I don't have anything to contribute. Not just

  yet, anyway."

  He had told the police, more than once, everything

  he knew about Matthew Colben, which was much, and

  everything he knew about his disappearance, which was

  nothing.

  The Commissioner was a tall lean man with a half-

  bald head and a long thin face and melancholy black

  moustache. He was always tugging at the right end of his

  moustache—never the left. Yet he was left-handed.

  Childe had observed this habit and wondered about its

  origin. What would the Commissioner say if he were

  made aware of it?

  What could he say? Only he and a psychotherapist

  would ever be able to find out.

  "You realize, Childe, that this comes at a very bad time

  for us," the Commisioner said. "If it weren't for the …

  uh, extraordinary aspects of the case ... I wouldn't be

  able to spend more than a few minutes on it. As it is …"

  Childe nodded and said, "Yes. I know. The Depart-

  ment will have to get on it later. I'm grateful that you've

  taken this time."

  "Oh, it's not that bad!" the Commisioner said. "Sergeant

  Bruin will be handling the case. That is, when he has time.

  You have to realize …"

  "I realize," Childe said. "I know Bruin. I'll keep in touch

  with him. But not so often he'll be bugged."

  "Fine, fine!"

  The Commisioner stuck out a skinny and cold but sweat-

  ing hand, said, "See you!" and turned and walked off down

  the hall.

  Childe went into the nearest men's room, where several

  plainclothesmen and two uniformed men were washing

  the taste of vomit out. Sergeant Bruin was also there, but

  he had not been sick. He came from the stall zipping up

  his fly. Bruin was rightly named. He looked like a grizzly,

  but he was far less easily upset.

  As he washed his hands, he said, "I gotta hurry, Childe.

  The Commissioner wants a quick conference about your

  partner, and then we all gotta get back on this smog thing."

  "You have my phone number, and I got yours," Childe

  said. He drank another cup of water and crumpled the pa-

  per and threw it into the wastepaper basket. "Well, at least

  I'll be able to move around. I got a permit to use my car."

  "That's more'n several million citizens got right now,"

  Bruin said cheerfully. "Be sure you burn the gas in a good

  cause."

  "So far, I haven't got much reason to burn anything,"

  Childe said. "But I'm going to try."

  Bruin looked down at him. His big black eyes were as

  impenetrable as a bear's; they did not look human. He

  said, "You going to put in time for free on this job?"

  "Who's going to pay me?" Childe said. "Colben's di-

  vorced. This case is tied up with Budler's, but Budler's

  wife discharged me yesterday. She says she doesn't give

  a shit any more."

  "He may be dead, just like Colben," Bruin said. "I

  wouldn't be surprised if we got another package through

  the mails."

  "Me neither," Childe said.

  "See you," Bruin said. He put a heavy paw on Childe's

  shoulder for a second. "Doing it for nothing, eh? He was

  your partner, right? But you was going to split up, right?

  Yet you're going to find out who killed him, right?"

  "I'll try," Childe said.

  "I like that," Bruin said. "There ain't much sense of

  loyalty kicking around nowadays." He lumbered off; the

  others trailed out after him. Childe was alone. He looked

  into the mirror over th
e washbowl. The pale face resem-

  bled Lord Byron's enough to have given him trouble with

  women—and a number of jealous or desirous men—ever

  since he was fourteen. Now, it was a little lumpy, and a

  scar ran down his left cheek. Memento of Korea, when a

  drunken soldier had objected to being arrested by Childe

  and had slashed his face with the broken end of a beer

  bottle. The eyes were dark gray and just now much blood-

  shot. The neck below the slightly lumpy Byronic head was

  thick and the shoulders were wide. The face of a poet, he

  thought as he had thought many times, and the body of a

  cop, a private investigator. Why did you ever get into this

  sordid soul-leaching depressing corrupting racket? Why

  didn't you become a quiet professor of English or psychol-

  ogy in a quiet college town?

  Only he and a psychotherapist would ever know, and he

  evidently did not want to know, since he had never gone

  to a psychotherapist. He was sure that he enjoyed the sor-

  didness and tears and grief and hatred and the blood,

  somewhere in him. Something fed on contemptible food.

  Something enjoyed it, but that something sure as hell

  wasn't Herald Childe. Not at this moment, anyway.

  He left the washroom and went down the hall to an

  elevator and dropped while he turned his thoughts so in-

  wardly that he did not know whether or not he was alone

  in the cage. On the way to the exit, he shook his head a

  little as if to wake himself up. It was dangerous to be so

  infolded.

  Matthew Colben, his partner, had been on his way to be-

  ing his ex-partner. Colben was a big-mouthed braggart, a

  Don Juan who let his desire to make a pass interfere with

  his business. He had not allowed his prick to get in the way

  of business when he and Childe had become partners six

  years ago. But Colben was fifty now and perhaps trying to

  keep the thoughts of a slowing-down body and thickening

  flesh and a longer time to recover from hangovers away

  from him. Childe didn't accept this reason; Colben could

  do whatever he wanted after business hours, but he was

  cheating his partner when he cheated himself with the

  booze and the women. After the Budler case, they would