And kept on blasting, for the rags and remnants slithered towards him as if filled with a life of their own. Flaming bits of cloth crowded towards his face and a belt tried to coil around his legs. He had to burn everything to ashes before the attack stopped.
When it was over, Gregor turned on every light he could find. He brewed a pot of coffee and poured in most of a bottle of brandy. Somehow, he resisted an urge to kick his useless alarm system to pieces. Instead, he radioed his partner.
"That's very interesting," Arnold said, after Gregor had brought him up to date. "Animation! Very interesting indeed."
"I hoped it would amuse you," Gregor answered bitterly. After several shots of brandy, he was beginning to feel abandoned and abused.
"Did anything else happen?"
"Not yet."
"Well, take care. I've got a theory. Have to do some research on it. By the way, some crazy bookie is laying five to one against you."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I took a piece of it."
"Did you bet for me or against me?" Gregor asked, worried.
"For you, of course," Arnold said indignantly. "We're partners, aren't we?"
They signed off and Gregor brewed another pot of coffee. He was not planning on any more sleep that night. It was comforting to know that Arnold had bet on him. But, then, Arnold was a notoriously bad gambler.
By daylight, Gregor was able to get a few hours of fitful sleep. In the early afternoon he awoke, found some clothes and began to explore the sun worshippers' camp.
Towards evening, he found something. On the wall of a prefab, the word 'Tgasklit' had been hastily scratched. Tgasklit. It meant nothing to him, but he relayed it to Arnold at once.
He then searched his prefab carefully, set up more lights, tested the alarm system and recharged his blaster.
Everything seemed in order. With regret, he watched the sun go down, hoping he would live to see it rise again. Then he settled himself in a comfortable chair and tried to do some constructive thinking.
There was no animal life here — nor were there any walking plants, intelligent rocks or giant brains dwelling in the planet's core. Ghost V hadn't even a moon for someone to hide on.
And he couldn't believe in ghosts or demons. He knew that supernatural happenings tended to break down, under detailed examination, into eminently natural events. The ones that didn't break down — stopped. Ghosts just wouldn't stand still and let a non-believer examine them. The phantom of the castle was invariably on vacation when a scientist showed up with cameras and tape-recorders.
That left another possibility. Suppose someone wanted this planet, but wasn't prepared to pay Ferngraum's price? Couldn't this someone hide here, frighten the settlers, kill them if necessary in order to drive down the price?
That seemed logical. You could even explain the behaviour of his clothes that way. Static electricity, correctly used, could —
Something was standing in front of him. His alarm system, as before, hadn't gone off.
Gregor looked up slowly. The thing in front of him was about ten feet tall and roughly human in shape, except for its crocodile head. It was coloured a bright crimson and had purple stripes running lengthwise on its body. In one claw, it was carrying a large brown can.
"Hello," it said.
"Hello," Gregor gulped. His blaster was on a table only two feet away. He wondered, would the thing attack if he reached for it?
"What's your name?" Gregor asked, with the calmness of deep shock.
"I'm the Purple-striped Grabber," the thing said. "I grab things."
"How interesting." Gregor's hand began to creep towards the blaster.
"I grab things named Richard Gregor," the Grabber told him in its bright, ingenuous voice. "And I usually eat them in chocolate sauce." It held up the brown can and Gregor saw that it was labelled "Smig's Chocolate — An Ideal Sauce to Use with Gregors, Arnolds and Flynns."
Gregor's fingers touched the butt of the blaster. He asked, "Were you planning to eat me?"
"Oh, yes," the Grabber said.
Gregor had the gun now. He flipped off the safety catch and fired. The radiant blast cascaded off the Grabber's chest and singed the floor, the walls and Gregor's eyebrows.
"That won't hurt me," the Grabber explained. "I'm too tall."
The blaster dropped from Gregor's fingers. The Grabber leaned forward.
"I'm not going to eat you now," the Grabber said.
"No?" Gregor managed to enunciate.
"No. I can only eat you tomorrow, on May first. Those are the rules. I just came to ask a favour."
"What is it?"
The Grabber smiled winningly. "Would you be a good sport and eat a few apples? They flavour the flesh so wonderfully."
And, with that, the striped monster vanished.
With shaking hands, Gregor worked the radio and told Arnold everything that had happened.
"Hmm," Arnold said. "Purple-striped Grabber, eh? I think that clinches it. Everything fits."
"What fits? What is it?"
"First, do as I say. I want to make sure."
Obeying Arnold's instructions, Gregor unpacked his chemical equipment and laid out a number of test tubes, retorts and chemicals. He stirred, mixed, added and subtracted as directed and finally put the mixture on the stove to heat.
"Now," Gregor said, coming back to the radio, "tell me what's going on."
"Certainly. I looked up the word 'Tgasklit'. It's Opalian. It means 'many-toothed ghost'. The sun worshippers were from Opal. What does that suggest to you?"
"They were killed by a home-town ghost," Gregor replied nastily. "It must have stowed away on their ship. Maybe there was a curse and —"
"Calm down," Arnold said. "There aren't any ghosts in this. Is the solution boiling yet?"
"No."
"Tell me when it does. Now let's take your animated clothing. Does it remind you of anything?"
Gregor thought. "Well," he said, "when I was a kid — no, that's ridiculous."
"Out with it," Arnold insisted.
"When I was a kid, I never left clothing on a chair. In the dark, it always looked like a man or a dragon or something. I guess everyone's had that experience. But it doesn't explain —"
"Sure it does! Remember the Purple-striped Grabber now?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Because you invented him! Remember? We must have been eight or nine, you and me and Jimmy Flynn. We invented the most horrible monster you could think of — he was our own personal monster and he only wanted to eat you or me or Jimmy — flavoured with chocolate sauce. But only on the first of every month, when the report cards were due. You had to use the magic word to get rid of him."
Then Gregor remembered and wondered how he could ever have forgotten. How many nights had he stayed up in fearful expectation of the Grabber? It had made bad report cards seem very unimportant.
"Is the solution boiling?" Arnold asked.
"Yes," said Gregor, glancing obediently at the stove.
"What colour is it?"
"A sort of greenish blue. No, it's more blue than —"
"Right. You can pour it out. I want to run a few more tests, but I think we've got it licked."
"Got what licked? Would you do a little explaining?"
"It's obvious. The planet has no animal life. There are no ghosts or at least none solid enough to kill off a party of armed men. Hallucination was the answer, so I looked for something that would produce it. I found plenty. Aside from all the drugs on Earth, there are about a dozen hallucination-forming gases in the Catalogue of Alien Trace Elements. There are depressants, stimulants, stuff that'll make you feel like a genius or an earthworm or an eagle. This particular one corresponds to Longstead 42 in the catalogue. It's a heavy, transparent, odourless gas, not harmful physically. It's an imagination stimulant."