“Well, the Star carried a very strange story a couple of days later, and I think I’m the only person in the world who had the perspicacity to grasp its true significance. A farmer out that direction went out to inspect his prize hog the morning after the supposed meteorite fell, and what do you think he found in the pen?”
“I give up.”
“Two prize hogs. Absolutely identical. His wife swears the second hog was there, too, but by the time one of our boys had got out there the second hog had vanished. I wondered what had happened to this mysterious creature—then you walked in here and filled in the gaps in its life story.”
“I did?”
“Don’t you see it, Jim?” Simpson drained his glass and signalled the bartender. “That so-called meteorite was a spaceship. Some kind of alien being came out of it, a being so hideous to look at that it would have been shot on sight, but it has one very valuable defence mechanism—it can mimic the shape of any other creature it sees. Having landed in farming country, it first of all made itself into the shape of the only native it could find—a hog.
“Then it got away and came into the city where, in order to get by, it has to assume the shape of a human being. It has to study its subject carefully while adopting its shape, which presents problems, but it discovered there was enough detail in movies for it to use actors as models, and it’s nice and dark inside movie houses.
“So every week the alien comes along to your place, Jim. Perhaps to renew its memory of the human form, perhaps to select a different outward appearance so that it would be difficult to track down. In a way, I almost feel sorry for it.”
“That,” I said stonily, ‘is the greatest load of garbage I ever heard.”
A look of indignation flitted across Simpson’s round face. “Of course it is. What do you expect for one shot of cheap whisky—The War of the Worlds? Set up some decent stuff and we’ll really go to work on your problem.” An hour later, when Ed threw us off the premises, we had decided that one of my Wednesday night regulars was a night club entertainer who was working up a good impersonation act. Or that I was suffering from a very special form of DTs.
Apart from the hangover next morning, my jawing session with Bill Simpson did me a lot of good. Conscious of how ridiculous my formless fears had been, I worked efficiently for the rest of the week, got in a good day’s fishing on Sunday, and was back on the job on Monday feeling great.
Then, on Wednesday night, I saw Milton Pryngle walking out of my theatre, and that was too much.
Because I happened to know that the magnificent Pryngle had died ten years earlier.
During the following week I worried myself into the ground, using the best part of a bottle of whisky a day in the process, and by the time Wednesday came round again I was in pretty bad shape. My poor condition was partly a result of excessive liquor consumption, but mainly it was because—so help me—I was beginning to believe Bill Simpson’s first crazy theory, the one about the monster which changed shape.
Porter Hastings was no help at all. He is so unimaginative I wasn’t able to confide in him, and to make matters worse he had rung the power company on his own initiative. The result was that inspectors came snooping around checking the power circuits and muttering darkly about closing me down for a week for a complete re-wiring job. All I got in the way of real help from Hastings was confirmation that an image of Milton Pryngle had been on the screen during last Wednesday’s dim-out. This convinced me that Simpson’s alien was a reality, and that it needed power to do its changing act—power which it somehow managed to suck out of the theatre’s supplies. It also gave me the idea of setting a trap for the beast which was making such a mess of my affairs.
On Wednesday morning I went down and saw Hy Fink in the distributor’s office on First Avenue. Knowing my taste in movies pretty well, he was a little surprised when I asked if he could let me have a print of any costume production; but after much consulting of hire schedules he fished out a copy of Quo Vadis. I thanked him fervently, ignoring the way he winced when my breath hit him, and hurried away with the cans under my arm.
I went to the theatre earlier than usual and slipped upstairs to Hastings’ projection room. Hastings doesn’t like me fooling around with his gear, but I was in no state to worry unduly about his feelings. I put the first reel of Quo Vadis on the stand-by projector and fiddled around with it until a close-up of Robert Taylor in the uniform of a Roman officer was in the gate. Satisfied with my work, I went to my office, had another drink and rang the Springtown police station. It took only a few seconds to get through to Sergeant Wightman, an officer I’m on good terms with because I give him complimentaries for all the children’s matinees.
“Hello there, Jim,” he boomed in a jovial voice, doubtless imagining I was giving out more tickets.
“Bart,” I said carefully, “I’m having a bit of trouble here at the theatre.”
“Oh!” His voice immediately became wary. “What sort of trouble?”
“Well, it isn’t very serious. It’s just that most Wednesday nights this screwy character comes in for the last feature. He doesn’t actually do anything—he just sort of puts on funny clothes while the show’s running—but I’m a bit worried about him. Never know when somebody like that might go over the edge, do you?”
“Why don’t you refuse to let him in?”
“That’s the trouble—I’m not even sure what he looks like. He’s normal enough on the way in, but when he’s coming out he could be dressed differently. He might even …’ I swallowed painfully, ‘… be tricked out like a Roman centurion.”
There was a lengthy silence. “Jim,” Wightman said finally, ‘you haven’t been drinking, have you?”
I laughed. “At this time of the day? You know me better than that.”
“All right. What do you want me to do?”
“Could you have a squad car in the district from say nine o’clock till 10.45 when the crowd is leaving?”
“I suppose so,” he said doubtfully. ‘But if this guy does show up, how will I know him?”
“I told you—he’ll probably be wearing funny clothes. I have an idea that …’ I laughed again,”… he looks a bit like Robert Taylor,” When I set the phone down I was perspiring freely, and it took two more drinks to get my nerves quieted.
Porter Hastings looked surprised when I followed him upstairs to the projection room. “Don’t breathe on me,” he said. “I want to keep a clear head for the night’s work.”
“I only had a quick one—is it noticeable?”
“I wish I could figure out what’s eating you these days.” His tone left no doubt he was pretty disgusted with me. “What do you want up here, Jim?”
“Ah … it’s about the Wednesday night dim-outs.”
His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “What about them? I told you there’d be complaints.”
“There haven’t been any complaints as yet, and there aren’t going to be any. I’ve found out what’s causing the power drain.”
He paused in the act of hanging up his jacket. “What is it?”
“This is a little awkward for me, Port. I can’t explain it to you right now, but I know what we have to do to stop it for good.” I gestured at the stand-by projector with the reel of Quo Vadis in place.
“What the … !” Hastings scowled resentfully at the projector as he realised his domain had been invaded during his absence. “What have you been doing in here, Jim?”
I tried to smile casually. “Like I said, I can’t explain it now, but here’s what I want you to do. Have the stand-by projector warmed up and at the very first sign of a dim-out tonight cut your main lantern and switch over to the stand-by. I want this piece of film on the screen when the power starts to fade. Got it?”