Philip Jose Farmer - The Image Of The Beast

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2024-11-30 0 0 470.12KB 264 页 5.9玖币

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Image of the Beast

CHAPTER 1

Green milk curdled.

Smoke rose to the light, and smoke and light fused to become

green milk. The

milk fissioned to become smoke and darkness above. As below.

Smog was outside, and smog was inside.

Green and sour.

The green and sour odor and taste came not only from the smog,

which had

forced its tendrils into the air-conditioned building, nor from the

tobacco

plumes in the room. It came from memory of what he had seen that

morning and

anticipation of what he would see within the next few minutes.

The film room of the Los Angeles Police Department was darker

than Herald

Childe had ever seen it. The beam of light from the projection booth

usually

tended to make gray what otherwise would have been black. But the

cigar and

cigarette smoke, the smog, and the mood of the viewers, blackened

everything.

Even the silver light from the screen seemed to pull light in instead

of casting

it back at the viewers.

Where the beam overhead struck the tobacco fumes, green milk

formed and

curdled and soured. So thought Herald Childe. The image was unforced.

The worst

smog in history was smothering Los Angeles and Orange counties. Not a

mouse of a

wind had stirred for a day and a night and a day and a night. On the

third day,

it seemed that this condition might go on and on.

The smog. He could now forget the smog.

Spread-eagled on the screen was his partner (possibly ex-

partner). The

wine-red draperies behind him glowed, and Matthew Colben's face,

normally as red

as Chianti half-diluted with water, was now the color of a

transparent plastic

bag bulging with wine.

The camera swung away to show the rest of his body and some of

the room. He

was flat on his back and nude. His arms were strapped down beside him

and his

legs, also strapped down, formed a V. His penis lolled across his

left thigh

like a fat drunken worm.

The table must have been made for just this purpose of tying down

men with

their legs separated so others could walk in between the legs.

There was only the Y-shaped wooden table, the thick wine-red

carpet, and the

wine-red draperies. The camera swept around to show the circle of

draperies and

then turned back and swooped up to show the full form of Matthew

Colben as seen

by a fly on the ceiling. Colben's head was on a dark pillow. He

looked straight

up at the camera and smiled sillily. He did not seem to care that he

was bound

and helpless.

The previous scenes had shown why he did not care and had

demonstrated how

Colben had progressed, through conditioning, from impotent fear to

rigid

anticipation.

Childe, having seen the complete film once, felt his entrails

slip about

each other and knot each other and, their tails coiled around his

backbone, pull

until they were choking each other.

Colben grinned, and Childe murmured, "You fool! You poor fucking

fool!"

The man in the seat on Childe's right shifted and said, "What'd

you say?"

"Nothing, Commissioner."

But his penis felt as if it were being sucked back up into his

belly and

drawing his testicles after it.

The draperies opened, and the camera moved in to show a huge

black-rimmed,

long-lashed, dark-blue eye. Then it moved down along a straight

narrow nose and

broad, full, and bright red lips. A pink-red tongue slipped out

between

unnaturally white and even teeth, shot back and forth a few times,

dropped a

bead of saliva on the chin, and then disappeared.

The camera moved back, the draperies were thrust open, and a

woman entered.

Her black glossy hair was combed straight back and fell to her waist.

Her face

was garish with beauty patches, rouge, powder, green and red and

black and azure

paint around the eyes and a curl of powder-blue down her cheeks,

artificial

eyelashes, and a tiny golden nose-ring. A green robe, tied at her

neck and

waist, was so thin that she might as well have been naked. Despite

which, she

untied the cords about the neck and waist and slid the robe off and

showed that

she could be even more naked.

The camera moved downward and closer. The hollow at the base of

the neck was

deep and the bones beneath hinted at exquisiteness. The breasts were

full but

not large, slightly conical and up-tilted, with narrow and long,

almost sharp,

nipples. The breasts were hung upon a large rib cage. The belly sank

inward; she

was skinny about the hips, the bones stuck out just a little. The

camera went

round, and she pivoted--Childe could not tell which because the

camera was so

close to her and he had no reference point. Her buttocks were like

huge

unshelled soft-boiled eggs.

The camera traveled around her, showing the narrow waist and

ovoid hips and

then turned so that it was looking up toward the ceiling--which was

covered with

a drape-like material the color of a broken blood-vessel in a

drunkard's eye.

The camera glanced up her white thigh; light was cast into the hollow

between

the legs--she must have spread her legs then--and there was the

little brown eye

of the anus and the edge of the mouth of her vagina. The hairs were

yellow,

which meant that the woman had either dyed her head hairs or her

pubic hairs.

The camera, still pointing upward, passed between her legs--which

looked

like the colossal limbs of a statue now--and then traveled slowly

upward. It

straightened out as it rose and was looking directly at her pubes.

These were

partly covered by a triangular cloth which was taped on. Childe did

not know

why. Modesty certainly was not the reason.

He had seen this shot before, but he braced himself. The first

time, he--in

common with the others in the room--had jumped and some had sworn and

one had

yelled.

The cloth was tight against the genitals, and a shift in angle of

lighting

suddenly revealed that the cloth was semitransparent. The hairs

formed a dark

triangle, and the slit took in the cloth enough to show that the

cloth was tight

against the slit.

Abruptly, and Childe jumped again even though he knew what was

coming, the

cloth sank in more deeply, as if something inside the vagina had

spread the lips

open.

Then something bulged against the cloth, something that could

only have come

from within the woman. It thrust the cloth up; the cloth shook as if

a tiny fist

or head were beating against it, and then the bulge sank back, and

the cloth was

quiet again.

The Commissioner, two seats away from Childe, said, "What the

bell 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 position 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. Colben said something too, but his words were

undecipherable 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 sidewise 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 beautiful 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 Commissioner 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 brightened, the camera moved in

nearer.

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

of iron;

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摘要：

ImageoftheBeastCHAPTER1Greenmilkcurdled.Smokerosetothelight,andsmokeandlightfusedtobecomegreenmilk.Themilkfissionedtobecomesmokeanddarknessabove.Asbelow.Smogwasoutside,andsmogwasinside.Greenandsour.Thegreenandsourodorandtastecamenotonlyfromthesmog,whichhadforceditstendrilsintotheair-conditionedbuild...

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Philip Jose Farmer - The Image Of The Beast

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