Free Image of the Beast and Blown by Philip José Farmer Page A

fantasy writer,
Breyleigh Bredburger. You know of him, of course?"
    Heepish nodded and said, "After Rodder, Monk
Lewis, and Bloch, my favorite."
    Childe said, "Another author, I forget his name, was
complaining that Rodder had stolen one of his magazine
stories for his series. Just lifted it, changed the title and
few things, credited it to somebody with an outlandish
Greek name, and had, so far, refused to correspond with
the author about the alleged theft. Bredburger said that
was nothing. Rodder had stolen three of his stories,
giving credit to himself, Rodder, as author. Bredburger
cornered Rodder twice and forced him to admit the
theft and to pay him. Rodder's excuse was that he'd
signed to write two-thirds of the series himself and he
    wasn't up to it, so, in desperation, he'd lifted Bredburger's
stories. He didn't say anything about plagiarizing from
other people, of course. Bredburger said he'd been prom-
ised payment for the third stolen story but so far hadn't
gotten it and wouldn't unless he vigorously pursued
Rodder or went through the courts.
    "A third author then said that the first would have to
stand in line behind about twenty if he wanted to sue or
to take it out of Rodder's hide.
    "That's your D. Nimming Rodder. Your great champion
of the little man, of the nonconformist, of the honest man."
    Childe stopped. He was surprised that he had run on
so. He did not want to quarrel. After all, he was to be
indebted to this man, if this grand tour ever ended. On
the other hand, he was itchy with anger. He had seen too
many corrupt men highly honored by the world, which
either did not know the truth or ignored it. Also, the ir-
ritation caused by the smog, the repressed panic arising
from fear of what the smog might become, Colben's
death, the frustrating scene with Sybil, and Heepish's
attitude, undefinedly prickly, combined to wear away the
skin and fat over his nerves.
    Heepish's gray eyes seemed to retreat, as if they were
afraid they might combust if they got too close to the
light and air. His neck quivered. His moustache drew
down; invisible weights had been tied to each end. His
nostrils flared like bellows. His pale skin had become red.
His hands clenched.
    Childe waited while the silence hardened like bird
lime. If Heepish got nasty, he would get just as nasty,
even though he would lose access to the literature he
needed. Childe had been told by Jeremiah that Heepish
had gotten the idea for his collection from observing a
man by the name of Forrest J Ackerman, who had
probably the greatest private collection of science-fiction
and fantasy in the world. In fact, Heepish had been
called the poor man's Ackerman, though not to his face.
However, he was far from poor, he had much money—
from what source nobody knew—and his collection
would someday be the world's greatest, private or public.
    But at this moment he was very vulnerable, and
    Childe was willing to thrust through the crack in the
armor.
    "Well!" Heepish said.
    He cocked his head and smiled thinly. The moustache,
however, was still swelled like an elephant seal in mating
season, and his fingers were making a steeple, then sepa-
rating to form the throat-holding attitude.
    "Well!" he said again. His voice was as hard, but there
was also a whine in it, like a distant mosquito.
    "Well!" Childe said, aware that he would never know
what Heepish was going to say and not caring. "I'd like to
see the newspaper files, if possible."
    "Oh? Oh, yes! They're upstairs. This way, please."
    They left the garage, but Heepish put the photograph of
Rodder under his arm before following him out. Childe
had wondered what it was doing out in the garage, any-
way, but on re-entering the house, he saw that there were
many more photographs—and paintings and pencil
sketches and even framed newspaper and magazine clip-
pings containing Rodder's portrait—than he had thought.
Heepish had had one too many and stored that one in the
garage. But now, as if to show Childe his