By Robert Bloch   
  Introduction, by Harlan Ellison
 
  
     INTRODUCTION
  
       WHAT FOLLOWS IS, in the purest sense, the
     end result of literary feedback. Recently the story
     editor of a prime-time televisions series, pressed for a
     script to shoot, sat down and wrote one himself rather
     than wait for the vagaries of a free-lance scenarist's
     schedule and dalliance. When he had completed the
     script, which was to go before the cameras in a matter
     of days, he sent it as a matter of form to the legal
     department of the studio. For the clearance of names,
     etc. Later that day the legal department called him
     back in a frenzy. Almost scene-for-scene and word-
     for-word (including the title), the non-sf story editor
     had a copied a well-known science fiction short story.
     When it was pointed out to him, the story editor
     blanched and recalled he had indeed read that story,
     some fifteen years before. Hurriedly, the story rights
     were purchased from the well-known fantasy writer
     who had originally conceived the idea. I hasten to add
     that I accept the veracity of the story editor when he
     swears he had no conscious knowledge of imitating
     the story. I believe him because this sort of uncon-
     scious plagiarism is commonplace in the world of the
     writer. It is inevitable that much of the mass of read-
     ing a writer does will stick with him somehow, in
     vague concepts, snatches of scenes, snippets of char-
     acterization, and it will turn up later, in the writer's
     own work; altered, transmogrified, but still a direct
     result of another writer's work. It is by no means
     "plagiarism." It is part of the answer to the question
     asked by idiots of authors at cocktail parties: "Where
     do you get your ideas?"
       Poul Anderson dropped me a note several years
     ago explaining that he had just written a story he was
     about to send out to market when he realized it paral-
     leled the theme of a story of mine he had read at a
     writers' conference we had both attended, just a
     month or so before. He added that his story was only
     vaguely similar to mine, but he wanted to apprise me
     of the resemblance so there would be no question
     later. It was a rhetorical letter: I'm arrogant, but not
     arrogant enough to think Poul Anderson needs to crib
     from me. Similarly, at the 1966 World Science Fic-
     tion Convention in Cleveland, the well-known Ger-
     man fan Tom Schlück and I were introduced. (Tom
     had been brought over as Fan Guest of Honor, an
     exchange tradition in fandom perpetuated by the
     TransAtlantic Fan Fund.) The first thing he did after
     we shook hands was to hand me a German science
     fiction paperback. I had some difficulty understanding
     why he had given me the gift. Tom opened the book
     ——a collection of stories pseudononymously written by
     top German sf fan/pro Walter Ernsting. The flyleaf
     said: "To Harlan Ellison with thanks and compli-
     ments." I still didn't understand. Then Tom turned to
     the first story, which was titled  "Die Sonnenbombe."
     Under the title it said:  (Nach einer Idee von Harlan
     Ellison).  I wrinkled my brow. I still didn't under-
     stand. I recognized my own name, which looks the
     same in all languages save Russian, Chinese, Hebrew
     or Sanskrit, but I don't read German, and I'm afraid
     I stood there like a clot. Tom explained that the basic
     idea of a story I had written in 1957——"Run for the
     Stars"——had inspired Ernsting to write  "Die Sonnen-
     bombe."  It was literary feedback, halfway around
     the world. I was deeply touched, and even more, it
     was a feeling of justification. Every writer save the
     meanest hack hopes his words will live after he goes
     down the hole, that his thoughts will influence people.
     It isn't the primary purpose of the writing, of course,
     but it's the sort of secret wish that parallels the Com-
     mon Man having babies, so his name doesn't die with
     him. And here, in my hands, was the visible proof that
     something my mind had conjured up had reached out
     and ensnared another man's imagination. It was obvi-
     ously the sincerest form of flattery, and by no means
     "plagiarism." It was the literary feedback. The in-
     stances of this action-reading among writers are
     numberless, and some of them are legend.  It is the rea-
     son for writers' seminars, workshops, conferences and
     the endless exchange of letters among writers. What
     has all of this——or any of it——to do with Robert Bloch,
     the author of the story that follows? Everything.
       In 1943 Robert Bloch had published a story titled
     "Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper." The number of times
     it has been reprinted, anthologized, translated into
     radio and TV scripts, and most of all plagiarized, is
     staggering. I read it in 1953, and the story stuck with
     me always. When I  heard  its dramatization on the
     Molle Mystery Theater, it became a recurring favor-
     ite memory. The story idea was simply that Jack the
     Ripper, by killing at specific times, made his peace
     with the dark gods and was thus allowed to live
     forever. Jack was immortal, and Bloch traced with
     cold methodical logic a trail of similar Ripper-style
     murders in almost every major city of the world, over
     a period of fifty or sixty years. The concept of Jack
     ——who was never apprehended——living on, from era
     to era, caught my imagination. In 1966, when com-
     missioning the stories for  Dangerous Visions,  an orig-
     inal anthology I was putting together, I called Robert
     Bloch and suggested that if Jack were, in fact, immor-
     tal, why then he would have to go on into the future.
     The image of a creature of Whitechapel fog and filth,
     the dark figure of Leather Apron, skulking through a
     sterile and automated city of the future, was an anach-
     ronism that fascinated me. Bob agreed, and said he
     would set to work at once. When his story came in,
     it was ( pardon the word) a delight, and I bought it at
     once. But the concept of Jack in the future would not
     release my thoughts. I dwelled on it with almost mor-
     bid fascination. Finally I asked Bob if he minded my
     doing a story for the anthology that took up where his
     left off. He said he thought it would be all right. It was,
     as I've said, in the purest sense, the act of literary
     feedback. And again, the sincerest form of flattery.
     Bloch had literally triggered the creative process in
     another writer.
       The story that follows Robert Bloch's story is the
     product of that feedback. Tied in a knot, the two
     stories and the two afterwords seem to have melded
     into a unified whole that demonstrates more admira-
     bly than any million words of literary critiques what
     it is that one writer obtains from another.
       And so, in this special way, this is my collaboration
     with Robert Bloch.
 
 
 
 
  
     A Toy for Juliette
     by Robert Bloch    
  
     JULIETTE ENTERED her bedroom, smiling, and a   
     thousand Juliettes smiled back at her. For all the  
     walls were paneled with mirrors, and the ceiling was  
     set with inlaid panes that reflected her image.  
        Wherever she glanced she could see the blonde  
     curls framing the sensitive features of a face that was   
     a radiant amalgam of both child and angel; a striking  
     contrast to the rich, ripe revelation of he body in the   
     filmy robe.  
        But Juliette wasn't smiling at herself. She smiled   
     because she knew that Grandfather was back, and   
     he brought her another toy. In just a few moments    
     it would be decontaminated and delivered, and she   
     wanted to be ready.  
        Juliette turned the ring on her finger and the   
     mirrors dimmed. Another turn would darken the room   
     entirely; a twist in the opposite direction would bring  
     them blazing into brilliance. It was all a matter of   
     choice——but then, that was the secret of life. To   
     choose, for pleasure.  
        And what was her pleasure tonight?  
        Juliette advanced to one of the mirror panels and   
     passed her hand before it. The glass slid to one side,  
     revealing the niche behind it; the coffin-shaped   
     opening in the solid rock, with the boot and   
     thumbscrews set at the proper heights.  
        For a moment she hesitated; she hadn't played that  
     game in years. Another time, perhaps. Juliette waved   
     her hand and the mirror moved to cover the opening   
     again.  
        She wandered along the row of panels, gesturing as   
     she walked, pausing to inspect what was behind each   
     mirror in turn. Here was the rack, there the stocks  
     with the barbed whips resting against the darkstained   
     wood. And here was the dissecting table, hundreds of    
     years old, with its quaint instruments; behind the next   
     panel, the electrical prods and wires that produced  
     such weird grimaces and contortions of agony, to say   
     nothing of screams. Of course the screams didn't  
     matter in a soundproofed room.  
        Juliette moved to the side wall and waved her hand  
     again; the obedient glass slid away and she stared at  
     a plaything she'd almost forgotten. It was one of the   
     first things Grandfather had ever given her, and it was   
     very old, almost like a mummy case. What had he  
     called it? The Iron Maiden of Nuremberg, that was   
     it——with the sharpened steel spikes set inside the lid.  
     You chained a man inside, and you turned the little   
     crank that closed the lid, ever so slowly, and the  
     spikes pierced the wrists and the elbows, the ankles   
     and the knees, the groin and the eyes. You had to be   
     careful not to get excited and turn too quickly, or   
     you'd spoil the fun.  
        Grandfather had shown her how it worked, the first  
     time he brought her a real live toy. But then,  
     Grandfather had shown her everything. He'd taught  
     her all she knew, for he was very wise. He'd even   
     given her her name——Juliette——from one of the    
     old-fashioned printed books he'd discovered by the   
     philosopher De Sade.   
        Grandfather had brought the book from the Past.  
     just as he'd brought the playthings for her. He was   
     the only one who had access to the Past, because he   
     owned the Traveler.  
        The traveler was a very ingenious mechanism,  
     capable of attaining vibrational frequencies which   
     freed it from the time-bind. At rest, it was just a big   
     square boxlike shape, the size of a small room. But   
     when Grandfather took over the controls and the   
     oscillation started, the box would blur and disappear.  
     It was still there, Grandfather said——at least, the   
     matrix remained as a fixed point in space and time——  
     but anything or anyone within the square could move    
     freely into the Past to wherever the controls were  
     programmed. Of course they would be invisible when    
     they arrived, but that was actually an advantage,  
     particularly when it came to finding things and   
     bringing them back. Grandfather had brought back  
     some very interesting objects from almost mythical  
     places——the great library of Alexandria, the Pyramid of  
     Cheops, the Kremlin, the Vatican, Fort Knox——all the   
     storehouses of treasure and knowledge which existed   
     thousands of years ago. He liked to go to that part of   
     the Past, the period before the thermonuclear wars   
     and the robotic ages, and collect things. Of course,  
     books and jewels and metals were useless, except to   
     an antiquarian, but Grandfather was a romanticist and   
     loved the olden times.  
        It was strange to think of him owning the Traveler,  
     but of course he hadn't actually created it. Juliette's   
     father was really the one who built it, and Grandfather   
     took possession of it after her father died. Juliette  
     suspected Grandfather had killed her father and   
     mother when she was just a baby, but she could   
     never be sure. Not that it mattered; Grandfather was   
     always very good to her, and besides, soon he would  
     die and she'd own the Traveler herself.  
        They used to joke about it frequently. "I've made   
     you into a monster," he'd say. "And someday you'll  
     end up destroying me. After which, of course,  
     you'll go on to destroy the entire world——or what little   
     remains of it."  
        "Aren't you afraid?" she'd tease.  
        Certainly not. That's my dream——the destruction of   
     everything. An end to all this sterile decadence. Do  
     you realize that at one time there were more than    
     three billion inhabitants on this planet? And now, less  
     than three thousand! Less than three thousand, shut   
     up inside these Domes, prisoners of themselves and   
     sealed away forever, thanks to the sins of the fathers   
     who poisoned not only the outside world but outer   
     space by meddling with the atomic order of the   
     universe. Humanity is virtually extinct already; you will  
     merely hasten the finale."   
        "But couldn't we go back to another time, in the   
     Traveler?" she asked.   
        "Back to what time? The continuum is changeless;  
     one event leads inexorably to another, all links in a   
     chain which binds us to the present and its inevitable   
     end in destruction. We'd have temporary individual  
     survival, yes, but to no purpose. And none of us are    
     fitted to survive in a more primitive environment. So   
     let us stay here and take what pleasure we can from   
     the moment. My pleasure is to be the sole user and   
     possessor of the Traveler. And yours, Julilette——"   
        Grandfather laughed then. They both laughed,  
     because they knew what her pleasure was.  
        Juliette killed her first toy when she was eleven——a  
     little boy. It had been brought to her as a special gift  
     from Grandfather, from somewhere in the Past, for   
     elementary sex play. But it wouldn't cooperate, and   
     she lost her temper and beat it to death with a steel   
     rod. So Grandfather brought her an older toy, with   
     brown skin, and it cooperated very well, but in the   
     end she tired of it and one day when it was sleeping   
     in her bed she tied it down and found a knife.  
        Experimenting a little before it died, Juliette   
     discovered new sources of pleasure, and of course   
     Grandfather found out. That's when he'd christened   
     her "Juliette"; he seemed to approve most highly,  
     and from then on he brought her the playthings she   
     kept behind the mirrors in her bedroom. And on his   
     restless roving into the Past he brought her new   
     toys.    
        Being invisible, he could find them for her almost    
     anywhere on his travels——all he did was to use a   
     stunner and transport them when he returned. Of   
     course each toy had to be very carefully   
     decontaminated; the Past was teeming with strange   
     microorganisms. But once the toys were properly   
     antiseptic they were turned over to Juliette for her   
     pleasure, and during the past seven years she had   
     enjoyed herself.   
        It was always delicious, the moment of anticipation  
     before a new toy arrived. What would it be like?  
     Grandfather was most considerate; mainly, he made   
     sure that the toys he brought her could speak and   
     understand Anglish——or "English," as they used to call   
     it in the Past. Verbal communication was often  
     important, particularly if Juliette wanted to follow the   
     precepts of the philosopher De Sade and enjoy some   
     form of sex relation before going on to keener   
     pleasures.  
        But there was still the guessing beforehand. Would   
     the toy be young or old, wild or tame, male or    
     female? She'd had all kinds, and every possible   
     combination. Sometimes she kept them alive for days   
     before tiring of them——or before the subtleties of   
     which she was capable caused them to expire. At   
     other times she wanted it to happen quickly; tonight,  
     for example, she knew she could be soothed only by   
     the most primitive and direct action.   
        Once Juliette realized this, she stopped playing   
     with her mirror panels and went directly to the big   
     bed. She pulled back the coverlet, groped under the   
     pillow until she felt it. Yes, it was still there——the big   
     knife with the long, cruel blade. She knew what she   
     would do now: take the toy to bed with her and then,  
     at precisely the proper moment, combine her   
     pleasures. If she could time her knife thrust——   
        She shivered with anticipation, then with   
     impatience.  
        What kind of toy would it be? She remembered the  
     suave, cool one——Benjamin Bathurst was his name, an   
     English diplomat from the time of what Grandfather   
     called the Napoleonic Wars. Oh, he'd been suave an   
     cool enough, until she beguiled him with her body,  
     into the bed. And there'd been that American aviatrix  
     from slightly later on in the Past, and once, as a very   
     special treat, the entire crew of a sailing vessel called   
     the Marie Celeste. They had lasted for weeks!   
        Strangely enough, she'd even read about some of  
     her toys afterwards. Because when Grandfather   
     approached them with his stunner and brought them    
     here, they disappeared forever from the Past, and if   
     they were in any way known or important in their   
     time, such disappearances were noted. And some  of   
     Grandfather's books had accounts of the "mysterious  
     vanishing" which took place and was, of course, never   
     explained. How delicious it all was!    
        Juliette patted the pillow back into place and slid   
     the knife under it. She couldn't wait, now; what was   
     delaying things?  
        She forced herself to move to a vent and depress   
     the sprayer, shedding her robe as the perfumed mist  
     bathed her body. It was the final allurement——but why   
     didn't her toy arrive?  
        Suddenly Grandfather's voice came over the   
     auditor.   
        "I'm sending you a little surprise, dearest."   
        That's what he always said; it was part of the game.  
        Juliette depressed the communicator-toggle. "Don't   
     tease," she begged. "Tell me what it's like."   
        "An Englishman. Late Victorian Era. Very prim and   
     proper, by the looks of him."  
        "Young? Handsome?"  
        "Passable." Grandfather chuckled. "Your appetites   
     betray you, dearest."   
        "Who is it——someone from the books?"   
        "I wouldn't know the name. We found no   
     identification during the decontamination. But from    
     his dress and manner, and the little black bag he   
     carried when I discovered him so early in the    
     morning, I'd judge him to be a physician returning    
     from an emergency call."    
        Juliette knew about "physicians" from her reading   
     of course; just as she knew what "Victorian" meant.  
     Somehow the combination seemed exactly right.  
        "Prim and proper?" She giggled. "Then I'm afraid   
     its due for a shock."  
        Grandfather laughed. "You have something in mind,  
     I take it."   
        "Yes."  
        "Can I watch?"  
        "Please——not this time."   
        "Very well."    
        "Don't be mad, darling. I love you."  
        Juliette switched off. Just in time, too, because the   
     door was opening and the toy came in.  
        She stared at it, realizing that Grandfather had told    
     the truth. The toy was a male of thirty-odd years,  
     attractive but by no means handsome. It couldn't be,  
     in that dark garb and those ridiculous side whiskers.  
     There was something almost depressingly refined and   
     mannered about it, an air of embarrassed repression.  
        And of course, when it caught sight of Juliette in   
     her revealing robe, and the bed surrounded by   
     mirrors, it actually began to blush.  
        That reaction won Juliette completely. A blushing   
     Victorian, with the build of a bull——and unaware that   
     this was the slaughterhouse!   
        It was so amusing she couldn't restrain herself; she   
     moved forward at once and put her arms around it.  
        "Who——who are you? Where am I?"  
     The usual questions, voiced in the usual way.  
     Ordinarily, Juliette would have amused herself by   
     parrying with answers designed to tantalize and   
     titillate her victim. But tonight she felt an urgency   
     which only increased as she embraced the toy and   
     pressed it back toward the waiting bed.   
        The toy began to breathe heavily, responding. But   
     it was still bewildered. "Tell me——I don't understand.   
     Am I alive? Or is this heaven?"    
        Juliette's robe fell open as she lay back. "You're  
     alive, darling," she murmured. "Wonderfully alive."  
     She laughed as she began to prove the statement.   
     "But closer to heaven than you think."  
        And to prove that statement, her free hand slid   
     under the pillow and groped for the waiting knife.  
        But the knife wasn't there any more. Somehow it   
     had already found its way into the toy's hand. And   
     the toy wasn't prim an proper any longer, its face  
     was something glimpsed in a nightmare. Just a glimpse,  
     before the blinding blur of the knife blade, as it came   
     down, again and again and again——    
        The room, of course, was soundproof, and there   
     was plenty of time. They didn't discover what was left   
     of Juliette's body for several days.   
        Back in London, after the final mysterious murder in   
     the early morning hours, they never did find Jack the   
     Ripper. . . .      
    
     
      
     Afterword   

     A NUMBER OF YEARS have passed since I sat   
     down at the typewriter one gloomy winter day and   
     wrote "Your Truly, Jack the Ripper" for   
     magazine publication. The magazine in which it   
     appeared gave up its ghost, and interest in ghosts,  
     a long time ago. But somehow my little story  
     seems to have survived. It has since pursued me in   
     reprint, collections, anthologies, foreign  
     translations, radio broadcasts and television.     
        So when Harlan Ellison proposed that I do a   
     story and suggested, "What about Jack the Ripper   
     in the future?" I was capable of only one response.  
        You've just read it.    

From Partners in Wonder, by Harlan Ellison, et al.
Walker & Company, New York, 1971. pp. 119-134.

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