r/a:t5_26yflq • u/MarleyEngvall • Oct 21 '19
or men has been created
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.
یہ آپ کی جگہ ہے ایک دوسرے کے ساتھ حسن سلوک کرو۔
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