ONCE UPON A MONBEAST...

                         By Charles E. Fritch

               Pity the poor science-fiction writer who
             creates bug-eyed monsters. You only see them
             in print--he may have to live with a few!...

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                              March 1952
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


That's not my real name up there, and in a little while you'll discover
the reason why. If you read my real name attached to this, you'd think
it was just another fantastic yarn I batted out and then you'd forget
it. And you'd laugh. You'll probably laugh anyway--for awhile--but I've
got to get this thing off my chest once and for all.

I was a struggling science-fiction author at the time it began--or
rather, just before it began. Nope, that's not right--struggling isn't
the word; it doesn't express the blood, sweat and postage stamps that
went into a creation, the hope and the futility that ran hot and cold
with each morning's mail, the psychological and financial insecurity
that comes to a beginner crazy enough to tackle such a field. And then,
to top it off, I got a letter from Donald MacDonald.

That's not _his_ real name either, and in a little while you'll find
out the reason why. He's one of the all-time greats in science-fiction
and still is, and a fan not knowing his work would be suspected of
having lost his marbles. So a "name" author writes me a letter. Great,
huh?

No.

I'd sent MacDonald a batch of my manuscripts, humbly asking the great
man to favor them with a glance if a moment ever came while he was
resting a bit between dashing off novelettes. And would he kindly
let me know--frankly, honestly, without fear of injuring my delicate
feelings--what he thought of the work?

He would. And did. The letter read:

    Dear Mr. ....:

    I appreciate your efforts at trying to crack the stf field, but I'm
    afraid I'll have to disillusion you. I have read your manuscripts
    with considerable care and am sorry to report that you seem to have
    no talent for writing and especially none for science-fiction.

    I would suggest you turn your energies to something else--saxophone
    playing, stamp collecting--anything else. If you insist upon
    writing, however, have you considered fillers?

                                                           Best wishes,
                                                      Donald MacDonald.

What I should have done was go out into the country, and let the
gathering steam blow its lid. But I didn't. If I'd gotten an automobile
in motion, I would have run down the nearest boy scout just to see his
blood spatter. Instead, I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Donald
MacDonald.

It was a fine letter, full of colorful phrases and split infinitives.
To hell with grammar at a time like that, I rationalized. I told him in
no uncertain terms just what I thought of him and his criticisms. I'd
be a science-fiction writer just to show him up for the incompetent he
was, I said. I guess I said a lot of things. It was a letter full of
more than fire and brimstone. It was radioactive.

I mailed it. Then I had a beer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days later, while I was bravely punching typewriter keys in a
desperate effort to make good my boast, a small, haggard-looking fellow
came to the door and rang the bell.

"We don't want any," I said.

He peered through the screen door and said, "I'm MacDonald," in a
nervous, uncertain voice.

"MacDonald who?"

"Donald MacDonald. May I come in?"

"You're kidding. No, by God, you're not. You _are_ Donald MacDonald."

He smiled wanly. "May I come in? I flew all the way--"

"Just to see me?"

"I--er--it was no trouble. I took a _skyorie_."

"A what?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure, sure, c'mon in. Have a chair. Drink?"

"No, thanks," he said, seating himself. "I'm afraid I've been--that
is--er--No, I don't believe so."

"I got your letter," I said, suddenly remembering. My awe at the
presence of the great man was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of
"Now, what the hell does he want?"

"And I got yours," MacDonald said. "That's why I'm here." He gazed at
my typewriter as though it were ready to bite him. "You didn't take my
advice?"

"Hardly," I said, rather flippantly. "Once the bug has bitten you--"

"Have you had anything accepted?"

I stared at the rug, hating the man for asking. "No, not yet," I
admitted grudgingly, "but--"

"Then the bug hasn't _really_ bitten you yet," he said. "You'll know it
when he does."

"I--uh--guess my letter was a bit--er--abrupt," I said, not knowing how
else to fill the silence.

"You were pretty mad," he admitted, "and I don't blame you; I should
have known better than to tell you that way. But in this game,
you've--well, you've got to learn to take criticism. If your work's
bad, admit it and throw in the towel."

"And mine's bad?"

He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. "I'm afraid so."

But the steam had been released and the period of mourning had ended,
so "I'll improve," I told him.

"You're wasting your time."

"Possibly. What I can't understand, though, is why a big name in
science-fiction comes way the devil out here just to advise me to stop
knocking my head against a wall."

"Perhaps more than your head is at stake," he said.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said hastily. For a moment his pale face held a haunted
look, and he rose, looking like a man unsure of himself. "I can't talk
you out of it, so I'd better go."

"Wait a minute. Just what did you mean by that other remark?"

Donald MacDonald glanced around him as though he were afraid invisible
beings might be eavesdropping. "You really want to know the reason why?"

I nodded.

"Your work is good," he said seriously. "Too good. Not up to par on
some points, but in a few years you'll be going places. That's why I
sneaked away from them and came here--to beg you to reconsider, to stop
this writing now, before it's too late."

"You mean--you _can't_ mean--you're not--afraid of competition?"

He waved an annoyed hand. "Competition, hell! There's always room for
more. You don't understand," he went on, screwing his face into a look
of determination. "I'm trying to save your peace of mind, your sanity
perhaps. The mind is a great and powerful thing, sometimes dangerous.
All these things--these alien creatures that a science-fiction author
creates--"

"Yes?"

But he had straightened suddenly, a look of terror on a face gone
ashen. He went to the door like a man being pushed, fumbled for the
knob. "I beg of you, for your sake, forget it," he called back. Then he
was gone.

I went out on the porch but MacDonald was not in sight. I heard a
strange noise as of the flapping of great leathery wings. A shadow
passed across the lawn. I looked up.

Nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning I got a small envelope in the mail. The letter inside
read, "Enclosed is a check for your story THE MONBEAST...." I sank into
the softest chair in the world and read those wonderful, wonderful
words, and held the check in my hand and read those wonderful,
wonderful figures. I was so in a trance I hardly noticed the tiny
decimal point that scampered on tiny legs across the check. I hardly
felt the small, sharp bite--but....

My first acceptance! It was incredible the exhilaration that flowed
through me in that instant. It was like a much-needed shot of
adrenaline, like cool springwater to a thirsty man. I had a check for
a story someone thought enough of to publish. I was an author. A real,
live, honest-to-goodness author with a check in my hand to prove to a
critical world that I wasn't a bum after all. Suddenly the world was a
big, wide, wonderful place to live in, and I loved everyone in it--even
the poor, disillusioned Donald MacDonald.

But why stop here? I thought. There were more checks where that came
from. If I could sell one story, I could sell two, and then three, and
four. So I did. In a way, it was something like digging my own grave.
You don't understand that now, but in a little while you'll see the
reason why.

       *       *       *       *       *

After I had haunted the newsstand for about three months, the great day
came. THE MONBEAST was the last story in the magazine (at the time I
thought they really should have featured it) and my name was misspelled
on the contents page, but it was a great day just the same. A day of
triumph. A day for rejoicing. I'd had several stories accepted during
the several months' interval, but this was the day that the fruits of
my labor became evident to the world.

I walked home with a proud, firm step, casually displaying the magazine
to the vast public eye, to friend and foe alike. I tried to act
nonchalant, as though this were old stuff to an established writer like
me. It was a day of glory, of triumph, rivaling Caesar's victorious
march into Rome.

That evening I read the story over and over again, marveling at the
perfection of its form, savoring the exquisite flavor of each delicate,
richly-hued, word, the uniqueness of each choice, well-turned phrase. I
fell asleep with the magazine in my hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning the monbeast was sitting at the foot of my bed.

"Okay, okay," it said, blinking its bug-eyes at me, "don't act so
surprised. MacDonald warned you, didn't he?"

"But--but--"

"Sure, I'm real," the monbeast volunteered, scratching its scaly head
with a long-nailed finger. "That's the trouble with you guys. You're
full of imagination, but you can't face reality."

"Where--where'd you come from?"

The monbeast shrugged massive green shoulders. "The whole thing's much
too technical for me to worry about. All I know is us BEMs exist, and
we get to your dimension via science-fiction."

"That 'power of mind' MacDonald was talking about?" I said, shuddering
a bit.

"Something like that. Other forms of fiction deal with things native to
your world. Science-fiction regards us BEMs as real, so while we don't
ordinarily exist here, there's a stress created in the barrier between
us, and we come through."

"Then you're really real?"

"Practically. Right now, though, you're the only one who can see and
hear me. You haven't characterized me sufficiently so that the readers
will be convinced that I'm real. But that's okay. You'll improve."

"Thanks. But now what about you?" I said, trying to not appear
overanxious. "Are you returning to your own dimension or are you
staying here for awhile?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The monbeast grinned, showing the eighty sharp-pointed teeth I knew it
possessed. "Sorry, I'm here to stay. I'm your brainchild, you know, so
I'll have to stick to you."

I gulped. "Stick to me?"

"Only figuratively," the monbeast said. "But I'll be around." He
cocked a bug-eye at me and said gravely, "We'd better get a few things
straight right from the start. One of them is that as far as you're
concerned, I'm as real as that bedpost."

"Real?" I tried to laugh that off, but the sound came out a little
weakly. "That's silly. You're just a product of my imagination."

"Am I?" the monbeast said.

He thrust the scaly face close to mine and yawned. Suddenly the room
became a turkish bath.

"Okay, okay," I said hastily, "turn it off."

Coolness came, and I breathed easier as the steam dissipated.

"Secondly, you're going to create bigger and better BEMs and make them
more convincing," the monbeast continued. "With all you writers turning
us loose, we can have a swell time in this world."

"But how can you?" I protested. "You said the readers wouldn't believe
in you, so you don't exist for them."

"Science-fiction is growing," the monbeast said. "Everyday more people
are getting to realize that there is more to the world than those
things they see around them. They believe what they read in love
stories and detective stories. Science-fiction is next."

"Suppose I don't want to create more BEMs?" I said. "Suppose I take up
saxophone playing or something and leave science-fiction alone."

"You can't stop writing it now, any more than a true fan can stop
reading it. The bug has bitten you." He smiled a piano keyboard of
teeth and continued, "Besides, I could be obliged to--er--inspire you
just a bit. But you just work along with me, and we'll both do fine."

So we did.

       *       *       *       *       *

The monbeast isn't such a bad fellow after all, once you get to know
him. Neither are the other BEMs hanging around my house. Oh, yes, there
are others, lots of them. Hanging from the rafters. Under chairs. In
coffee cups. Everywhere. It's an occupational hazard, you know.

Chances are, though, you wouldn't be able to see them--unless you're a
real gone science-fiction fan, and even then maybe not. But someday you
will.

Someday you'll be sitting in your favorite chair reading your favorite
science-fiction magazine, and you'll look up....

Maybe it'll be sitting on the desk beside you, running one of four
hands through a nest of snakes on its scaly head. Maybe it'll be only
an inch tall and perched on the piano watching you. Maybe at first
it'll be just a warm, dank breath on the back of your neck.

No telling _when_ it'll be either. Maybe next year, next month;
tomorrow. Who knows--perhaps even now.

Here's a little tip. When you lay down this magazine, turn around
slowly. Have you ever had the feeling that something was going on
behind your back but when you turned around you saw nothing? What's
that? You think maybe you've got that feeling right now?

Listen, on second thought, now that you know, maybe you better not turn
around. Take this as a gag. A nice big laugh. You'll be a lot better
off that way.

What you don't know can't hurt you....