nightmare on the nose

                          By Evelyn E. Smith

              Incubus won every race but one. Yet though
               in this respect she matched Man o' War's
              record she wasn't actually a horse at all.

    _The gifting of animals with human speech is scarcely an unique
    idea--see Dal Stivens' THE UNDOING OF CARNEY JIMMY in this issue
    should you have doubts--the idea of a talking horse goes back at
    least to the siege of Troy, for certainly there must have been
    some dialogue amongst the Greek warriors enclosed in the wooden
    horse's belly. But we think you'll agree that Miss Smith's filly
    has something special._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
               Fantastic Universe October-November 1953.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Every time he lost money at the track Phil Watson had a nightmare. They
grew increasingly frequent as his bankroll dwindled and his hopes of
getting rich dwindled accordingly.

The night after he had dropped two hundred dollars at Jamaica, the
nightmare grew particularly oppressive. In the darkness he could see
her red eyes glowing at him as she sat on his chest.

"Would you mind not turning over so much?" she asked, seeing that he
was awake. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"It makes _you_ uncomfortable!" he moaned. "How would you like to have
a couple of tons of horse sitting on you?"

"I do not weigh a couple of tons!" she snapped. "And furthermore I
assure you I'm sitting on your chest out of duty, certainly not out
of pleasure. If you don't think I have lots better things to do with
my nights than go around sitting on people...." Her large white teeth
gleamed in a significant leer.

He sighed and squirmed again. A sharp hoof kicked him in the side.
"That'll learn you not to wiggle, Watson. Since you're not sleeping,"
she added, "how about a couple of games of Canasta?"

"I've been losing enough on the races--I'm not going to start gambling
with a supernatural card shark."

"Listen here." The nightmare bristled. "I can beat you at any game
without the use of supernatural powers. You're known as the number-one
sucker at all the tracks."

"That's right. That's right. Kick a man when he's down."

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to be unsporting. But you
get me so mad!"

"Unsporting ..." he mused--then sat up as a terrific idea hit him.

"Watch your step, Watson," the nightmare warned when the sudden
movement nearly threw her off the bed. "I've been standing for a lot
from you but--"

"Listen, can you run?"

"Run? Whaddya mean run?"

"How fast can you go?"

"Well, I'll be honest with you. Down--where I come from I'm known as
'Old Slow Poke.' I can't move much faster than speed of sound while
all the other girls have the velocity of light. But that's the way it
is--some are born with brains and some with speed."

"The velocity of sound is good enough," Watson decided. "Look here,
Nightmare, how'd you like to run in a race?"

"A race?" Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. "Oho, I see
what you mean! But that wouldn't be cricket, would it?"

"Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports!" Watson stated.
Then, alluringly, "How'd you like to run down the track five lengths
ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd
cheering? You'd be led into the winner's circle and they'd drape
flowers all over you. People would yell 'Nightmare, Nightmare!' You'd
be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work
at night, alone--unappreciated and unsung...."

"That's so _true_," the nightmare murmured. "I really haven't received
the adulation I deserve. Here I've done my job faithfully for years,
scared thousands of people into fits--and what thanks do I get?
_None!_" She sobbed. "Other people get all the credit and glory. I just
work, work, work like a horse."

"If you work for me," Watson said, "you'll only run a mile or so two
or three times a week, get the finest of care _and_"--he pointed out
significantly--"your nights will be your own."

"Watson," the nightmare assured him, "I'm sold. When do we start?"

"It isn't as easy as all that." Watson rose and paced up and down the
room. "First of all you're not in the stud book. We'll have to forge
some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse."

"_Si, si, señor_," said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. "_Hablo
muy bien el español. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi
madre. Yo soy del Rancho Grande. Olé!_"

"It isn't necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact you
won't get to do any talking at all. Horses don't talk."

"But _I_ do," she said, wounded. "Where I come from I am known as a
witty and distinguished raconteur. You know the one about the two
geldings?"

"Never you mind," he told her. "From now on you don't talk--except to
me. Get it?"

"Yeah," the nightmare agreed. "All right, Watson, I'll give it a whirl.
I've always wanted to be in the public eye."

For the sake of expediency Watson decided to give the nightmare,
now officially registered as Incubus, her preliminary workouts
himself--although he was no trainer. But then Incubus really needed
no workouts. It merely looked well to take her around the track a few
times.

"Remember, Inky," he whispered, "not too fast. We want to give 'em a
big surprise at the meet."

"I dig you," she whispered back.

Reuben Godlove, the well-known trainer, sauntered past and looked
at Incubus. "My God," he told Watson, "what kind of a monster are
you running! She's got a face like a gargoyle and a rear like a
hippopotamus."

"You want I should clout him in the crupper?" Incubus whispered.

"No, no!" he whispered back. "I'm glad he doesn't take to you, because
if he thought you were any good he might claim you."

"Claim me? Whaddya mean?"

"Well, you see," he explained, "since you're unknown and have no record
I've had to enter you in a claiming race. That means anybody who's
running another horse in the same race can put in a claim for you
before the race, for the price I set on you, and become your owner."

"What's the price you set on me?"

Watson hemmed and hawed. "Three thousand dollars," he admitted.

Incubus cocked an eye at him. "You selling me down the river for a mess
of pottage, Watson?"

"No, no," he assured her, "I can't help it--this is some goddam silly
racing rule. You have no reputation so I've got to enter you in a
maiden claimer."

Incubus raised an eyebrow. "A maiden claimer?"

"A maiden horse," he explained austerely, "is one which has never won a
race."

"Oh-h-h-h," she said. "Sorry."

"Now, if the worst comes to the worst and you do get claimed we can
figure out ways and means of getting you back. Can't we, Inky?"

Incubus laughed richly. "Clout him in the crupper!" she chortled. "Oh,
man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The day dawned when Incubus was to make her debut at Belmont. The odds
on her were a hundred to one. Laughing softly to himself, Watson put
five hundred dollars on her nose.

"You crazy, fella?" the seller said to him. "The horse to bet on is
Godlove's Pamplemousse. He's a natural to win."

"Incubus is my own horse," Watson explained patiently.

"Oh, I guess it's like my kid. He plays the pianner and stinks but I
gotta clap for him all the same."

"Why didn't you give her some hip reducing exercises," Godlove sneered
as the jockey led Incubus out into the paddock. "She'll never get
through the starting gate with that spread."

"Take it easy," Watson told her, as she reared. "Now, listen," he
said to the jockey, a sullen young apprentice--all he could get--"she
responds to direction very well. Talk to her. She practically
understands."

"Oh, sure," the jockey jeered. "Is snookums gonna win the race for
daddykins?"

"Ess," replied Incubus.

The jockey stared at her and at Watson. Watson laughed, a trifle too
hard. "I'm a great ventriloquist," he explained. "Can't break myself of
the habit."

"Well, you better begin now," the jockey said, "because I'm
temperamental and when I'm emotionally disturbed the horse senses it."

"The horses," the announcer declaimed through the loudspeaker, "are at
the post.... They're off!... All of them, that is, except Incubus. She
can't get through the starting gate. She's stuck."

"Yah, wear a girdle!" the crowd called derisively.

With a wrench of sheer rage Incubus pulled herself through the gate and
dashed after the other horses. "In the backstretch it's Pamplemousse
in the lead with Disestablishmentarianism and Epigram running half
a length behind and.... But who's this coming up from the rear? It's
Incubus! She's ahead by a length.... By two lengths.... By three
lengths! What a horse! What a jockey! He's giving her the whip!... Oh,
oh, something's wrong. Incubus has lost her rider! Too bad, Incubus."

The horses raced up the stretch, with Incubus keeping five lengths
ahead of Pamplemousse as per direction. She was much annoyed to
discover that he had won the race.

"But _I_ won it!" she kept whispering to Watson as he led her off. "I
was first. This is a frame-up. I'm going right to the judges and raise
an objection."

"It doesn't count if you don't have the jockey on you," he told her.
"That's the rule."

"Flap the rules!" she said. "You mean without that pee-wee it doesn't
count? A fine thing! I hate the rules, I hate the rules, I hate the
rules!" She stamped her foot. "He hit me with a whip, the little
bastard, so I gave him the old heave-ho."

"Aw, come on now, Incubus, we'll get another jockey who won't whip you.
You see how easy you can win a race?"

She tossed her head. "I'm not so sure I want to run again."

"You know you want to run, Incubus. You've made a big impression, I
could see that."

"Who cares what people think?"

"I saw Pamplemousse giving you the eye," Watson murmured. "Good-looking
horse, isn't he? Any filly'd be glad to have him interested in her."

"Oh, I dunno," Incubus said. "He's all right, I guess, if you like them
tall and dark. But, okay, I'll try it again for you, Watson."

Godlove accosted them again as Watson led Incubus into her stall.
"I take back what I said about your horse, Watson," he apologized.
"She looks like a fiend, but she runs like one too. With the proper
handling, she might be a stake horse." He looked speculatively at
Incubus. "Give you five thousand for her, big rump and all."

"Not on your life."

Godlove shrugged. "Suit yourself. But she'll have to run in another
claimer, you know." He left, laughing softly.

After two weeks of steady diet and vigorous massage, during which her
hip measurements were considerably reduced, Incubus was entered in a
four-thousand-dollar claimer. Even though she was still a maiden she
was favored next to Pamplemousse by the players, for her unusual first
start had not passed unnoticed. Watson bet another five hundred, to
obtain which he had mortgaged the old homestead. But this time he could
get only even money.

"Remember, Incubus," he instructed her as he buckled her saddle, "if
Godlove claims you you know what to do."

"Sure do. Shall I let him live afterward?"

"Yeah, let him live. Just make it uncomfortable for him.... Now look
here, sonny." This to the new jockey. "She doesn't like the whip. You
saw what she did to her last boy?"

The jockey nodded and gulped.

"All you have to do is sit on her and let her go where she wants. Then
you'll be all right."

"I wooden even get near her," the boy said, "if I didn't have an aged
mother to support."

       *       *       *       *       *

The starter waved the yellow flag and the horses were off. Incubus
raced neck and neck with Pamplemousse until they were a furlong from
the finish line. Then she surged ahead to win by five lengths. When she
rode into the winner's circle the crowd booed, as is their pleasant
custom with winning horses and jockeys.

"A popular figure, eh?" Incubus sneered. "_Tcha!_"

"Y'know, Mr. Watson," the jockey said as he was assisted from the horse
with a dazed but beatific smile on his face, "I'm so steamed up over
this win I even thought Incubus was talking to me."

The men standing around laughed. "You've let excitement go to your
head," Godlove remarked. "Personally I would never hire a jockey who
has no emotional equilibrium."

The jockey reached a tentative finger toward Incubus' nose. "Good
horse," he said. "Good Incubus."

"I think you're pretty nice yourself," Incubus murmured out of the side
of her mouth. There was a stricken silence.

Reuben Godlove's eyes narrowed. "That jockey who rode her the other
day told me about your ventriloquism," he informed Watson. "Seems like
a pretty cheap trick if you ask me." The others murmured agreement,
color flowing back into their faces.

"Anyhow, now that she's my horse," Godlove went on, taking possession
of Incubus' bridle. "She's going to be trained serious."

"Now?" Incubus asked Watson.

"Later," he whispered back.

"That ain't funny, Watson," Godlove assured him. As he led Incubus off
she looked back over her shoulder and winked.

"Mr. Watson," the jockey said, following him off the field, "you're not
really a ventriloquist, are you? That horse talks, doesn't she?"

Watson nodded.

"You gonna let Godlove get away with her?" The boy's voice rose to a
shrill squeak.

"I'll claim her back in the next race."

"Yeah, but you can't claim her back less'n you've entered another horse
in the same race and you don't have another horse, do you, Mr. Watson?"

Watson's jaw dropped. "I never thought of that! What'll I do?"

"You've got to get another horse, Mr. Watson. Do you have enough money?"

"Well, the purse from this race is almost two thousand, and I made
another thousand betting on Incubus. And, of course, Godlove gave me
four thousand for her. But that won't be enough to buy a decent horse
and maintain him--expenses are terrific."

The jockey chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I know what you can do,"
he said at length, "you can buy Prunella. She's set at a price of five
thousand dollars but her owner's pretty disgusted with her--she has
good lines but she finished last in twenty-seven starts--and I think
you could have her for four thousand in cash."

Prunella, a meek-looking chestnut filly with big brown eyes and a
vicious temper, was enthusiastically disposed of for four thousand and
installed in Incubus' vacant stall. Watson shed a silent tear to see
Incubus' second-best saddle hanging there on the wall.

In the dead of night he slipped into Godlove's stable. Incubus was
awake, reading the _Morning Telegraph_. "Look at the picture they have
of me," she snapped. "Obviously taken by an enemy. Next time Watson,
remember--my right profile is the best."

"I'll remember," he promised and told her what had happened.

"You're sure this Prunella isn't taking my place in your affections?"
she demanded severely. "That all this isn't a subterfuge?"

"My God, no! She quits before she starts."

"All right," Incubus said. "Now, I am reliably informed by the stable
grapevine that Godlove's entering me in a six-thousand-dollar claimer.
You spent almost all your money on Prunella--how're you going to claim
me?"

There was dead silence in the stable.

"These men," she sighed. "Without us females to think for them they'd
be lost. The answer is simple. Prunella's got to win that race. Then
you'll have the purse, plus whatever you can bet on her, and you'll get
good odds."

"Prunella win the race! She couldn't beat a speedy snail."

"She'll win the race." Incubus grinned happily.

       *       *       *       *       *

The weather was clear and the track fast. Incubus was running at three
to five--Prunella ninety-eight to one. Reuben Godlove appeared with his
arm in a sling and a bandage on his forehead and glowered at Watson. "A
fine trainer you are," he snarled.

"Let's see how well you've done with her," Watson suggested, smiling
amiably.

The starting gate opened and all the horses dashed out--all except
Prunella, who sauntered forth and stood admiring the view. Incubus
turned, ran back and nipped Prunella viciously in the forequarters.
With a whinny of rage Prunella proceeded to chase Incubus, who was
showing a fleet pair of heels along the track. But there were six
horses between Prunella and her attacker.

With a thrust of her powerful shoulders, Incubus sent Dernier Cri
staggering into the geraniums that bordered the field. She thrust a
hoof into the path of Kropotkin and sent him and his rider sprawling
on the track. She murmured something into Epigram's ear and that black
colt turned light grey and refused to budge another step.

There were now three horses between Incubus and Prunella. Polyhymnia
suddenly started to run backward. Sir Bleoberis buried his head in
the sand and pretended he didn't notice the race was still going on.
Cachucha--who had hitherto not been known as a jumper--hurdled the rail
and dashed into the crowd of astonished players.

Still Incubus ran lightly before Prunella, half a length ahead, kicking
dust in her face and making irritating remarks, while the enraged filly
laid her ears back and bared white teeth to snap at her rival. One
length before the finish line Incubus suddenly stopped short, leaving
momentum to carry Prunella over the line to victory!

Prunella had won the race. Incubus was second but was disqualified for
conduct unbecoming a horse and a lady. It was never determined who had
run third.

"Together again at last, Watson," Incubus said during the joyful
reunion in the paddock. "Ah, but it's been a long, long time...."

"Two weeks," commented the jockey, who had ridden Prunella.

"Listen, pipsqueak," Incubus told him irately. "I've spent the whole
two weeks cooking up this speech and I don't want a half-pint like you
spoiling it. It's been a long, long time, Watson...."

Prunella nickered.

"None of _your_ lip, either," Incubus said. "Where would you have been
if I hadn't won your race for you? Oh, you can run if you want to, can
you? _Ha! Ha! Plater!_"

Prunella neighed angrily.

"Okay, Watson'll enter you in a claimer without me and we'll see what
you can do." She turned toward her owner. "And now, Watson, I trust you
have a hot tub prepared. I'm so-o-o-o tired...."

       *       *       *       *       *

The racing secretary entered Incubus for an allowance with some
misgivings. "But if she behaves again this time the way she did last
she's out, Watson. Suspended--disqualified! Can't have that sort of
thing going on, you know."

"She's actually the most tractable of horses, sir," Watson assured him.
"It's merely that Mr. Godlove didn't know how to handle her."

"Oh--ah," the racing secretary said.

"And I'd like to enter Prunella in the five-thousand-dollar claimer."

The racing secretary smiled. "Well, Mr. Watson, you don't have to be
afraid that anybody'll claim _her_. Godlove has spread the word around.
Now everybody's afraid to claim a Watson horse."

Prunella won handily in her claimer and Incubus breezed to victory
in her allowance. "Bet on Watson horses," the word went round the
tracks. Incubus won a Class C, Class B and Class A handicap in swift
progression, Prunella came in first in two seven-thousand-dollar
claimers and second in a ten-thousand-dollar one.

And then Incubus came in last in a stake race at Aqueduct.

"What's the matter with you, Incubus?" Watson demanded. "You can run
ten times around the track before any of these nags could reach the
quarter-mile pole."

Incubus lay on her back in the hay and chewed reflectively on a straw.
"You know, Watson," she said, "there are finer things in life than
racing."

"What, for instance?"

She simpered. "I've been talking to Pamplemousse--you know, Godlove's
horse--and he says it isn't ethical what I'm doing, that I'm competing
with horses way below my class, that it isn't fair."

"But there aren't any horses in your class."

"I know," she sighed. "Sometimes superiority can have its
disadvantages. That's what Pamplemousse says--he says it isn't fair
for me to run at all. Says woman's place is in the home. Do you think
woman's place is in the home, Watson?"

Prunella neighed in the adjoining stall.

"That's a dirty lie!" Incubus shrieked, getting up. "I double dare you
to say it once more." Prunella kept silence.

"You're in love, Incubus?" Watson asked gently.

She bowed her head. "I didn't know I could be--I thought I was too
tough. But you're never too tough. Oh, I know I'm a stake horse and
he's still only a claimer but I love him just the same."

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, Inky, I guess you have a
right to. Only"--he gulped--"I'd entered you in the Belmont Futurity
and it means ... so much to me."

Incubus wiped away a tear with a wisp of hay. "All right, Watson, I'll
win the Futurity for you. After all you have first claim on my loyalty.
Who brought me out of obscurity? You! Who recognized my potentialities?
You! Who made a horse out of me? You!"

Incubus won the Belmont Futurity and was carried off the track on
the shoulders of a cheering crowd. Retouched photographs of the big
black horse hit not only the sport pages but the front page of every
newspaper in the country.

But the question of her racing again was shelved for the nonce. Shortly
after the Futurity, Watson discovered that Incubus was pregnant.
"Pamplemousse?" he asked.

She nodded shyly.

"But how could you do it? You two were in separate stalls."

Incubus snickered. "I have my methods, Watson."

"He's a low cad," said Watson.

"I knew what I was doing. I went into it with my eyes open."

He wondered just how he was going to enter the foal in the stud book.
Although it would be of impeccable ancestry its escutcheon would be
marred by a bend sinister.

Some months later, Incubus called Watson to her stall.

"What is it, Inky?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, Watson. I've got to go back."

"Back! Back where, Inky girl?"

"Back where I came from. Oh, I might have known it was never to be,
that you can't wipe out the past. Still I'd hoped that somehow--some
way.... But the Big Bookie says no. I've got to go back where I came
from--I don't belong here. He says I was sent as a punishment, not as a
reward."

She extended a hoof toward Watson's hand. "I had my baby tonight,
Watson. Take good care of her--she's half equine, so she can stay
here--and she'll be the fastest thing on earth when she grows up.
Prunella'll help you raise her and support the family."

Watson wiped his streaming eyes. "I'll take care of your baby,
Incubus," he vowed. "I'll call her Incubus Two and I'll treat her as if
she were my own daughter."

"I knew I could count on you, Watson. Well--this is goodbye."

Incubus slowly vanished.

It was hard losing Incubus. He'd grown attached to her, looking on her
not only as a horse but a friend. Still, at least he had the colt. In
two years she would take up where her mother had left off and again the
Watson name would reverberate through the racetracks.

He went inside the stall, looked down at Incubus' daughter, who reposed
on the hay looking up at him with big blue eyes. He gasped.

He had forgotten. Incubus was not a real horse, she was merely a demon
in the shape of a horse.

Incubus Two was not in the shape of a horse.