Professor Anton Vorchek had received an invitation to a "business dinner" from one Jarrod Flenberg, who billed himself as "an amazingly profitable and incredibly influential" Hollywood director, and who proclaimed himself in immediate need of Vorchek's "unique services"; in mysterious tones Flenberg, over the telephone, had hinted at an offer which should prove "lucrative, thrilling, and possibly terrifying"; and, as the director would be flying into Phoenix from California at very short notice-- "my time is valuable"-- he left it to the professor to make the meeting arrangements. Vorchek, intrigued despite himself-- for he knew nothing of the man, had little use for recent movies, and never kept up with popular culture-- agreed and reserved a table at his favorite restaurant, the Aragona, where he repaired at the appointed time with his absolutely gorgeous assistant, Theresa. They arrived, precisely punctual, were seated side by side. Flenberg had not shown.

"Perhaps the matter is not that important to him after all," Vorchek mused in his cultured, faintly foreign voice. He had removed his trademark hat, unbuttoned his jacket, settled himself cozily with a glass of wine. "The way he spoke, I thought--"

"What I want to know is," said Theresa, with a toss of her ample blonde locks, "is who's paying for this dinner: him or us?"

"The manager assured me that the bill is already covered."

"Then let's eat." They ordered, and the food arrived after a sensible period, and it was excellent, as always. Theresa made the most of the wine, with repeated helpings draining much of the bottle. Vorchek, still nursing his original glass, remained out of sorts.

"He has a bad habit of speech," said he, "as of snapping orders over the telephone. I do not approve. I trust that he considers the value of my time."

"Something tells me," Theresa mumbled, gulping down a mouthful of highly seasoned beef, "that's him now."

The new arrival attracted attention. Smartly dressed in an overtly casual, youngish fashion, he appeared about forty, with a head of full jet-black hair. He moved quickly, his dark eyes flashed as they darted across the room. He spoke briefly with a waiter, gestured in a promising direction, then strode rapidly to the professor's table. Vorchek and Theresa rose.

"You're the professor, right?" snapped the stranger. Receiving a courteous nod, he then demanded brusquely, "Lose the girl. This is private stuff."

Vorchek smiled tightly. "Mr. Flenberg, may I introduce you to Miss Delaney, my private secretary. She is involved in all of my business, and is no less discreet than myself."

"Private secretary, eh?" Flenberg examined the girl from head to foot, obviously enjoying the scenery. "How private?"

"Very private," Theresa responded coldly.

"I see. All right, let's sit down." Flenberg did, opposite the pair, Vorchek following. Theresa ostentatiously looked over her host, with a very different expression from his on her face, then slowly seated herself, as if to make the point that she did so not as a result of his command.

"The cuisine here is a treat," Vorchek observed amiably.

"Coffee," said Flenberg abruptly, snapping his fingers at the waiter who hovered nearby. To his guests he added, "I'm not hungry. I'll take your word for the food. Now, let's get down to business."

"As you please," said Vorchek.

"You're paying for it," Theresa chimed in, with a false grin.

"So I am, and time is money." The coffee was set before him. Without acknowledging the waiter, Flenberg embarked upon a speech. "First, let me tell you a little something about myself."

That he did. In fact, he told them an awful lot about himself. They learned that he had attended film school on a scholarship, and had directed his first professional feature length film at the age of twenty-four, a film which had proven quite successful and quickly put his name on the map. He had gone on to direct, and later produce, one blockbuster movie after another, until he had reached the point that his name in the title credits, alone, was sufficient to guarantee box office triumph. His movies were now praised and technically analyzed in "how-to" courses, and he asserted that all of the current crop of "whiz kid" directors were merely following clumsily in his footsteps.

He told them more. He recounted, in great detail, the endless flow of blessings which he had derived from his success. He bragged about the money-- the inexhaustible inpouring of cash which granted him everything that a man could seriously want in this life. He described his houses, his cars, his servants, his jets, his yachts; he described his women-- the famous, the comely, the famous and comely-- who existed to satisfy his every secret, passing craving, and in the telling he left little to the imagination. He spoke fervently of wild, outrageous parties-- orgies, mostly-- days and nights of sybaritic pleasure. He related the mechanics of his crude business practices, how he had managed to get the better of them all, how he had shown them all, beaten them all at their own game. Flenberg talked through two cups of coffee, and the third had arrived before he finished with a complacent smirk.

"What do you think?" he asked. "I've got it all, don't I, Professor?"

"You have plenty," Vorchek replied evenly. "My ways are not your ways but, I suppose, we all seek satisfaction in life after our own lights. By your standards, you must be a supremely happy man."

"Happy?" Flenberg laughed bitterly, savagely. "What rot. I'm talking about desire, power, influence, all that really counts. I never mentioned happiness, nor would I. I didn't call you here to discuss such an outmoded concept."

"Which leads to the big question in my mind," Theresa said primly, "of why we are here. Surely, Professor, it isn't to listen to this."

"Are you sure, honey?" asked Flenberg. "I thought you might be personally interested."

Theresa paused to allow Vorchek to light her cigarette, exhaled slowly, looked the Hollywood man dead in the eye and said, "Think again."

"What about all the money, the goodies?"

"I have money."

"What about me?"

"No comment."

"No matter. Do I make myself clear, Professor?"

"To a degree," Vorchek said wearily. "I presume there is some point to telling me all this. I must warn you, however, that the point escapes me."

"I'm coming to that. I've told you about my career and my life, and I've given you some idea what kind of man I am. How would you characterize me?"

"You're a big, worthless, empty phony," Theresa cried, "only you're too stupid to know it. You're a joke on two legs."

"Miss Delaney, please," Vorchek cautioned.

Flenberg laughed again. "She's right," he said, clearly amused. "She's almost right. I'm not a phony. I'm the real thing, just like everybody else in this rotten world, only I'm more of it. I don't try to fool myself, that's all. I'm rotten to the core; I always have been, always will be; and, if anything, I'm getting worse. I know all too well that there's nothing wholesome, decent, sane, or valid in my life, and-- knowing that fact-- I revel in it. That's Jarrod Flenberg, big man, hotshot, in a nutshell."

"Very good," said Vorchek. "A most entertaining account, worthy, perhaps, of a free dinner, but little more. For some reason you persist in ranting about yourself, but you do not say why. If this be all--"

"It isn't," Flenberg grunted, "not by half. I've laid the groundwork; now I get to the heart of the matter. I've told you what a crummy guy I am. I'm telling you that I know it. I'm perfectly aware of what a vacuous travesty I am. I state for the record that my life is without value. I'm a virtually soulless human being, and I deserve whatever I've got coming to me, and what I've got coming is... punishment."

"Why don't you just straighten up?" Theresa demanded.

"Because I don't want to do so," Flenberg replied. "I love what I am, I embrace it, and I deserve to suffer eternal torment for it. You see how simple it is? I'm a bad boy, and I can't pretend otherwise. I won't. Instead, I intend to see to it that I pay for my-- crimes, if you will-- certainly my moral failures. Anton, buddy, you can be instrumental in making that happen."

"Nodding acquaintances address me as Professor Vorchek; nor am I your 'buddy'. I regret that your achievements have failed to satisfy you, but that is none of my business. You should not be talking to me; rather, you should find yourself a priest."

"I must find myself a god," Flenberg corrected. "It must be the right god, though, the real thing for real people like me. I won't waste time on children's stories of atonement and salvation. All educated people know that Jehovah is a tall tale, a puppet manipulated by human cunning for human ends. That notion is an empty shell."

"Says who?" Theresa snapped.

"Says everybody who counts. Also, I feel it in my heart. On the other hand, I've come to realize that there is a true god, a god who can speak to me, and my whole life has now come down to finding Him. Vorchek, you must help me." Gone, suddenly, was the arrogance in Flenberg's voice. "You know things, things other people don't know. I've asked around, tried to locate the man who could point the way, the man with the big mind and broad ideas. You are that man."

"I, a lowly professor at a small college of no great repute?"

"I'm telling you I've investigated. You're keen on weird stuff, you research phenomena other scholars won't look at. Also, there's nothing fake about you. In your own tiny circle-- and I don't mean academia-- you're considered the expert." Flenberg paused, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Vorchek, I seek Blug."

The professor did not reply for a long moment. Then he muttered, "I did not expect that name to arise in the course of this discussion."

"Now you know why I came to you."

"I suppose I do."

"I don't," said Theresa. "What is 'Blug'? Is that someone, or something?"

"He is everything," said the director. "He is the true ruler of the universe, who reigns from his throne in the Black Swamp at the center of creation. He is my god; He has called to me, and I choose of my own free will to go to him. You, Professor, must get me there."

"To the Black Swamp? You overestimate me. Perhaps your knowledge of geography is superior to my own."

"Don't patronize me, Vorchek!" Flenberg growled. "I know very well we aren't talking about a place that can be found on a map of this world, or any world. I've done my homework, you see."

"He-- called to you-- did he?"

"In a dream; a vision, it was. This was years ago, but I've never forgotten a single detail. I found myself in a place of utter darkness, and yet light seemed to radiate from me, so that I could see nearby objects. I was splashing through a shallow, weedy marsh, on what might have been a path enclosed by denser growth, damp moldering trees and fat, clinging shrubs. I could smell the place, smell it in a dream. The odor was like a compound of everything detestable and unclean, the reeking odor of decay, of death, of excrement, of vomit. The liquid, oily slush underfoot teemed with vermin, and larger, shadowy creatures rustled, not quite out of sight, among the nearer bushes. I was terrified, yet nothing could have prevented my pushing on-- and I seemed to know where I was going. The trail served to an extent, but there came occasions when I would deliberately-- without conscious thought-- crash my way painfully through the dank growths. It was as if I followed a homing beacon.

"The sense of delicious horror mounted as I proceeded, and grew extreme when I began to hear the sounds. I detected a thumping and bumping, and a grumbling of many voices-- low, unpleasant voices-- gabbling in rough unison, and punctuated by shrill cries. It sounded like a crowd in motion. I passed through a wall of bent, twisted trees and beheld a freakish sight: a clearing, a wide circle of stinking muck, and within the circle a small island, a dryer patch of ground where a vast, unimaginable horde of monstrosities swayed and danced and chanted around a dimly seen central mass. I waded through the ooze, without the slightest hesitation, climbed up onto the island and joined them. There, in close proximity to the beings, I quivered with disgust and loathing; I felt nauseated, and in one or more fashions I think I soiled myself; yet I joined them willingly.

"They weren't human. Many-- most of them-- might once have been so, but except for their general outlines all had long ago departed from any state of passable humanity. I thought they'd been dead for centuries, then dug up and animated-- that gives you some idea what they were like-- but whatever had happened to them, they were far gone down the road to decay. Some were dry and brittle, others as liquid as the swamp. They jostled one another, and as they did so bits and pieces broke or sloughed off. They kept on dancing, however, and through their moans and their sobs they laughed. Others moved among them: things that had never been human. I can't describe them, although I remember they were curious drab vestments and bore corroded iron crowns on the sodden lumps which might have been their heads. It occurred to me then that they were priests. I still think they were."

Flenberg paused to swallow dryly and clear his throat. Perspiration beaded his brow. "A voice called to me from the dark mass ahead. Funny that I still couldn't see it properly; I was close enough. This voice, if I can call it that, this dripping filth in my brain said, 'Jarrod, come to Me.' I pushed blindly through the dancers, I trampled them down, I crushed them into squirming jelly beneath my feet, in my haste to approach. I beheld a kind of throne, a high-backed platform composed of crude, unmentionable items, and upon that throne squatted a vast, black, amorphous mass of degenerate matter, a ghastly blob so foul that it made the rest of the swamp and its denizens seem clean and wholesome by comparison. It was the concentrated essence of everything nasty and putrid and indecent in the world-- the culmination and the source-- the beneficiary and the First Cause of squalor. Then I knew. Perhaps that voice of trash explained. This was great Blug, the God of the Black Swamp, the true ruler of that obnoxious, detestable jest we call life.

"And I went closer. I spied, protruding from His dark, heaving, gelatinous corpus, numerous-- practically uncountable-- swellings of greasy pale substance, which pulsed and throbbed invitingly. I recognized them for what they were. They were teats, only they moved, expanding and contracting in rhythm like stubby fat worms. I recognized them, and I knew what was expected of me. I knew what I must do. I wanted it, I wanted that more than anything in my life, more than life itself. I wanted it... and then I woke up."

After a long, shocked silence, broken only by the routine noises from the surrounding restaurant, Theresa managed to gasp, "Yucko."

"Well said, Miss Delaney," observed Vorchek. To Flenberg: "Is that all?"

"That's my vision, in its entirety." Their host produced a monogrammed handkerchief and mopped his face. "As I said, that was years ago. Since then I've devoted every spare moment to learning of the sordid reality behind what I saw and experienced. I've done the research. I know exactly what it means."

"You're still one up on me," said Theresa.

"What about you, Professor?"

"I am sorry to admit, that I do understand."

"That's fine," said Flenberg. "We're operating on the same level. I've got to get back to the Black Swamp. That's all I have left. I've tried on my own, persistently-- via meditation, altered states, dream therapy-- and I can't do it alone." He sighed. "It always feels tantalizingly close, but it never happens. You can do it, though. You can get me there."

"You have in mind a form of physical transference," Vorchek thought aloud, in a tone he more often utilized in the lecture hall. "A removal of the cellular body-- complete with its thoughts, memories, and personality-- from the material universe into what some call the Invisible World. Not a blind, exploratory transfer, however; in this case the spiritual location or geography is all important."

"Of course it is," Flenberg snarled. "I couldn't care less about cosmic joyriding. I don't want to go somewhere; I want to go there. Can you swing it? Is it possible?"

"Very little is impossible. It is a tricky business, however. Breaking through the dimensions can be accomplished-- Miss Delaney and I have undertaken experiments along those lines--"

"It's not something to look forward to," she pointed out, "if my experience is any guide."

"But it is doable. I would have to carry out a great deal more work on the aspect of precision. Which begs one very important question, Mr. Flenberg: why should I? What is in it for me?"

"Fifty thousand dollars," came the reply, "cash, in advance, plus whatever you need for expenses. Agree, and you'll have the money tomorrow. I'll have to trust you, and I'm pretty sure I can. I've interviewed just about everybody who knows you. Fifty thousand, Professor."

"We don't need the money," Theresa said. "I'm rich. If you don't want to fool with this, Professor, I'll write you a check for that amount."

"Miss Delaney, your bountiful generosity has made it possible for me to continue my advanced studies, and for that I am grateful. On the other hand, I would never want it to be said that I am living off of you. When I can, I prefer to earn my way. Mr. Flenberg, for reasons that have nothing to do with you, I accept."

The director sagged in his seat. "Good. Thanks. You'll get your money pronto. I'll stay in touch, and I expect you to keep me informed. I'll be waiting, and I'll be ready."

"I'm ready for dessert," said Theresa.

In his private laboratory, situated in back of his old house on the high hill overlooking the desert, Professor Vorchek busied himself, in stained white smock, with the novel mechanical apparatus which had occupied his attention since that night at the restaurant. Theresa lounged nearby, overdressed for the situation, leaning over a heavily laden work table as he fiddled with circuits and wiring. At intervals he would demand a certain tool or a specialized reference book; she would provide it. They had been buried in the laboratory now for several days, with infrequent breaks, Vorchek happily, Theresa somewhat less so.

"I don't get this Blug business, anyway," she was saying. "Flenberg is just a goon, with too much money and too high an opinion of himself. I don't see why you need take him so seriously."

"Miss Delaney, please minimize the distractions," suggested Vorchek, "and hand me that particle meter." She did that, with a mounting frown. "Thank you. Now, plug in the cord."

"Why can't I know things, too?" she whined. "You're supposed to be the professors' professor. Teach me!"

"It would take too long. I am at a critical stage."

"Every stage is critical, according to you. Give me a capsule summary."

"These tiresome impositions," Vorchek rumbled, but he laid down his tools and faced his companion. "All right, my dear. I've told you that Flenberg is not a fool-- at least not a fool of the garden variety-- and that his scheme is, theoretically, capable of operationalization. That should be enough for you; however, if it will further your education, I shall make clear to you just how strange his intentions really are."

"That's more like it," Theresa replied. She plopped herself into a seat, like a good student (which she could be, when interest compelled her), lit a cigarette and waited expectantly.

"Of all the myths and legends of olden times," began Vorchek, "few have proved more persistent or universal than the myth concerning Blug, the great god who dwells in the mystical Black Swamp. It is strange that this concept should be so pervasive, for it offers none of the commonplace attractions of conventional religion. In Blug the true believer finds no hope, no glory, no consideration, no salvation. Despite this, Blug worship has been traced all across the Earth, throughout the ages, in definite, recognizable forms, with surprisingly little variation. Although never establishing a broad cultural foothold anywhere, the myth has endured, whispered devoutly into one ear after another, with its logical substratum remaining intact. You may live a long life and never hear of it, but it is always there. Mr. Flenberg, a man of boundless resources, has tapped into that covert intellectual stream, and has learned sufficiently to realize that it is more than the latest dark twist on New Age nonsense.

"Indications, hints, may be found in the most ancient of records. It was, however, a rather late Egyptian sorcerer, Artocris, who first wrote extensively of this matter, during the reign of the Ptolemies. His findings are contained in his shunned work, The Seven Gates of Hell, as it came to be called during the Dark Ages. Most scholars prefer the original title, The Substance of Life As Revealed to Artocris. That is by the way. I read his volume as a young man but, except for the purpose of acquiring background information, never followed up on it. It did not occur to me in those days that I should ever require such morbid knowledge. Lately, of course, I have thoroughly refreshed my education, reading everything I can get my hands on, and I have corresponded with some impressive gentlemen who have paid more heed to this subject. Apparently I have been missing out.

"So, genuine research begins with Artocris. He deduces, from personal observation, that the universe is a vile, terrible, and toxic realm, that the bedrock of living existence is horror and nausea. Make no mistake, Miss Delaney: he lays it on thickly; I'm cleaning this up for your sake. His first chapter consists of a catalogue of every crime, disease, atrocity, and disaster which can befall mankind, or living entities in general. Then, working from his first principles, Artocris concludes that this unbearable universe is in the clutches of, is controlled by, a supreme god who approves of all this nastiness. It stands to reason, so he assures us, that the intentions of the maker can only be understood by examining his fruits. The Egyptian actually employs a phrase which could be translated as the old standard tag, 'Ye shall know Him by His works'.

"Blug, we are told, is the universal Lord of Filth and Decay, the Master of Depravity and Squalor, who derives joy from everything foul and degrading. Those who 'believe on Him', as the expression goes, are the lowliest specimens of humanity, those who are utterly convinced of their own degeneracy, beyond hope or pity, and secretly craving to be treated according to their dim lights. The mindsets of such pathetic people may not be understood by you or I, Miss Delaney, but they are out there; we recently enjoyed the dubious pleasure of conversing with one. I am convinced that Flenberg is the genuine article. The others must be similar. Blug's acolytes are not allowed the luxury of pleasant illusions; they know that they are lowly and worthless, that their God deems them so, and that He desires nothing but their destruction, preferably by their own hands. To the believer, the greatest human good-- the only good-- lies in finding one's way to Blug, abasing oneself at His feet, and seeking justice at His hands. The Egyptian leaves open the question of what that justice entails: the questing soul finds oblivion, or is devoured by his Creator, or in some horrendous fashion becomes one with Him. Whatever the mechanism, the outcome is not a happy one.

"Having logically established the existence and sovereignty of this deity, Artocris set out to find Him. He writes of his travels through seven magical gates-- openings in the space-time continuum, I would call them-- and what he discovered on the other side. Each journey is a matter of interest, but through one of those gates Artocris claims to have located the Black Swamp. He describes the place in terms which are familiar now to you, thanks to Mr. Flenberg's account of his dream or vision: the stinking ooze, the rotting growths, scuttling parasites and grotesque creatures, and the central island where Blug holds eternal court. Artocris is strikingly reticent about the doomed dancers and the physical form of Blug Himself, but then, the writer had no desire to destroy himself, and tells us that he maintained a reasonable distance. He saw enough: the dead-alive souls of the believers, the venturing near of the brave to a half seen mass; and then, he recalls or will recount no more of the scene.

"Such is the tale of Artocris. Like many reputed wizards of the elder times, he is remarkably stingy with his practical lore. He never quite gets around to explaining how he found the right gate and passed through it. That is our specific, money-making goal, so I have had to turn to other worthy sources. I believe I have found the answer in a more recent author, the wise and evil Jacob Bleek. That mage of all mages, during his extraordinarily long life (I assume he is dead now, though records are vague and contradictory), wrote about every bizarre and magical topic you can imagine; that I can imagine, for that matter. He was well aware of Blug worship, and in his infamous Black Book addressed the issue on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, my copy of Bleek is sadly incomplete. I have never been able to track down a whole copy; nor, I gather, has anyone else, at least no one who will admit to it. Still, what survives in the material available to me indicates an answer, one which has led to my current work.

"In a ghoulishly obnoxious chapter, oddly entitled 'Those Who Drink of Blug', Bleek attempts to chart a course for those despairing mortals who would dare the journey. He says little of magic gates or spells; Bleek can be rather modern in his thinking and writing style. He states that certain rare crystals, in combination with other precious elements-- which are desperately difficult to get hold of now, and must have been virtually impossible to acquire in his day-- will turn the trick, by opening up vistas of other worlds and dimensions. It is not quite along the lines that we have attempted before, but close. Utilizing his process, he claims, one can peer into these forbidden realms through cracks in space and, if one be bold, the cracks may be sufficiently enlarged to allow bodily passage. Bleek precisely identifies the dimensional stream down which one must voyage in order to reach the so-called throne of Blug-- which makes his knowledge fabulously useful to me-- and admits that, while he chose not to undertake that harrowing journey himself, he did send several test subjects through that time-space gap, and recorded the results.

"Most of them did not come back. Two returned, one of them in an incomplete state, from which he rapidly expired. The surviving subject came back in his entirety, unless one counts his mental condition, which had tragically disintegrated. Bleek got his story from the man, but it was so broken and disjointed that it did not materially add to what Artocris had reported in a former age.

"Nevertheless, I have most of Jacob Bleek's analysis before me, and armed with his wisdom and the fruits of his quasi-scientific delvings, I have made a stab at living up to the terms of our contract with Jarrod Flenberg. This machine, which you see taking shape here, is the practical result."

Vorchek referred to the spidery apparatus of crystal rods and wedges, embedded within a complicated matrix of spiraled wiring and metal circuit boxes. "The power source is atomic," he pointed out. "I would love to know how Bleek ever deduced the existence of such energy, much less put it to work for him. He must have done, and I expect that it will function for me."

"I don't care for that," Theresa expostulated, examining the contraption with distaste. "It sounds horribly dangerous. Surely, Professor, you don't intend to test it on yourself?"

"Lord, no," Vorchek exclaimed. "Once it is completed, I shall guarantee that the mechanisms function. There will be no field tests, however. Mr. Flenberg is the only man who shall utilize it in the manner for which it was designed. That is, if he does not abandon his scheme, which still might be a possibility. Anyway, I have included a cunning fail-safe feature which will prevent future unpleasantness on the part of the unwary. This machine will operate, fully, only once, and then it will irretrievably break down. I will make clear to our generous employer that he gets just one shot at it."

"Why does he need a machine? If these sickening stories be true, many people have just-- well, gone-- gone on their own, by wishing themselves there, I guess. He thinks he's done it. Why can't he keep wishing until it happens again?"

"That is why he is paying us the big bucks, my dear; to remove the element of chance. Perhaps Blug enjoys toying with his victims, making life harder for them. No matter how wretched the quest, it should not be too easy. Flenberg wants it easy, and he is willing to pay for a smooth ride."

"Maybe he will chicken out," Theresa mused. "Flenberg's a blowhard; I spotted that right away. It might amuse him to dabble with such craziness, but I can't believe he'd be stupid enough to carry it out."

On the contrary, as the weeks passed Flenberg grew more insistent, demanding by mail and telephone to hear of Vorchek's progress, and almost begging that the experiment be completed immediately. Toward the end he became frantic, and the professor could almost bring himself to pity a man who so desired self-destruction or worse. "I can't stand it any more!" Flenberg screamed at Vorchek one night over the telephone. "You have no idea what's it's like for me out here. All seems useless; getting out of bed in the afternoon"-- those were his words-- "is torture. Give me a date, or I can't function much longer."

"The device will be ready when it is finished."

"Not good enough! I tell you, I'm falling to pieces. I'm currently working on a big movie project, the biggest yet. It's garbage, of course, but it ought to be a gold mine. You can guess, Professor, how little I really care for that, but I want to get it done anyway, want it badly. It's my swan song, my last trivial statement to a pointless world. I want to rub their noses in it, laughing as I go. I can do it, I think, I can hold out, but I can't go on until I'm sure you'll come through for me. Promise me!"

"You have my word," said Vorchek. "My project will work. Be patient a little longer, sir. I am very close now."

Dozens of adjustments remained to be made on what he styled the "Bleek Machine"-- and what Theresa called, with more feeling, "that creepy gizmo"-- but Vorchek adjusted merrily away, and before long he was able to report his satisfaction with the final result. He notified Flenberg by telegram that the machine was ready, and invited the movie king to come to the desert laboratory, at his convenience, to make his peculiar personal arrangements. The professor received a registered express letter the next day:

"It is done? Good, it's time. I've almost got this ridiculous movie off my back, and then I'm all set. I can't tear myself away from here, though. Travel now doesn't suit me. Bring my machine out here at once. Enclosed is an additional check for $10,000 to ease your way. Come immediately. Bring the thing straight to the studio. Don't keep me waiting. I can taste it already."

The extra ten thousand dollars overcame a considerable portion of Vorchek's irritation. In order to collect the utmost data from the process, he had intended to carry out the experiment in a controlled laboratory setting, with monitors operating. As much as he desired this, he realized that he was working for hire, and that he would have to bend his rules. That being the case, he quickly responded to Flenberg, agreeing to the condition while demanding one of his own. He insisted on a slight delay until the director could send a certain item of equipment for inclusion into the Bleek Machine. Flenberg went berserk, as testified to by a forthcoming late night call.

"I have no need of that!" he screamed.

"I do," said the professor.

Flenberg soon calmed down to a degree and grudgingly accepted the new terms, after asking several questions which Vorchek artfully declined to answer. The equipment arrived by private van, the professor incorporated the requested item into his device, and two days later he and Theresa shipped the completed apparatus to Hollywood, where they appeared in person after traveling by airplane.

Work had, meanwhile, been wrapped up on Flenberg's latest cinematic extravaganza. The cavernous sound stage, where the final scenes were filmed, stood empty, and he had the big crated object taken straight into it.

"There must be no disturbances while the machine is running," Vorchek told him. "That is most important. I do not care for such a public place."

"This studio is my private property for a few more days," Flenberg snapped. He looked older, more worn; his edginess had increased. Tension had been eating at him, and he was apparently close to collapse. "No one gets in without my say-so, and they won't get that."

"That is acceptable," replied Vorchek. "I will set up the machine for you. Everything will be in place. At the moment of your choosing, all you will have to do is throw a switch and sit back. Then the machine will take over. At that time you must be alone. No one else can be within range of the energy field-- a diameter of a hundred feet or so-- or the process may fail. Do you understand?"

"Loud and clear. Set it up."

"As you wish. Miss Delaney, this will take some doing. Would you give me a hand?"

"Yes, Professor."

Flenberg stood aside as they worked, staring as if at a far horizon. "It is coming," he said gently. "At last, bliss; the bliss of consummate degradation."

"Indeed, Mr. Abernathy, I quite understand your position," Vorchek was saying, "but it puzzles me that you should travel all the way out here, into the wilderness, just to speak with Miss Delaney and I of this matter. I do not see how I can contribute."

"It's no trouble," replied the addressed gentleman, who sat with his host and hostess in Vorchek's cozy den, the professor's black cat Claudia rubbing curiously between his shins. He exhaled a puff from one of Vorchek's expensive cigars. "I flew into Phoenix and rented a car. I'll admit that was something of a drive. I was sure I'd lost my way."

"On the contrary, you have found it, but, perhaps, to no purpose."

"More tea, Mr. Abernathy?" offered Theresa, who poured without waiting for his answer.

"Thank you. Ah, good little kitty; she takes to my trousers. Off you go. Well, that I would undertake such efforts may surprise you-- it isn't often that a studio executive finds himself in such unusual surroundings-- but Flenberg is important to us, and since his disappearance I've grown somewhat concerned. He left hanging numerous administrative matters, which don't necessarily require his approval, but could stand his attention. I thought, Professor Vorchek, that you would have some idea of his whereabouts."

"Why would you think so?"

"I know, from documents, that you had extensive dealings with him in the months before he vanished. Large sums changed hands-- the financial records are most irregular-- I can't quite make out the connection. You built something for him, a machine, which I found left over on the sound stage. Some kind of special effects machine, I take it?"

"It was intended to produce special effects."

"I don't know that he used it. Fortunately he finished his film before he went. I attended to post-production editing myself."

"What did you think of the movie?" asked Theresa.

Abernathy chuckled. "Between you and me? It's a piece of crap, like all his movies, just a bunch of noisy computer images strung together, and tied up with a collection of silly pop songs. His usual result, but the video game crowd love the stuff."

"Who stars in this one?" she persisted.

"If you'll pardon me, I haven't time to go into that at the moment. I really do want to track down Flenberg."

"Have you involved the police?" asked Vorchek.

"Absolutely not!" cried Abernathy. "This isn't the first time he's taken off on us. He's most likely on a binge aboard a yacht wandering the Mediterranean, or some such foolishness. He's never remained out of touch so long, however, and the last time I saw him his behavior was strange... stranger than usual. Also, I'd planned to cobble up another movie deal with him, and I can't do that until I hear from him, can I?"

"I can't imagine the police being interested," Theresa said sullenly.

"Of course not, but I am. Professor Vorchek, have you no idea where Flenberg is right now?"

"I can tell you," replied the professor, "that I have no idea."

"You could tell him that," Theresa muttered under her breath, "if you were lying through your teeth." Vorchek nudged her into silence.

"That's it, then," sighed Abernathy. After a lingering pause he went on, "Professor, about that machine: I can't tell from the documentation who's property it is. Do you want it back?"

"That would please me. It is nonfunctional now, but I may be able to do something with it."

"Over my dead body," Theresa whispered.

"More importantly, the apparatus contains a roll of sixteen millimeter film, which Mr. Flenberg should have exposed for me during the operation of the machine.. I desire that, as quickly as you can get it to me."

"The film!" Abernathy nodded and shook a finger in the air, as if remembering a minor point which he had forgotten. "Yes, I'm familiar with that, although I didn't appreciate its significance. I'm sorry to tell you this, but I had it destroyed."

"Did you?" Vorchek looked suddenly crestfallen.

"What film?" Theresa wondered. "Professor, I never heard of this."

"I failed to mention it to you, my dear. It was all part of the experiment. Mr. Flenberg sent out a movie camera, which I set up inside the Bleek machine. Mr. Abernathy, you might think of it as a sort of test footage."

"That's exactly what I did think," came the reply. "That being the case, I can assure you the test was a failure. The film didn't develop properly, or for whatever reason didn't come out right. There wasn't much to see."

"You viewed it yourself?"

"I did. I thought it might be footage related to his latest movie. It plainly wasn't that, and didn't appear to be good for anything. It was just crazy stuff, so I junked it."

"Good sir," Vorchek said earnestly, starting forward, "you would be doing me a gigantic favor if you recalled, in all possible detail, what you saw on that reel of film."

"If it matters that much to you--" Abernathy hesitated, studying the eagerness of his host, and something other than eagerness in Theresa. "I recollect it well enough. It wasn't professional footage by any means. It looked crude, amateurish, grainy, and very dark-- I mainly see in my mind the darkness-- as if badly lighted, or using natural light. I knew it was test footage because no name actors appeared in it. The star, you might say, was Flenberg himself. Under those poor viewing conditions I could barely recognize him.

"Apparently this was a location shoot, for the scenery was like nothing we'd put together on stage. Flenberg-- usually seen from behind-- was walking swiftly through wet, broken terrain. There were endless shots of that, all close up and fuzzy, without much in the way of detail, although I noticed images of damp, dripping plants. Could he have filmed this in the rain? That might explain the scene, and the poor conditions.

"Suddenly there came a long shot. The camera-- which held steady throughout; none of his typical handheld tripe-- opened upon space, a space of pitch darkness, at first. Then I realized I was looking at a crowd scene, very poorly done; not up to his standard, I would say. There were lots of people in a small area, but I couldn't make out who they were or what they were doing. They seemed to be running around aimlessly, going nowhere in particular. Flenberg dived into the group at a run, and the image followed him, but I still didn't get a decent look at the others. Maybe it was a trick lens; they looked distorted. I couldn't make much of that. By this time I was ready to give up anyway."

"The psychic capture actually worked," mumbled Vorchek.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"There isn't much more. This was a short film. Flenberg pushed through those people, rather roughly, and made his way to a black wall or mound. The picture was especially bad here. Due to a trick of the light, the black mound seemed to move; or maybe it was an effect. If so, it didn't impress me.

"If Flenberg was trying to make a point, I haven't the slightest what it was. I could barely make out the finale. I caught a glimpse of his face: he was rapt in ecstasy; obviously having a good time. He got down on hands and knees before the mound, and crawled to it. I could see more detail; the shaky mound wasn't-- what's the word?-- homogenous, that's it. There were big, damp, whitish bumps all over it. I thought they were growing out of it, getting bigger as he raised his head to them. And then-- this mystifies me-- he did something weird. Flenberg stretched forward-- I'm sure I saw this correctly-- and took one of those odd bumps in his mouth. The camera held on him while he appeared to suck on that ugly thing, and then the image blanked out, and the reel ended."

Theresa sprang to her feet, and without a word to either man ran from the room. They stared after her, until Vorchek smiled and said in his most suave manner, "Without warning, nature will call. Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. You have done me a great service. I will detain you no longer."

"That was helpful to you?" Abernathy asked as he rose.

"Indubitably. I regret that I am not able to aid you to the same degree. Good luck on your search, however. Be sure to give my regards to Mr. Flenberg, when next you see him."