Robert Sheckley - Ghost V

G h o s t  V

by Robert Sheckley


"He's reading our sign now," Gregor said, his
long bony face pressed against the peephole in the
office door.
     "Let me see," Arnold said.
     Gregor pushed him back. "He's going to knock -
no, he's changed his mind. He's leaving."
     Arnold returned to his desk and laid out
another game of solitaire. Gregor kept watch at
the peephole.
     They had constructed the peephole out of
sheer boredom three months after forming their
partnership and renting the office. During that time,
the AAA Ace Planet Decontamination Service had
had no business - in spite of being first in the telephone
book. Planetary decontamination was an old, established
line, completely monopolized by two large outfits. It
was discouraging for a small new firm run by two young
men with big ideas and a lot of unpaid-for equipment.
     "He's coming back," Gregor called. "*Quick* -
look busy and important!"
     Arnold swept his cards into a drawer and just
finished buttoning his lab gown when the knock came.
     Their visitor was a short, bald, tired-looking
man. He stared at them dubiously.
     "You decontaminate planets?"
     "That is correct, sir," Gregor said, pushing
away a pile of papers and shaking the man's moist hand.
"I am Richard Gregor. This is my partner, Doctor Frank
Arnold. "
     Arnold, impressively garbed in a white lab gown
and black horn-rimmed glasses, nodded absently and
resumed his examination of a row of ancient, crusted test
tubes.
     "Kindly be seated, Mister - "
     "Ferngraum."
     "Mr. Ferngraum. I think we can handle just about
anything you require," Gregor said heartily. "Flora or
fauna control, cleansing atmosphere, purifying water
supply, sterilizing soil, stability testing, volcano and
earthquake control - anything you need to make a planet fit
for human habitation."
     Ferngraum still looked dubious. "I'm going to
level with you. I've got a problem planet on my hands."
     Gregor nodded confidently. "Problems are our business."
     "I'm a freelance real-estate broker," Ferngraum
said. "You know how it works - buy a planet, sell a planet,
everyone makes a living. Usually I stick with the scrub
worlds and let my buyers do their decontaminating. But a
few months ago I had a chance to buy a real quality planet -
took it right out from under the noses of the big operators."
     Ferngraum mopped his forehead unhappily.
     "It's a beautiful place," he continued with no
enthusiasm whatsoever. "Average temperature of
seventy-one degrees. Mountainous, but fertile. Waterfalls,
rainbows, all that sort of thing. And no fauna at all."
     "Sounds perfect," Gregor said. "Microorganisms?"
     "Nothing dangerous."
     "Then what's wrong with the place?"
     Ferngraum looked embarrassed. "Maybe you heard
about it. The Government catalogue number is RJC-5. But
everyone else calls it 'Ghost V.'"
     Gregor raised an eyebrow. "Ghost" was an odd
nickname for a planet, but he had heard odder. After all,
you had to call them something. There were thousands of
planet-bearing suns within spaceship range, many of them
inhabitable or potentially inhabitable. And there were plenty
of people from the civilized worlds who wanted to colonize
them. Religious sects, political minorities, philosophic groups -
or just plain pioneers, out to make a fresh start.
     "I don't believe I've heard of it," Gregor said.
     Ferngraum squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
"I should have listened to my wife. But no - I was gonna be a
big operator. Paid ten times my usual price for Ghost V and
now I'm stuck with it."
     "But what's *wrong* with it?" Gregor asked.
     "It seems to be haunted," Ferngraum said in despair.
     Ferngraum had radar-checked his planet, then leased
it to a combine of farmers from Dijon VI. The eight-man
advance guard landed and, within a day, began to broadcast
garbled reports about demons, ghouls, vampires, dinosaurs
and other inimical fauna.
     When a relief ship came for them, all were dead.
An autopsy report stated that the gashes, cuts and marks on
their bodies could indeed have been made by almost anything,
even demons, ghouls, vampires or dinosaurs, if such existed.
     Ferngraum was fined for improper decontamination.
The farmers dropped their lease. But he managed to lease it to
a group of sun worshipers from Opal II.
     The sun worshipers were cautious. They sent their
equipment, but only three men accompanied it, to scout out
trouble. The men set up camp, unpacked and declared the place
a paradise. They radioed the home group to come at once - then,
suddenly, there was a wild scream and radio silence.
     A patrol ship went to Ghost V, buried the three
mangled bodies and departed in five minutes flat.
     "And that did it," Ferngraum said. "Now no one will
touch it at any price. Space crews refuse to land on it. And I
still don't know what happened."
     He sighed deeply and looked at Gregor. "It's your
baby, if you want it."
     Gregor and Arnold excused themselves and went
into the anteroom.
     Arnold whooped at once, "We've got a job!"
     "Yeah," Gregor said, "but what a job."
     "We wanted the tough ones," Arnold pointed out.
"If we lick this, we're established - to say nothing of the
profit we'll make on a percentage basis."
     "You seem to forget," Gregor said, "I'm the one who
has to actually land on the planet. All you do is sit here
and interpret my data."
     "That's the way we set it up," Arnold reminded
him. "I'm the research department - you're the troubleshooter.
Remember?"
     Gregor remembered. Ever since childhood, he
had been sticking his neck out while Arnold stayed home
and told him why he was sticking his neck out.
     "I don't like it," he said.
     "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
     "No, of course not."
     "Well, we can handle anything else. Faint heart
ne'er won fair profit." Gregor shrugged his shoulders. They
went back to Ferngraum.
     In half an hour, they had worked out their terms -
a large percentage of future development profits if they
succeeded, a forfeiture clause if they failed.
     Gregor walked to the door with Ferngraum. "By
the way, sir," he asked, "how did you happen to come to us?"
     "No one else would handle it," Ferngraum said,
looking extremely pleased with himself. "Good luck."


Three days later, Gregor was aboard a rickety space
freighter, bound for Ghost V. He spent his time studying
reports on the two colonization attempts and reading
survey after survey on supernatural phenomena.
     They didn't help at all. No trace of animal life had
been found on Ghost V. And no proof of the existence of
supernatural creatures had been discovered anywhere in the
galaxy.
     Gregor pondered this, then checked his weapons as
the freighter spiraled into the region of Ghost V. He was
carrying an arsenal large enough to start a small war and win
it.
     *If* he could find something to shoot at ...
     The captain of the freighter brought his ship to
within several thousand feet of the smiling green surface
of the planet, but no closer. Gregor parachuted his equipment
to the site of the last two camps, shook hands with the captain
and 'chuted himself down.
     He landed safely and looked up. The freighter was
streaking into space as though the furies were after it.
     He was alone on Ghost V.
     After checking his equipment for breakage, he
radioed Arnold that he had landed safely. Then, with drawn
blaster, he inspected the sun worshipers' camp.
     They had set themselves up at the base of a
mountain, beside a small, crystal-clear lake. The prefabs
were in perfect condition.
     No storm had ever damaged them, because Ghost V
was blessed with a beautifully even climate. But they looked
pathetically lonely.
     Gregor made a careful check of one. Clothes were
still neatly packed in cabinets, pictures were hung on the
wall and there was even a curtain on one window. In a corner
of the room, a case of toys had been opened for the arrival of
the main party's children.
     A water pistol, a top and a bag of marbles had
spilled on to the floor.
     Evening was coming, so Gregor dragged his equipment
into the prefab and made his preparations. He rigged an alarm
system and adjusted it so finely that even a roach would set it
off. He put up a radar alarm to scan the immediate area. He
unpacked his arsenal, laying the heavy rifles within easy reach,
but keeping a hand-blaster in his belt. Then, satisfied, he ate a
leisurely supper.
     Outside, the evening drifted into night. The warm
and dreamy land grew dark. A gentle breeze ruffled the surface
of the lake and rustled silkily in the tall grass.
     It was all very peaceful.
     The settlers must have been hysterical types, he
decided. They had probably panicked and killed each other.
     After checking his alarm system one last time,
Gregor threw his clothes on to a chair, turned off the lights
and climbed into bed. The room was illuminated by starlight,
stronger than moonlight on Earth. His blaster was under his
pillow. All was well with the world.
     He had just begun to doze off when he became
aware that he was not alone in the room.
     That was impossible. His alarm system hadn't
gone off. The radar was still humming peacefully.
     Yet every nerve in his body was shrieking alarm.
He eased the blaster out and looked around.
     A man was standing in a corner of the room.
     There was no time to consider how he had come.
Gregor aimed the blaster and said, "Okay, raise your hands,"
in a quiet, resolute voice.
     The figure didn't move.
     Gregor's finger tightened on the trigger, then
suddenly relaxed. He recognized the man. It was his own
clothing, heaped on a chair, distorted by the starlight and
his own imagination.
     He grinned and lowered the blaster. The pile of
clothing began to stir faintly. Gregor felt a faint breeze
from the window and continued to grin.
     Then the pile of clothing stood up, stretched
itself and began to walk toward him purposefully.
     Frozen to his bed, he watched the disembodied clothing,
assembled roughly in manlike form, advance on him.
     When it was halfway across the room and its
empty sleeves were reaching for him, he began to blast.
     And kept on blasting, for the rags and remnants
slithered toward him as if filled with a life of their own.
Flaming bits of cloth crowded toward his face and a belt
tried to coil around his legs. He had to burn everything to
ashes before the attack stopped.
     When it was over, Gregor turned on every light
he could find. He brewed a pot of coffee and poured in
most of a bottle of brandy. Somehow, he resisted an urge
to kick his useless alarm system to pieces. Instead, he
radioed his partner.
     "That's very interesting," Arnold said, after
Gregor had brought him up to date. "Animation! Very
interesting indeed."
     "I hoped it would amuse you." Gregor answered
bitterly. After several shots of brandy, he was beginning
to feel abandoned and abused.
     "Did anything else happen?"
     "Not yet."
     "Well, take care. I've got a theory. Have to do
some research on it. By the way, some crazy bookie is
laying five to one against you."
     "Really?"
     "Yeah. I took a piece of it."
     "Did you bet for me or against me?" Gregor asked, worried.
     "For you, of course," Arnold said indignantly.
"We're partners, aren't we?"
     They signed off and Gregor brewed another pot of
coffee. He was not planning on any more sleep that night. It
was comforting to know that Arnold had bet on him. But, then,
Arnold was a notoriously bad gambler.


By daylight, Gregor was able to get a few hours of
fitful sleep. In the early afternoon he awoke, found some
clothes and began to explore the sun worshipers' camp.
     Toward evening, he found something. On the wall
of a prefab, the word "*Tgasklit*" had been hastily scratched.
*Tgasklit.* It meant nothing to him, but he relayed it to
Arnold at once.
     He then searched his prefab carefully, set up
more lights, tested the alarm system and recharged his blaster.
     Everything seemed in order. With regret, he
watched the sun go down, hoping he would live to see it rise
again. Then he settled himself in a comfortable chair and tried
to do some constructive thinking.
     There was no animal life here - nor were there
any walking plants, intelligent rocks or giant brains dwelling
in the planet's core. Ghost V hadn't even a moon for someone to
hide on.
     And he couldn't believe in ghosts or demons. He
knew that supernatural happenings tended to break down,
under detailed examination, into eminently natural events.
The ones that didn't break down - stopped. Ghosts just
wouldn't stand still and let a nonbeliever examine them. The
phantom of the castle was invariably on vacation when a
scientist showed up with cameras and tape recorders.
     That left another possibility. Suppose someone
wanted this planet, but wasn't prepared to pay Ferngraum's
price? Couldn't this someone hide here, frighten the settlers,
kill them if necessary in order to drive down the price?
     That seemed logical. You could even explain the
behavior of his clothes that way. Static electricity,
correctly used, could -
     Something was standing in front of him. His
alarm system, as before, hadn't gone off.
     Gregor looked up slowly. The thing in front of him
was about ten feet tall and roughly human in shape, except
for its crocodile head. It was colored a bright crimson and
had purple stripes running lengthwise on its body. In one claw,
it was carrying a large brown can.
     "Hello," it said.
     "Hello," Gregor gulped. His blaster was on a
table only two feet away. He wondered, would the thing
attack if he reached for it?
     "What's your name?" Gregor asked, with the
calmness of deep shock.
     "I'm the Purple-striped Grabber," the thing
said. "I grab things."
     "How interesting." Gregor's hand began to creep
toward the blaster.
     "I grab things named Richard Gregor," the
Grabber told him in its bright, ingenuous voice. "And I
usually eat them in chocolate sauce." It held up the brown
can and Gregor saw that it was labelled "Smigs Chocolate -
An Ideal Sauce to Use with Gregors, Arnolds and Flynns."
     Gregor's fingers touched the butt of the
blaster. He asked, "Were you planning to eat me?"
     "Oh, yes," the Grabber said.
     Gregor had the gun now. He flipped off the
safety catch and fired. The radiant blast cascaded off
the Grabber's chest and singed the floor, the walls and
Gregor's eyebrows.
     "That won't hurt me," the Grabber explained. "I'm too tall."
     The blaster dropped from Gregor's fingers.
The Grabber leaned forward.
     "I'm not going to eat you now," the Grabber said.
     "No?" Gregor managed to enunciate.
     "No. I can only eat you tomorrow, on May first.
Those are the rules. I just came to ask a favor."
     "What is it?"
     The Grabber smiled winningly. "Would you
be a good sport and eat a few apples? They flavor the
flesh so wonderfully."
     And, with that, the striped monster vanished.
     With shaking hands, Gregor worked the radio
and told Arnold everything that had happened.
     "Hmm," Arnold said. "Purple-striped Grabber,
eh? I think that clinches it. Everything fits."
     "What fits? What is it?"
     "First, do as I say. I want to make sure."
     Obeying Arnold's instructions, Gregor unpacked
his chemical equipment and laid out a number of test tubes,
retorts and chemicals. He stirred, mixed, added and subtracted
as directed and finally put the mixture on the stove to heat.
     "Now," Gregor said, coming back to the radio,
"tell me what's going on."
     "Certainly. I looked up the word '*Tgasklit.*'
It's Opalian. It means 'many-toothed ghost.' The sun
worshipers were from Opal. What does that suggest to you?"
     "They were killed by a hometown ghost,"
Gregor replied nastily. "It must have stowed away on their
ship. Maybe there was a curse and - "
     "Calm down," Arnold said. "There aren't any
ghosts in this. Is the solution boiling yet?"
     "No. "
     "Tell me when it does. Now let's take your
animated clothing. Does it remind you of anything?"
     Gregor thought. "Well," he said, "when I was a
kid - no, that's ridiculous."
     "Out with it," Arnold insisted.
     "When I was a kid, I never left clothing on a
chair. In the dark, it always looked like a man or a dragon
or something. I guess everyone's had that experience. But it
doesn't explain - "
     "Sure it does! Remember the Purple-striped Grabber now?"
     "No. Why should l?"
     "Because you invented him! Remember? We must
have been eight or nine, you and me and Jimmy Flynn. We
invented the most horrible monster you could think of - he
was our own personal monster and he only wanted to eat you or
me or Jimmy - flavored with chocolate sauce. But only on the
first of every month, when the report cards were due. You had to
use the magic word to get rid of him."
     Then Gregor remembered and wondered how he
could ever have forgotten. How many nights had he stayed up
in fearful expectation of the Grabber? It had made bad report
cards seem very unimportant.
     "Is the solution boiling?" Arnold asked.
     "Yes," said Gregor, glancing obediently at the
stove. "What color is it?"
     "A sort of greenish blue. No, it's more blue than - "
     "Right. You can pour it out. I want to run a few
more tests, but I think we've got it licked."
     "Got *what* licked? Would you do a little explaining?"
     "It's obvious. The planet has no animal life.
There are no ghosts or at least none solid enough to kill
off a party of armed men. Hallucination was the answer, so I
looked for something that would produce it. I found plenty.
Aside from all the drugs on Earth, there are about a dozen
hallucination-forming gases in the _Catalogue of Alien Trace
Elements_. There are depressants, stimulants, stuff that'll
make you feel like a genius or an earthworm or an eagle. This
particular one corresponds to Longstead 42 in the catalogue.
It's a heavy, transparent, odorless gas, not harmful physically.
It's an imagination stimulant."
     "You mean I was just having hallucinations? I tell you - "
     "Not quite that simple," Arnold cut in. "Longstead
42 works directly on the subconscious. It releases your
strongest subconscious fears, the childhood terrors you've
been suppressing. It animates them. And that's what you've
been seeing."
     "Then there's actually nothing here?" Gregor asked.
     "Nothing physical. But the hallucinations are
real enough to whoever is having them."
     Gregor reached over for another bottle of
brandy. This called for a celebration.
     "It won't be hard to decontaminate Ghost V,"
Arnold went on confidently. "We can cancel the Longstead 42
with no difficulty. And then - we'll be rich, partner!"
     Gregor suggested a toast, then thought of
something disturbing. "If they're just hallucinations,
what happened to the settlers?"
     Arnold was silent for a moment. "Well," he
said finally, "Longstead may have a tendency to stimulate
the mortido - the death instinct. The settlers must have gone
crazy. Killed each other."
     "And no survivors?"
     "Sure, why not? The last ones alive committed
suicide or died of wounds. Don't worry about it. I'm chartering
a ship immediately and coming out to run those tests. Relax.
I'll pick you up in a day or two."
     Gregor signed off. He allowed himself the rest
of the bottle of brandy that night. It seemed only fair. The
mystery of Ghost V was solved and they were going to be rich.
Soon *he* would be able to hire a man to land on strange
planets for him, while *he* sat home and gave instructions
over a radio.

                        *       *       *

He awoke late the next day with a hangover. Arnold's
ship hadn't arrived yet, so he packed his equipment and
waited. By evening, there was still no ship. He sat in the
doorway of the prefab and watched a gaudy sunset, then went
inside and made dinner.
     The problem of the settlers still bothered
him, but he determined not to worry about it. Undoubtedly
there was a logical answer.
     After dinner, he stretched out on a bed. He
had barely closed his eyes when he heard someone cough
apologetically.
     "Hello," said the Purple-striped Grabber.
     His own personal hallucination had returned to
eat him. "Hello, old chap," Gregor said cheerfully, without a
bit of fear or worry.
     "Did you eat the apples?"
     "Dreadfully sorry. I forgot. "
     "Oh, well." The Grabber tried to conceal his
disappointment. "I brought the chocolate sauce." He held up
the can.
     Gregor smiled. "You can leave now," he said.
"I know you're just a figment of my imagination. You can't
hurt me."
     "I'm not going to hurt you," the Grabber said.
"I'm just going to eat you."
     He walked up to Gregor. Gregor held his ground,
smiling, although he wished the Grabber didn't appear so solid
and undreamlike. The Grabber leaned over and bit his arm
experimentally.
     He jumped back and looked at his arm. There
were toothmarks on it. Blood was oozing out - real blood -
*his* blood.
     The colonists had been bitten, gashed, torn and ripped.
     At that moment, Gregor remembered an exhibition
of hypnotism he had once seen. The hypnotist had told the
subject he was putting a lighted cigarette on his arm. Then he
had touched the spot with a pencil.
     Within seconds, an angry red blister had appeared
on the subject's arm, because he *believed* he had been burned.
If your subconscious thinks you're dead, you're dead. If it
orders the stigmata of toothmarks, they are there.
     *He* didn't believe in the Grabber.
     But his subconscious did.
     Gregor tried to run for the door. The Grabber cut
him off. It seized him in its claws and bent to reach his neck.
     The magic word! What was it?
     Gregor shouted, "*Alphoisto*?"
     "Wrong word," said the Grabber. "Please don't squirm."
     "*Regnastikio*?"
     "Nope. Stop wriggling and it'll be over before you - "
     "*Voorshpellhappilo*!"
     The Grabber let out a scream of pain and
released him. It bounded high into the air and vanished.
     Gregor collapsed into a chair. That had been
close. Too close. It would be a particularly stupid way to die -
rent by his own death-desiring subconscious, slashed by his
own imagination, killed by his own conviction. It was fortunate
he had remembered the word. Now if Arnold would only hurry ...
     He heard a low chuckle of amusement.
     It came from the blackness of a half-opened
closet door, touching off an almost forgotten memory. He
was nine years old again, and the Shadower - his Shadower -
was a strange, thin, grisly creature who hid in doorways,
slept under beds and attacked only in the dark.
     "Turn out the lights," the Shadower said.
     "Not a chance," Gregor retorted, drawing his
blaster. As long as the lights were on, he was safe.
     "You'd better turn them off."
     "No!"
     "Very well. Egan, Megan, Degan!"
     Three little creatures scampered into the room.
They raced to the nearest light bulb, flung themselves on it
and began to gulp hungrily.
     The room was growing darker.
     Gregor blasted at them each time they
approached a light. Glass shattered, but the nimble creatures
darted out of the way.
     And then Gregor realized what he had done.
The creatures couldn't actually eat light. Imagination
can't make any impression on inanimate matter. He had
*imagined* that the room was growing dark and -
     He had shot out his light bulbs! His own
destructive subsconscious had tricked him.
     Now the Shadower stepped out. Leaping from
shadow to shadow, he came toward Gregor.
     The blaster had no effect. Gregor tried frantically
to think of the magic word - and terrifiedly remembered
that no magic word banished the Shadower.
     He backed away, the Shadower advancing, until
he was stopped by a packing case. The Shadower towered
over him and Gregor shrank to the floor and closed his eyes.
     His hands came in contact with something cold.
He was leaning against the packing case of toys for the
settlers' children. And he was holding a water pistol.
     Gregor brandished it. The Shadower backed
away, eyeing the weapon with apprehension.
     Quickly, Gregor ran to the tap and filled the
pistol. He directed a deadly stream of water into the
creature.
     The Shadower howled in agony and vanished.
     Gregor smiled tightly and slipped the empty gun
into his belt.
     A water pistol was the right weapon to use
against an imaginary monster.


It was nearly dawn when the ship landed and Arnold
stepped out. Without wasting any time, he set up his tests.
By midday, it was done and the element definitely established
as Longstead 42. He and Gregor packed up immediately and
blasted off.
     Once they were in space, Gregor told his partner
everything that had happened.
     "Pretty rough," said Arnold softly, but with deep feeling.
     Gregor could smile with modest heroism now
that he was safely off Ghost V. "Could have been worse,"
he said.
     "How?"
     "Suppose Jimmy Flynn were here. There was a kid
who could really dream up monsters. Remember the Grumbler?"
     "All I remember is the nightmares it gave me,"
Arnold said.
     They were on their way home. Arnold jotted down
some notes for an article entitled "The Death Instinct on
Ghost V: An Examination of Subconscious Stimulation, Hysteria,
and Mass Hallucination in Producing Physical Stigmata." Then he
went to the control room to set the autopilot.
     Gregor threw himself on a couch, determined to
get his first decent night's sleep since landing on Ghost V. He
had barely dozed off when Arnold hurried in, his face pasty with
terror.
     "I think there's something in the control room,"
he said. Gregor sat up. "There can't be. We're off the - "
     There was a low growl from the control room.
     "Oh, my God!" Arnold gasped. He concentrated furiously
for a few seconds. "I know. I left the airlocks open when I landed.
We're still breathing Ghost V air!"
     And there, framed in the open doorway, was an
immense gray creature with red spots on its hide. It had an
amazing number of arms, legs, tentacles, claws and teeth, plus
two tiny wings on its back. It walked slowly toward them,
mumbling and moaning.
     They both recognized it as the Grumbler.
     Gregor dashed forward and slammed the door in its
face. "We should be safe in here," he panted. "That door is airtight.
But how will we pilot the ship?"
     "We won't," Arnold said. "We'll have to trust
the robot pilot - unless we can figure out some way of
getting that thing out of there."
     They noticed that a faint smoke was beginning
to seep through the sealed edges of the door.
     "What's that?" Arnold asked, with a sharp edge
of panic in his voice.
     Gregor frowned. "You remember, don't you? The
Grumbler can get into any room. There's no way of keeping
him out."
     "I don't remember anything about him,"
Arnold said. "Does he eat people?"
     "No. As I recall, he just mangles them thoroughly."
     The smoke was beginning to solidify into
the immense gray shape of the Grumbler. They retreated
into the next compartment and sealed the door. Within seconds,
the thin smoke was leaking through.
     "This is ridiculous," Arnold said, biting his
lip. "To be haunted by an imaginary monster - wait! You've
still got your water pistol, haven't you?"
     "Yes, but - "
     "Give it to me!"
     Arnold hurried over to a water tank and
filled the pistol. The Grumbler had taken form again and
was lumbering towards them, groaning unhappily. Arnold
raked it with a stream of water.
     The Grumbler kept on advancing.
     "Now it's all coming back to me," Gregor said.
"A water pistol never could stop the Grumbler."
     They backed into the next room and slammed
the door. Behind them was only the bunkroom with nothing
behind that but the deadly vacuum of space.
     Gregor asked, "Isn't there something you can do
about the atmosphere?"
     Arnold shook his head. "It's dissipating now.
But it takes about twenty hours for the effects of Longstead
to wear off."
     "Haven't you any antidote?"
     "No."
     Once again the Grumbler was materializing, and
neither silently nor pleasantly.
     "How can we kill it?" Arnold asked. "There
must be a way. Magic words? How about a wooden sword?"
     Gregor shook his head. "I remember the
Grumbler now," he said unhappily.
     "What kills it?"
     "It can't be destroyed by water pistols, cap guns,
firecrackers, slingshots, stink bombs, or any other childhood
weapon. The Grumbler is absolutely unkillable."
     "That Flynn and his damned imagination! Why
did we have to talk about him? How do you get rid of it then?"
     "I told you. You don't. It just has to go away of its
own accord."
     The Grumbler was full size now. Gregor and
Arnold hurried into the tiny bunkroom and slammed their last
door.
     "*Think*, Gregor," Arnold pleaded. "No kid invents
a monster without a defense of some sort. *Think*!"
     "The Grumbler cannot be killed," Gregor said.
     The red-spotted monster was taking shape again.
Gregor thought back over all the midnight horrors he had ever
known. He *must* have done something as a child to neutralize
the power of the unknown.
     And then - almost too late - he remembered.


Under autopilot controls, the ship flashed Earthward
with the Grumbler as complete master. He marched up and
down the empty corridors and floated through steel partitions
into cabins and cargo compartments, moaning, groaning and
cursing because he could not get at any victim.
     The ship reached the solar system and took up
an automatic orbit around the moon.
     Gregor peered out cautiously, ready to duck back
if necessary. There was no sinister shuffling, no moaning or
groaning, no hungry mist seeping under the door or through the
walls.
     "All clear," he called out to Arnold. "The Grumbler's gone."
     Safe within the ultimate defense against night
horrors - wrapped in the blankets that had covered their
heads - they climbed out of their bunks.
     "I told you the water pistol wouldn't do any
good," Gregor said. Arnold gave him a sick grin and put the
pistol in his pocket. "I'm hanging on to it. If I ever get married
and have a kid, it's going to be his first present. "
     "Not for any of mine," said Gregor. He patted the
bunk affectionately. "You can't beat blankets over the head for
protection."



"Ghost V," by Robert Sheckley. Copyright © 1957 by Robert Sheckley