"Only figuratively," the monbeast said. "But I'll be around." He
cocked a bug-eye at me and said gravely, "We'd better get a few things
straight right from the start. One of them is that as far as you're
concerned, I'm as real as that bedpost."
"Real?" I tried to laugh that off, but the sound came out a little
weakly. "That's silly. You're just a product of my imagination."
"Am I?" the monbeast said.
He thrust the scaly face close to mine and yawned. Suddenly the room
became a turkish bath.
"Okay, okay," I said hastily, "turn it off."
Coolness came, and I breathed easier as the steam dissipated.
"Secondly, you're going to create bigger and better BEMs and make them
more convincing," the monbeast continued. "With all you writers turning
us loose, we can have a swell time in this world."
"But how can you?" I protested. "You said the readers wouldn't believe
in you, so you don't exist for them."
"Science-fiction is growing," the monbeast said. "Everyday more people
are getting to realize that there is more to the world than those
things they see around them. They believe what they read in love
stories and detective stories. Science-fiction is next."
"Suppose I don't want to create more BEMs?" I said. "Suppose I take up
saxophone playing or something and leave science-fiction alone."
"You can't stop writing it now, any more than a true fan can stop
reading it. The bug has bitten you." He smiled a piano keyboard of
teeth and continued, "Besides, I could be obliged to--er--inspire you
just a bit. But you just work along with me, and we'll both do fine."
So we did.
* * * * *
The monbeast isn't such a bad fellow after all, once you get to know
him. Neither are the other BEMs hanging around my house. Oh, yes, there
are others, lots of them. Hanging from the rafters. Under chairs. In
coffee cups. Everywhere. It's an occupational hazard, you know.
Chances are, though, you wouldn't be able to see them--unless you're a
real gone science-fiction fan, and even then maybe not. But someday you
will.
Someday you'll be sitting in your favorite chair reading your favorite
science-fiction magazine, and you'll look up....
Maybe it'll be sitting on the desk beside you, running one of four
hands through a nest of snakes on its scaly head. Maybe it'll be only
an inch tall and perched on the piano watching you. Maybe at first
it'll be just a warm, dank breath on the back of your neck.
No telling _when_ it'll be either. Maybe next year, next month;
tomorrow. Who knows--perhaps even now.
Here's a little tip. When you lay down this magazine, turn around
slowly. Have you ever had the feeling that something was going on
behind your back but when you turned around you saw nothing? What's
that? You think maybe you've got that feeling right now?
Listen, on second thought, now that you know, maybe you better not turn
around. Take this as a gag. A nice big laugh. You'll be a lot better
off that way.
What you don't know can't hurt you....