Galactic Dreams

Behind him the voice droned on, but Dan Bream had had enough. He had seen the performance three times before, which was more than enough times for him to find out all he needed to know. It was incredibly hot; if he stayed in the tent another minute, he would melt. The exit was close by and he pushed through the gaping, pallid audience and out into the humid dusk. It wasn’t much cooler outside. Life borders on the unbearable along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico in August; Panama City, Florida, was no exception. Dan headed for the nearest air-conditioned beer joint and sighed with relief as the chill atmosphere closed around his steaming garments. The beer bottle frosted instantly with condensation, as did the heavy glass stein, cold from the freezer. The first big swallow cut a path straight down to his stomach. He took the beer over to one of the straight-backed wooden booths, wiped the table off with a handful of paper napkins and flopped onto the bench. From the inner pocket of his jacket he took some folded sheets of yellow copy paper now slightly soggy, and spread them before him. After adding some lines to the scribbled notes he stuffed them back into his jacket and took a long pull on his beer.

Dan was halfway through his second bottle when the barker, who called himself Frankenstein the Fifth, came in. His stage personality had vanished along with the frock coat and monocle; the Prussian haircut now looked like a common crewcut.

“You’ve got a great act,” Dan called out cheerfully as he waved the man over. “Will you join me for a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,’ Frankenstein answered in the pure nasal vowels of New York City, the German accent having disappeared along with the monocle. “And see if they have a Schlitz or a Bud or anything else beside local swamp water.”

He settled into the booth while Dan went for the beers and groaned when he saw the labels on the bottles.

“At least it’s cold,” he said, shaking salt into his to make it foam, then half drained the stein in a long deep swallow.

“I noticed you out there in front of the clems for most of the shows today. Do you like the act or you a carny buff?”

“It’s a good act. I’m a newsman, name’s Dan Bream.”

“Always pleased to meet the Press, Dan. Publicity is the life of show business, as the man said. I’m Stanley Arnold: call me Stan.”

“Then Frankenstein is just your stage name?”

“What else? You act kinda dim for a reporter, are you sure?”

He waved away the Press card that Dan pulled out from his breast pocket. “No, I believe you, Dan. But you gotta admit the question was a little on the rube side. I bet you even think that I have a real monster in there!”

“Well, you must admit that he looks authentic. The skin stitched together that way, those plugs in his head.”

“Held on with spirit gum and the embroidery is drawn on with eyebrow pencil. That’s show business for you, all illusion. But I’m happy to hear that the act even looked real to an experienced reporter like yourself. What paper did you say you were with?”

“No paper, the news syndicate. I caught your act about six months ago and became interested. Did a little checking when I was in Washington, then followed you down here. You don’t really want me to call you Stan, do you? Stein might be closer. After all, Victor Frankenstein is the name on your naturalization papers.”

“Tell me more,” Frankenstein said in a voice suddenly cold and emotionless.

Dan riffled through the yellow sheets. “Yes … here it is, from the official records. Frankenstein, Victor, born Geneva, Switzerland, arrived in the U.S. in 1938, and more of the same.”

“Come on guy-the next thing you’ll be telling me is that my monster is real!”

Frankenstein smiled, but only with his lips, a quick and insincere movement.

“I’m betting that it is. No yogi training or hypnotism or such can make a man as indifferent to pain as that thing is — and as terribly strong. I want the real story, the truth for a change!”

“Do you…?” Frankenstein asked in a cold voice and for a long moment the air filled with tension. Then he laughed and clapped the reporter on the arm. “All right Dan, I’ll give it to you. You are a persistent devil and a good reporter and it is the least you deserve. But first you must get us some more drink, something that is a measurable degree stronger than this execrable beer.”

His New York accent had disappeared as easily as had his German one; he spoke English now with skill and perfection, without a recognizable regional accent.

Dan gathered their empty glasses. “It’ll have to be beer — this is a dry county.”

“Nonsense! This is America, the land that raises hands in horror at the foreign conception of double-think — yet practices it with an efficiency that sets the Old World to shame. Bay County may be officially dry but the law has many itchy palms.