And, simultaneously, he saw himself in a mirror.
It didn't look like Tim Vanderhof. It was wearing Tim Vanderhof's clothes, but it was, unquestionably a gorilla—the kind that kidnap native women in the Congo. The sound of footsteps grew louder. The new arrivals were almost at the arcade.
Vanderhof put forth a mighty effort of will, inadvertently baring his fangs. The drunk emitted a short, sharp cry and covered his eyes. But Vanderhof ignored him. He was glaring, wildly, at the mirror.
And, suddenly, the gorilla was gone. Vanderhof was himself again.
Tenderly rubbing his stomach, Vanderhof straightened to meet the red-rimmed gaze of the horse-faced man.
"Where is it?'* the latter babbled. "Where did it go?"
"Where did what go?" Vanderhof asked coldly, still maintaining the mental effort that enabled him to keep his rightful form.
"The gorilla—" There was a pause as people poured into the arcade, asking questions. There was confusion and tumult. And shouting. This died, eventually, as Vanderhof indicated the horse-faced man and explained that he was drunk.
"I'm not that drunk," was the surly response. "Snakes, yes. But not gorillas. Where is it? I know." The man's glazed eyes brightened. "You hid it!"
"You're drunk," Vanderhof said.
"Yeah? For two cents I'd punch your face in. Gr-r!" His confusion crystallized into belligerency, the drunk rolled forward, waving the cane. Vanderhof fled—
It was a hard life, he thought dismally, as he slunk through Luna Park, carefully avoiding crowds. The rain had stopped now, but people were still wary. This was all to the good. Vanderhof could, he found, retain his normal shape by putting forth a strong mental effort, but this could not be kept up for long. Already he felt weak.
Yet, at the back of his mind, a queer, perverse excitement was slowly, imperceptibly growing. In a way, it was rather fun. Imagine being able to turn yourself into a gorilla! Everybody was afraid of gorillas!
People shot them, too, Vanderhof recalled, and shut his eyes. He wavered, hearing faintly the tones of a hoarse, rasping voice that plucked at his nerves. It was like—like—what?"
Like Walker's voice. Urgent—commanding. Demanding that he do something—
He opened his eyes and found himself before a side-show. The barker stood above him on a box, derby tilted back, checkered suit, garish, thrusting out a commanding finger.
"C'mon, folks! Here it is, greatest sideshow on Earth! Tiniest dwarf ever born of woman, tallest giant since Creation, all the wonders of the Universe gathered here for your inspection. Step inside! You, there—only a dime. Step right forward, mister! The girl will take your dime!"
"No!" Vanderhof squeaked faintly, and tried to retreat. Instead, he found himself walking forward.
"Right this way, mister! Pay your dime! R-r-right in here! Step inside—"
Vanderhof found a dime and paid the admission charge. He didn't want to go into the side-show. He had a singularly horrid idea of what might happen there. But the barker's will-power was too strong for him,, and he could no longer exert the mental effort that partially insulated him from danger. He was exhausted.
"I'm a jellyfish," poor Vanderhof "mourned as he entered the show. "That's what I am. Walker was right. Oh, damn!" he ended futilely, tears of frustrated rage in his eyes. "I wish this would stop!"
But wishing didn't do any good. The chameleon man found himself in the sideshow—surrounded by freaks!
