In the front row, pressed against the rope barrier, Dan Bream mopped his face with a soggy handkerchief and smiled. It wasn't such a bad monster, considering that this was a cheapjack carnival playing the small-town southern circuit. It had a dead-white skin, undampened by sweat even in this steambath of a tent, glazed eyes, stitches and seams showing where the face had been patched together, and the two metal plugs projecting from the temples — just like in the movie.
"Raise your right arm!" Victor Frankenstein V commanded, his brusque German accent giving the words a Prussian air of authority. The monster's body did not move, but slowly — with the jerking motion of a badly operating machine — the creature's arm came up to shoulder height and stopped.
"This monster, built from pieces from the dead, cannot die, and if a piece gets too worn out I simply stitch on a new piece with the secret formula passed down from father to son from my great-greatgrandfather. It cannot die nor feel pain — as you see—"
This time the gasp was even louder and some of the audience turned away while others watched with eager eyes. The barker had taken a foot-long and wickedly sharp needle, and had pushed it firmly through the monster's biceps until it protruded on both sides. No blood stained it and the creature made no motion, as though completely unaware that anything had been done to its flesh.
"… impervious to pain, extremes of heat and cold, and possessing the strength of ten men…"
Behind him the voice droned on, but Dan Bream had had enough. He had seen the performance three times before, which was more than satisfactory for what he needed to know, and 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, and 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 a monocle, and the Prussian haircut now looked like a common crewcut.
"You've got a great act," Dan called out cheerfully, and 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 apparently having disappeared along with the monocle. "And see if they have a Schlitz or a Bud or anything beside the 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 foamy, 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 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.
