“I can see that,” Jessie said, watching the Shambler’s face form and re-form, a mottled brown-black mass of rotten pudding without eyes, nose or mouth, with nothing but countless, changing knobby protrusions.
“May I seat you, sir?” Mabel asked.
“We’re here to meet Mr. Kanastorous,” Jessie said.
“Ah, yes, the charming little demon,” Mabel said, bowing a little at the “waist”, her three hundred pounds rippling subtly like a mass of thick jelly seeking a shape more in harmony with gravity.
“That’s him,” Jessie said.
“Right this way, sir,” Mabel said, shambling away across the mirrored foyer, a contrast with the elegance of rainbow-stone chandeliers, potted palms, star-glitter flooring and hand-carved maseni pillars. She led Jessie and Brutus to the door of the main club room and paused by her tip stand, waiting for Jessie to be generous.
He typed out MABEL on the bank computer keyboard and said, “What’s your account number, Mabel?”
The Shambler appeared to be embarrassed by this financial transaction, and she said, almost demurely, “My number is MAS-55-46-29835, sir, and I thank you for your generosity.”
Jessie typed out the number, ordered five credits to her account, then gave his thumbprint to the scanner plate, to finalize the tip. When he was finished, he said, “May I ask a personal question?”
Mabel shuddered slightly, her body rippling through another series of lumpy reformations, and she said, “What, sir?”
“How does a Shambler spend her credits? What does she buy?”
The Shambler relaxed, as if she had been expecting something far more personal than this and was relieved… “According to maseni myth,” Mabel said, “a Shambler is a night prowler who comes after little children who have been behaving badly during the day. A Shambler moans at their windows.” Mabel paused, hunched over and moaned loudly.
“I see,” Jessie said.
“Or a Shambler tries to force in their bedroom doors. It hides in their closets and springs out at them. If they’re out past dark, when they shouldn’t be, a Shambler chases them home, snarling horribly behind them.” She bent over again and snarled, ferociously.
Brutus snarled back.
Mabel stood again and sighed. “However, ever since we supernaturals and the flesh-and-blood maseni have opened ordinary relations—centuries ago—the law hasn’t permitted us to indiscriminately terrorize children. Now, we have to conform to the monetary-service exchange system, like flesh-and-blood citizens. We have to advertise for parents who wouldn’t mind having their children frightened now and again—and we have to pay them for the privilege of moaning at their brat’s window or chasing him along a darkened street, or hiding in his closet to spring out at him.”
“And you can’t manage to give it up—this terrorizing of the young?” Jessie asked.
“You know how it is,” Mabel said, shrugging shapeless shoulders. “The myth of the Shambler guides the reality of the Shambler. The myths say our compulsion is to terrorize; therefore, we actually are compelled to do just that. Now, though, we have to get out and work, earn credits to pay for the satisfaction of this urge.”
Remembering what Count Slavek had said earlier, Jessie asked, “Was it better, do you think, before people opened relations with the supernaturals, before they recognized your existence?”
“Definitely not,” Mabel said. “Oh, I have problems now, sure, but I had worse problems back then. You see, I could pick and choose lads to terrorize—but if one of those brats was a nut on ghost stories, he might know the proper chant or prayer to disintegrate me. With a few words, he could put an end to me for good; that was what the myths said, so it was true. Now, however, since the establishment of friendly relations between flesh-and-blooders and supernaturals, laws have been set up to keep such murderous material out of the hands of kids. Very few kids know those prayers anymore. And before you pay the parents for the right to scare their kids, you can demand and receive proof and guarantees, in pledge and contract form, that the brat doesn’t know any chants that can hurt you. Oh, certainly, being a Shambler is more mundane now than it once was—but it is also considerably safer.”
“I see,” Jessie said.