Feeding Time
Feeding Time
Angela woke up with the sickening realization that today was feeding time. She slipped out of bed, hurried to the desk, and leafed nervously through her appointment book. She sighed with relief; it was all right—today was her appointment.
Angela took only forty-five minutes to put on her makeup and dress: it was feeding time. As she descended in the elevator, walked swiftly through the lobby, and got into a taxi, she didn't even notice the eyes that stopped and swiveled after her: feeding time.
Angela was haunted by a zoo.
She was also haunted by men, but this was understandable. She was the kind of blond, blue-eyed angel men pray to—or for—and she had the kind of measurements— 36-26-36—that make men want to take up mathematics.
But Angela had no time for men—not today. Angela was haunted by a zoo, and it was feeding time.
Dr. Bachman had a gray-bearded, pink-skinned, blue-eyed kindliness that was his greatest stock in trade. Underneath, there was something else not quite so kindly that had been influential in his choice of professions. Now, for a moment, his professional mask—hispersona, as the Jungians call it—slipped aside.
"A zoo?" he repeated, his voice clear, deep, and cultured, with just a trace of accent; Viennese without a doubt. He caught himself quickly. "A zoo. Exactly."
"Well, not exactly a zoo," said Angela, pursing her red lips thoughtfully at the ceiling. "At least not an ordinary zoo. It's really only one animal—if you could call him an animal."
"What do you call him?"
"Oh, I never call him," Angela said quickly, giving a delicious little shiver. "He might come."
"Hmmmm," hmmmmed Dr. Bachman neutrally.
"But you don't mean that," Angela said softly. "You mean if he isn't an animal, what is he? What he is—is a monster."
"What kind of monster?" Dr. Bachman asked calmly.
Angela turned on one elbow and looked over the back of the couch at the psychoanalyst. "You say that as if you met monsters every day. But then I guess you do." She sighed sympathetically. "It's a dangerous business, being a psychiatrist."
"Dangerous?" Dr. Bachman repeated querulously, caught off guard a second time. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, the people you meet—all the strange ones—and their problems—"
"Yes, yes, of course," he said hurriedly. "But about the monster—?"
"Yes, doctor," Angela said in her obedient tone and composed herself again on the couch. She looked at the corner of the ceiling as if she could see him clinging there. "He's not a nightmare monster, though he's frightening enough. He's too real; there are no blurred edges. He has purple fur—short, rather like the fur on some spiders—and four legs, not evenly distributed like a dog's or a cat's but grouped together at the bottom. They're very strong—much stronger than they need to be. He can jump fifteen feet straight up into the air."
She turned again to look at Dr. Bachman. "Are you getting all this?"
Hastily, the psychoanalyst turned his notebook away, but Angela had caught a glimpse of his doodling.
"Goodie!" she said, clapping her hands in delight. "You're drawing a picture."
"Yes, yes," he said grumpily. "Go on."
"Well, he has only two arms. He has six fingers on each hand, and they're flexible, as if they had no bones in them. They're elastic, too. They can stretch way out—as if to pick fruit that grows on a very tall vine."
"A vegetarian," said Dr. Bachman, making his small joke.
"Oh, no, doctor!" Angela said, her eyes wide. "He eats everything, but meat is what he likes the best. His face is almost human except it's green. He has very sharp teeth." She shuddered. "Very sharp. Am I going too fast?"
"Don't worry about me!" snapped the psychoanalyst. "It is your subconscious we are exploring, and it must go at its own speed."
"Oh, dear," Angela said with resignation. "The subconscious. It's going to be another one of those."
"You don't believe this nightmare has any objective reality?" Dr. Bachman asked sharply.
"That would make me insane, wouldn't it? Well, I guess there's no help for it. That's what I think."
Dr. Bachman tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "I see. Let's go back. How did this illusion begin?"
"I think it began with the claustrophobia."
Dr. Bachman shrugged. "A morbid fear of confined places is not unusual."
"It is when you're out in the open air. The fear had no relationship to my surroundings. All of a sudden I'd feel like I was in a fairly large room which had a tremendous weight of rock or masonry above it. I was in the midst of a crowd of people. For moments it became so real that my actual surroundings faded out."
"But the feeling came and went."
"Yes. Then came the smell. It was a distinctive odor—musty and strong like the lion house in the winter, only wrong, somehow. But it made me think of the zoo."
"Naturally you were the only one who smelled it."
"That's right. I was self-conscious, at first. I tried to drown out the odor with perfume, but that didn't help. Then I realized that no one else seemed to smell it. Like the claustrophobia, it came and went. But each time it returned it was stronger. Finally I went to a psychiatrist—a Dr. Aber."
"That was before the illusion became visual?"
"That was sort of Dr. Aber's fault—my seeing the monster, I mean."
"It is to be expected."
"When nothing else worked, Dr. Aber tried hypnosis. 'Reach into your subconscious,' he said. 'Open the door to the past!' Well, I reached out. I opened the door. And that's when it happened."
"What happened?" Dr. Bachman leaned forward.
"I saw the monster."
"Oh." He leaned back again, disappointed.
"People were close, but the monster was closer. The odor was stifling as he stared through the door—and saw me. I slammed the door shut, but it was too late. The door was there. I knew it could be opened. And he knew it could be opened. Now I was really afraid."
"Afraid?"
"That the monster might get through the door."
The psychoanalyst tugged at his beard. "You have an explanation for this illusion?"
"You won't laugh?"
"Certainly not!"
"I think, through some strange accident of time, I've become linked to a zoo that will exist in the distant future. The monster—wasn't born on Earth. He's an alien—from Jupiter, perhaps, although I don't think so. Through the door I can see part of a sign; I can read this much."
Angela turned and took the notebook from the psychiatrist’s surprised fingers and printed quickly:
M'BA
(Larmis
Nativ
Vega
"Just like in the zoo," she said, handing the book back. "There's a star named Vega."
"Yes," said the psychoanalyst heavily. "And you are afraid that this—alien will get through the door and—"
"That's it. He can open it now, you see. He can't exist here; that would be impossible. But something from the present can exist in the future. And the monster gets hungry—for meat."
"For meat?" Dr. Bachman repeated, frowning.
"Every few weeks," Angela said, shivering, "it's feeding time."
Dr. Bachman tugged at his beard, preparing the swift, feline stroke which would lay bare the traumatic relationship at the root of the neurosis. He said, incisively, "The monster resembles your father, is that not so?"
It was Angela's turn to frown. "That's what Dr. Aber said. I'd never have noticed it on my own. There might be a slight resemblance."
"This Dr. Aber—he did you no good?"
"Oh, I wouldn't want you to think that," Angela protested quickly. "He helped. But the help was—temporary, if you know what I mean."
"And you would like something more permanent."
"That would be nice," Angela admitted. "But I'm afraid it's too much to hope for."
"No. It will take time, but eventually we will work these subconscious repressions into your conscious mind, where they will be cleansed of their neurotic value."
"You think it's all in my head?" Angela said wistfully.
"Certainly," the psychoanalyst said briskly. "Let us go over the progress of the illusion once more: first came the claustrophobia, then the smell, then, through Dr. Aber's bung—treatment, I should say, the dreams—"
"Oh, not dreams, doctor," Angela corrected. "When I sleep, I don't dream of monsters. I dream"—she blushed prettily—"of men. The thing in the zoo—I can see him whenever I close my eyes." She shivered. "He's getting impatient."
"Hungry?"
Angela beamed at him. "Yes. It's almost feeding time. He gets fed, of course. By the keeper, I suppose. But that's just grains and fruits and things like that. And he gets hungry for meat."
"And then?"
"He opens the door."
"And I suppose he sticks his elastic fingers through the door."
Angela gave him a look of pure gratitude. "That's right."
"And you're afraid that one day he will get hungry enough to eat you."
"That's it, I guess. Wouldn't you be? Afraid, that is? There's all the legends about dragons and Minotaurs and creatures like that. They always preferred a diet of young virgins; and where there's all that talk—"
"If that were your only concern," Dr. Bachman commented dryly, "it seems to me that you could make yourself ineligible with no great difficulty."
Angela giggled. "Why, doctor! What a suggestion!"
"Hmmmm. So! To return. Every few weeks comes feeding time. And you, feeling nervous and afraid, come to me for help."
"You put it so well."
"And now it's feeding time."
"That's right." Angela's nostrils dilated suddenly. "He's getting close to the door. Don't you smell him, doctor?"
Dr. Bachman sniffed once and snorted. "Certainly not. Now tell me about your father."
"Well," Angela began reluctantly, "he believed in reincarnation—"
"No, no," the psychoanalyst said impatiently. "The important things. How you felt about him when you were a little girl. What he said to you. How you hated your mother."
"I'm afraid there won't be time. He's got one of his hands on the door already."
Despite himself, Dr. Bachman glanced back over his shoulder. "The monster?" His beard twitched nervously. "Nonsense. About your father—"
"The door's opened!" Angela cried out. “I’m scared, doctor. It's feeding time"
"I won't be tricked again," the psychoanalyst said sternly. "If we're to get anywhere with this analysis, I must have complete—"
"Doctor! Watch out! The fingers—Dr. Bachman! Doctor! Doc—!"
Angela sighed. It was a strange sigh, half hopelessness and half relief. She picked up her purse.
"Doctor?" she said tentatively to the empty room.
She stood up, sniffing the air gingerly. The odor was gone. So was Dr. Bachman.
She walked toward the door. "Doctor?" she tried once more.
There was no answer. There never had been an answer, not from seventeen psychiatrists, Aber through Bachman. There was no doubt about it. The monster did like psychiatrists.
It was a truly terrifying situation she was in, certainly through no fault of her own, and a girl had to do the best she could. She could console herself with the thought that the monster would never take her for food.
She was the trap door it needed into this world. Eat her, and feeding time was over.
She was perfectly safe.
As long as she didn't run out of psychiatrists.
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