" Derm Fool " av Theodore Sturgeon
Ursprungligen publicerad i mars 1940 av Okänd , som kan vara läs online på UNZ.org. Du läste detta noga i sin kortfattade samling Starshine som var först publicerad 1977.
Berättelsen är verkligen humoristisk i tonen, men börjar gruesomely:
I checked carefully. My feet were gone, so I wouldn't have to worry about them until the morning. My right hand, too: that was good. It would be awful to shake hands with Myra and have her find herself clinging to a disembodied hand. I pulled at the left. It seemed a little loose, but I didn't want to force it. This wasn't a painful disease as long as you let it have its own way. My face would come off any minute now.
Det finns en scen där han springer runt och försöker dra av lös hud och gömma skuggningarna så att han ser normal ut för att uppfylla sitt kärleksintresse.
I am not generally a fussy man. A bit of litter around my two-and-a-half-room dugout on the West Side seldom bothers me. What trash that isn't big enough to be pushed out in the hallway can be kicked around until it gets lost. But today was different. Myra was coming, and I couldn't have Myra see the place this way.
Not that she cared particularly. She knew me well enough by this time not to mind. But the particular kind of litter might be a bit—disturbing.
[...]
I got the index finger off the piano and threw it and the left foot away, too. I wondered if I should get rid of the torso hanging in the hall closet, but decided against it. That was a fine piece. I might be able to make something good out of it; a suitcase, perhaps, or a rainproof sports jacket.
När hon äntligen vet, väljer hon att bli smittade som han.
Inte riktigt. Hon smittades först.
She clung close to me and cried pitifully, "David, what are we going to do?"
I held her tight and didn't know what to say. She began talking brokenly: "Did it bite you, too, David? It bit m-me, the little beast... The Indians worship it. Th-they say its bite will ch-change you in to a snake... I was afraid... Next morning I began shedding my skin every twenty-four hours—and I have ever since."
Skyttorna används för konstnärliga och hantverksmässiga ändamål.
Amazing stuff, this cast-off skin. Regularly as clockwork, every twenty-our hours, the epidermis would toughen, loosen and slip off. It was astonishingly cohesive.
[...]
The nails would come off too, but only the topmost layer of cells. Treated with tannic acid and afterward with wool oil, it was strong, translucent and soft. It took shellac nicely, and a finish of Vandyke-brown oil paint mixed with bronze powder gave it a beautiful old-gold effect. I didn't know whether I had an affliction or a commodity.
Senare finns en scen där han anklagas för mord, för att vissa lädervaror av hans var gjorda av mänsklig hud, kräver han ett DNA-test för att bevisa att det är hans egen shed-hud.
Now, there is only one animal stupid enough to bang on a door when there is a bell to ring, and that is a policeman.
[...]
"So where'dja get th' ror material? Pleece analysis says it's human skin. What do you say?"
I exchanged a glance with Myra. "It is," I said.
It was evidently not the answer Brett expected. "Ha!" he said triumphantly. "Where'd you get it, then?"
[...]
"Tell you what I'll do, Brett," I said. I got a sheet of paper, poured some ink onto a blotter, and used it as a stamp pad. I carefully put each fingertip in the ink and pressed it to the paper. "Take that down to headquarters and give it to your suspicious savants. Tell them to compare these prints with those from the ornaments. [...] "
Och närmare slutet, lever han med en begränsad variation av sjukdomen, men döljer den som en vanlig skönhetsbehandling - en injektion för att göra ansiktsskottet (in i en lermask, så de don ' märker inte), vilket föryngrar huden och smygar sedan skurskinnet till sin fru, som gör nyhetsmasker för samma klient utan att veta varför det är så livsartat.
In the windup, I had it. An injection to cause the trouble, a lotion to cure or isolate it.
[...]
It was not an affliction, then: it was a commodity. The business spread astonishingly. We didn't let it get too big; but what with a little false front and a bit more bally-hoo, we are really going places. For instance, in Myra's exclusive beauty shop is a booth reserved for the wealthiest patrons. Myra will use creams and lotions galore on her customer by way of getting her into the mood; then, after isolating the skin on her face, will infect it with a small needle. In a few minutes the skin comes off; a mud pack hides it. The lady has a lovely smooth new face; Myra ships the old one out over to my place where my experts mount it. Then, through Myra's bally-hoo, the old lady generally will come around wanting a life mask. I give her a couple of appointments—they amount to séances—sling a lot of hocus-pocus, and in due time deliver the mask—life-size, neatly tinted. They never know, poor old dears, that they have contracted and been cured of the damnedest thing that ever skipped inclusion in "Materia Medica." It's a big business now; we're coining money.