Gremlins

THERE WERE THREE WARNINGS:

1. DO NOT EXPOSE THEM TO LIGHT.

2. DO NOT GET THEM WET.

3. ABOVE ALL, NO MATTER HOW THEY CRY, NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY BEG, NEVER,
NEVER
FEED THEM AFTER MIDNIGHT.

HE IGNORED THE WARNINGS...

“. . .GREMLINS REALLY EXIST. YOU’VE JUST GOT TO KEEP WATCHING FOR THEM.”

Billy couldn’t suppress a smile.

“It’s true, said Mr. Futterman. You think I’m pulling your leg? Gremlins were everywhere during World War Two. We used to see them dancing on the wings of our plane. They played every prank in the book. Once they snuck up to our pilot and shouted, ‘You’re flying upside down, you fool!’ That was really a close one because the pilot turned us over in a split second.”

Billy laughed. “You actually saw them?”

“You’d see them out of the corner of your eye, but just as you shot them a full glance, they’d vanish . . .”

AVON BOOKS
A division of
The Hearst Corporation
1790 Broadway
New York, New York 10019

TM indicates a trademark of Warner Bros. Inc.

Copyright © 1984 by Warner Bros. Inc. All Rights Reserved. Published by arrangement with Warner Bros. Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 84-90893

ISBN: 0-380-86561-0

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U. S. Copyright Law. For information address Warner Bros. Inc. 4000 Warner Blvd., Burbank, CA 91522

First Avon Printing, June, 1984

Printed in the U. S. A.

Special thanks to the people who helped make my job Gremlin-free:

Elaine Markson
Kathryn Vought
Dan Romanelli
Mike Finnell
Joe Dante
Brad Globe
Geoffrey Brandt
Judy Gitenstein
Ed Sedarbaum

C H A P T E R
ONE

I
n his cage tucked in a far corner of the Chinese man’s back room, the Mogwai dozed fitfully. Soon the old man would come in, stroke him gently, speak briefly in that strange-sounding language, set him free to wander among the musty books and artifacts for a while, and then, best of all, feed him.

As a Mogwai, he was nearly always ready to eat, though he had learned to control his hunger. Such was the built-in adaptability of the Mogwai. He was so adaptable that even though confined to the cage and small room, he felt no desire for freedom. In fact, his mind was his escape mechanism, a perennially active entertainment center which he could use to visit any time or place—at any time at all. His mind was not like the human mind, a perverse instrument which so often refused manipulation, but played tricks or dealt its owner doses of duplicity. The Mogwai’s mind, in sharp contrast, was a constant source of pleasure to him.

Mogturmen, the inventor of the Mogwai species, had seen to that. Centuries ago on another planet, Mogturmen had set out to produce a creature that was adaptable to any climate and condition, one that could easily reproduce itself, was gentle and highly intelligent. Exactly why Mogturmen embarked on this venture is not known, except that such inventors flourished during an era of widespread experimentation in the field of species creation—an era, it should be added, that passed into disrepute following later, unsuccessful attempts to introduce cross-pollination among certain species of crawling carnivores.

At first, Mogturmen’s experiment had been looked upon as a great success and he was hailed as the genetic hero of three galaxies. The first sets of Mogwai turned out as planned, although the gentle little beasts had a few drawbacks not foreseen by their creator. Their vast intelligence seemed to interfere with their ability to communicate (Mogturmen said it was because they thought so much faster than they could verbalize), and for some unaccountable reason they were repelled by light. Discounting these deficiencies, the galactic powers ordered the Mogwai sent to every inhabitable planet in the universe, their purpose being to inspire alien beings with their peaceful spirit and intelligence and to instruct them in the ways of living without violence and possible extinction. Among the planets selected for early Mogwai population were Kelm-6 in the Poraisti Range, Clinpf-A of the Beehive Pollux, and the third satellite of MinorSun#67672, a small but fertile body called Earth by its inhabitants.

Soon after these first departures it was discovered that Mogturmen’s creatures were highly unstable. To be exact, fewer than one in a thousand retained the sweet disposition and charitable aims built into it by the inventor. Instead, something went wrong. Very wrong. The Mogwai himself knew of the unstable Mogwai, being well versed in the historical background of his species. He preferred not to think of the complications that had developed, but it was nearly impossible not to. It was, after all, part of his heritage. Closing his eyes as he relaxed in his cage awaiting his supper, he mused briefly on the wars, landslides, and famines that had taken place on Kelm-6, Clinpf-A, and even here on Earth because of his creator’s miscalculations and willingness to disseminate an untested creature. Small wonder Mogturmen had been punished by having his . . .

The Mogwai pushed the thought from his mind. True, Mogturmen had failed in the overall, but he himself was one of the successes, the one in a thousand who still embodied all the good things put there by his high-minded inventor. Yet his existence, he knew, had no long-term benefits for society. Gentle as he was, he was a distinct threat to those around him. Just a few drops of water, a morsel of food at the wrong time, and—

The Mogwai made a little guttural noise, unhappy with himself for allowing such unpleasant thoughts to enter his trained mind. Why was he even considering the possibility that he might bring about some disaster or other? The Chinese man seemed to understand the rules (although the Mogwai was at a loss to explain how he knew them other than by the fact that Orientals seemed to understand the inexplicable almost without trying). He kept the room dark, water-free, and fed the Mogwai well before midnight. Few strangers were admitted. The Mogwai was never subjected to journeys such as those he had been forced to endure with his previous owners, among whom were a medieval peddler and a sixteenth-century smuggler who sold stolen gems.

No doubt about it, the Chinese man was the best caretaker of them all. But why then was the Mogwai filled with a sense of malaise at best, of impending doom at worst? Perhaps, he mused, it was because he had had it so easy for so long. Thinking back, he wondered if he had the strength to deal once again with a new outbreak of . . . them.

What do you mean, of them? he asked himself, suddenly realizing that “they” and he were virtually the same. Except that Mogturmen’s miscalculations were built in to them.

And built in to me as well, he thought, feeling guilty. I just happened to be one who escaped. As he had done so many times in the past, he began to wonder what had happened to the others, how long they had survived, how much trouble they had caused.

No, he thought, forcing his mind to erase the coalescing picture. That’s not to think about. I will take a mental tour instead . . . a tour of the beautiful Catelesian fire streams.

He closed his eyes, and his Mogwai mind, ever obedient, began to show him the vivid colors generated by the boiling rivers of the subplanet Catelesia. It was one of the Mogwai’s favorite mental images, although when he felt a minor surge of aggression, he enjoyed watching mind-battles between the armored worms of Ucursian. His favorite Earthly visions included the sun-darkening flights of the passenger pigeon (which he understood had ended a century before) and scenes from the San Francisco earthquake.

He was curled into a ball, thoroughly enjoying the mental spectacle of the Catelesian fire streams, when the Chinese man entered. A small plate held in his thin fingers, the frail gentleman with skin like old leather shuffled quietly to the side of the table and stood looking down into the cage at his furry friend. On the plate was an assortment of Oriental delicacies left over from Han Wu’s restaurant next door—a partial egg roll, rice, broccoli, and twice-fried pork scraps. To all this the Chinese man had added a small rubber washer he had found in his handy room closet.

Aware of his master’s presence, the Mogwai stirred, opened his eyes, then pounced to an expectant standing position as the food’s aroma suddenly reached him.

Smiling benevolently, the Chinese man opened the box from the top and reached inside to gently lift the Mogwai onto the table. He deposited him next to the plate and nodded.

“You may enjoy yourself now, my friend,” he said softly, patting the Mogwai gently on the head and then taking a step backward.

The Mogwai looked down at the plate. Sure enough, a foreign object was there again. Yesterday it had been a piece of soft chewy wood; the day before a couple of foamy white chips he had seen the Chinese man take from a packing crate. Sniffing at the black rubber doughnut, the Mogwai analyzed it instantly and knew it would not hurt him if he ate it. He also knew it would be tasteless at best, perhaps bitter, virtually nutritionless, and very hard to chew. But the Chinese man so enjoyed seeing him chew up non-edible substances that it seemed churlishly uncharitable to disappoint him. Getting the black object down would take only a minute; he could then enjoy the rest of his meal as dessert.

Snapping up the washer, he pulled it inside his mouth and started to grind away, first using his back teeth as a vise to break the dry object in half. As he suspected, it was tough and tasted rather like petroleum—not his favorite flavoring agent—but the Mogwai enjoyed seeing the expression of amazement and happiness crinkle the old man’s features. Less than a minute later, the washer swallowed if not digested, he was busily and eagerly attacking the rice and egg roll. Glancing up briefly, the Mogwai saw the pleased smile lingering on the Chinese man’s face and was glad he had taken the trouble to eat the washer.

Humoring the old man, after all, was a small enough price to pay for the peaceful life he led.

C H A P T E R
TWO