Mrs. Rahlo's Closet and Other Mad Tales Page 16
Descending was more difficult than climbing had been; he had to use all his concentration to find the best places to put his hands and feet. It was getting harder to see. But he was nearly down. He unstrapped his carry-all and set it beside him while he sat on a boulder to catch his breath.
The verms waited ten feet below, a jungle of twitching antennae and writhing legs. Their smell made him gag.
He raised the Lancer and began to kill them in bunches. His back was shielded by the rock; if he kept his head, he should get them all.
Still they came on. They just kept coming on.
The night came, too. The intermittent Lancer blasts afforded him some vision, but it was time for coglights. He felt behind him for the carry-all.
It was gone. He must have knocked it over while he was shooting. He took a breath. He was a sharpshooter. His back was protected. With enough light he could probably get them all. With enough light—but where was the light to come from?
Something reared up before him, its writhing legs a flurry of movement. The Lancer flame knocked its head off. He could hear it twitching in the soft dust.
The night grew darker after the momentary brightness.
The tent. He had to find the tent. But how could he see to find it? His eyes fell on the Lancer.
He could switch the power pack to maximum. Each shot would throw enough energy to blast through a cruiser; the power drain would be enormous, but the light emitted would be dazzling. He turned the dial to the FULL ON position and fired into the army just below.
The night lit up around him as the insects burst with the explosion of power; pieces of them continued to burn, showing him a path through their midst. He jumped down off the rock, landed in the dust, and nearly stumbled over his carry-all. He snatched it up and ran for all he was worth.
Movement ahead, a wall of shifting shapes against the blacker wall of the night. He discharged another blast. The shocking glare showed him he had a path once more. Again the blast left burning remnants, grim torches to light his way. He ran till the lights were far behind and only a sickening smell told of the presence all around. His lungs were nearly bursting. He had to rest for a second to catch his breath.
If he could snatch a few seconds to get a coglight out of his carry-all—No time. He pivoted, squeezing the trigger, firing all around him till the landscape shone as bright as noon.
His hand plunged into the carry-all and brought forth a coglight. He twisted off the cap and tossed the cylinder a dozen yards ahead. Now he could see. He was momentarily safe. His heart pounded as his lungs fought to take in the thin air. He looked down to read the gauge on his power pack.
The gauge stood on empty.
“There’s always something left!” he cried out. “Even if the dial says nothing—there’s always something.” He switched down the power level to minimum. “Got to save what’s left,” he said. He looked up.
Two of the verms were entering the circle of light.
“This may not kill them,” he panted, “but it’ll slow them up some.” He shot both of them, took a breath, and ran again for the tent, another coglight cylinder in his free hand.
The rustling all around him told him he should use it. He twisted the cap and heaved the cylinder like a grenade. The result was a crackling bonfire of bursting shells. He raised the Lancer. Even with the power switched down, he still had the ability to stun them on their backs. He had only one coglight left; he had to cover a lot of distance before he used it.
He did not get far. He practically collided with a beetling shell, used the Lancer, and detonated his last light. He was a long way from the tent. He readjusted the power pack, back to its middle position. Why bother to conserve energy? It was all but gone anyway.
He could see them just beyond the circle of light. They were on their hind legs, a forest of legs and antennae. At least he could kill a few more. Possibly he had power to kill three or four more—maybe even five. Who knew?
He crouched and slowly pivoted, trying to be alert to the attack that might come from any direction.
“Steve.” A voice came out of the darkness.
His body jerked erect.
“Steve, it’s me—George!”
George.
“We want you to be like us, Steve.”
“Go to hell!”
“I can see in the dark, Steve. Don’t you want to see in the dark?” The voice came from a big verm standing just outside the circle.
Steve took careful aim and fired. The verm went down.
“That wasn’t me, Steve.” The voice came from another direction now, where half a dozen clustered. Steve fired three times. Three verms went down. He fired a fourth time. But the power was gone.
“None of them was me, Steve.” The voice was behind him.
Steve whipped around. A giant verm entered the circle of light.
“Follow me, Steve. I’ll take you to a secret place.”
Steve pointed the barrel menacingly.
“The tent is good enough for me.” Maybe George didn’t know the Lancer was empty.
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve.” The creature’s triangular head towered a foot above his. “Trust me. I want to show you something.” What choice did he have?
“All right,” he said. “But don’t try anything crazy, or I’ll blow right through you.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve. You know me.” The big verm crossed through the circle of light and passed into darkness.
“Steve?”
Steve followed a few yards behind. As far as he could tell, the other verms were keeping clear of him.
The verm stalked ahead just on the perimeter of his vision.
“You can come closer, Steve,” it said.
“What are you going to show me?”
“We’re almost there.”
The verm stopped.
“It’s at your feet, Steve—the something I wanted to show you.”
“Where?”
“Walk a little farther.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Look down.”
Something white lay on the sand.
Steve knelt down.
He turned it over.
“Oh, my God!” he cried. “It’s George. It’s George’s body. He’s dead and cold. He didn’t change at all!”
Steve stood up and howled at the darkness around him.
“If this is George, then who’s been talking to me?”
The voice came back at him.
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve.”
Suddenly there were voices all around.
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve. I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve. I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve. I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve.”
Steve covered his ears and knelt.
“You weren’t joking; they do talk. They talk, George, and they play gruesome tricks.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Steve.” The voices were much nearer.
George looked peaceful, like he was asleep—except for the long gash on his neck.
“Wouldn’t hurt you—hurt you—hurt you—”
And he was still wearing his Lancer!
He never would unplug it.
Steve picked it up and made it spit fire.
“Big dumb bugs!” he shouted. “Damned big, dumb bugs!” He whirled and shot and continued to shoot.
We Three and the Stars
O ctober. It was early evening and very dark as she walked the three blocks from the hospital to her apartment, her crisp nurse’s uniform crackling like the leaves beneath her feet. She passed the park—the empty swings sagging, the tennis courts forsaken. Beyond the courts was the park bench—their park bench—too dark to see now. She walked on, past silent houses with darkened windows. People retired early here. What was to keep them up? It was just a small rural town on the edge of an Air Force base.
No moon tonight, she thought, but lots of stars. Bright and cold. Odd, how rarely she looked at the stars. Stars above stars above
stars. Too high up and far away. For a moment she wondered if it was October up in the stars. Then she realized she was thinking nonsense and continued on to the front door of her apartment.
She was disappointed not to see Richard’s car parked in front. Oh, but it was early yet, much too early. He’d have to go through debriefing now that his assignment was finished. She climbed the stairs and let herself in.
Richard’s blue eyes and dark wavy hair greeted her from the picture on the nightstand as soon as she switched on the light. She drew a breath. He should be over before ten, and they would leave immediately—that was their plan. That was why she had her nicest things packed; that was why she had taken a leave of absence from her nursing job at the hospital.
The clock on the end table said eight-ten. She looked out the window for Richard’s car but saw only the stars.
They had sat together, by chance, on a park bench, nearly a year ago: he to read his newspaper, she to nibble at a sandwich. They hadn’t met; they didn’t speak. He read his paper while she finished her lunch and went back to work. They met the next day—not by chance. They spoke a lot this time, about life and loneliness and the things that made them laugh. What time was it?
Eight-seventeen. The time didn’t matter. They would leave sometime tonight and marry tomorrow. She leaned out the window to see if his car was there, then turned to the photo by her bedside. Richard was different from all the other Air Force pilots she had met, working as she did so close to the base; their happy-go-lucky posturing annoyed her. Richard was always serious, except about his flying partner Al Gordon. She laughed. Zany Al. To listen to Richard, Al had got into more trouble than seemed possible short of court-martial. She smiled happily. Their project had ended now; at last she would meet Al Gordon.
Her arms reached up momentarily, her mouth expanding into a yawn. She had risen early to pack, too early, really. She yawned again, then shook her head to drive the sleep away as she contemplated her beautifully packed suitcase lying on top of the bed. Suddenly she found herself yawning uncontrollably. It wouldn’t hurt to lie down for ten minutes; that way she would be fresh when Richard arrived. She lay fully clothed upon the bed next to her suitcase and closed her eyes. Waves of sleep washed over her. She fell upward toward the heavens, past silver stars pulsing with light, till she ascended to a black place and found Richard there, along with another man, a stranger who kept trying to take his head off as a kind of joke. She smiled and knew it must be Al Gordon.
She woke abruptly. The clock said a quarter to twelve. She had overslept by hours. Where was Richard? Maybe he had come and she had not heard him. Maybe he was waiting outside in his car. She peered through the window but saw only the stars.
The phone rang.
“Richard?”
No one there. Just a dial tone.
“I’ll call him,” she said suddenly. Something must have happened. The number at the base. She had never used it. Where was it? In her purse.
Six rings. Eight. Please answer.
“Three-Fourteen,” said a crisp voice.
“What?”
“Air Force Three-Fourteen, Corporal Jackson speaking.”
“This is Ellen Crane. Please help me. I’m looking for my fiancé, Major Richard Lockyer. He was supposed to finish his mission today. He should have been through by now. Can you check to see if he’s still there?”
“I’ll see, ma’am. One minute.”
He was probably still at work. Maybe the debriefing took longer than he had planned. She hoped he wouldn’t be annoyed for calling him like this. She hoped—
“Ma’am?
“Yes.”
“I have no information on Major Lockyer.”
“Can’t you tell me at least if he’s left the base?”
She heard voices in the background. A deep voice. A softer voice.
“Maybe you should call tomorrow, ma’am.”
“Why? Why should I call tomorrow? What can you tell me tomorrow that you can’t tell me tonight?”
“The department that Major Lockyer works for is not answering their phone. I think they’re all closed up for the night. You should call tomorrow, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.” The phone hung up.
That’s how they act when someone dies, she thought. They never tell you over the phone. They make you wait until morning, when you’re less hysterical, when they can send someone to hold your hand.
You’re being silly. Even now he is probably on his way. Even now—
She lifted the phone again. This time to call the police. He could have had an accident. He could have crashed his car speeding to his marriage.
A desk sergeant spoke at the other end.
“My fiancé, Richard Lockyer,” she explained. “We’re supposed to get married. He isn’t here. Can you tell me anything? Was there an accident?”
A pause. What would she say if the sergeant told her Richard was killed? Please, God, don’t let Richard be killed. Don’t let him be hurt—
“No one of that description has been reported in any accident,” the voice came back.
“Then where is he? We were supposed to be married.”
“Maybe he changed his mind.”
She hung up the phone.
He wouldn’t do that. He would never do that.
But why didn’t he call?
The doorbell rang.
She flew to the door and flung it open.
Two men in gray suits stood in the doorway.
“Miss Crane?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Drake,” said one, showing her a badge in a wallet. “This is Reynolds. May we come in?” She stepped back, and they seemed to fill the room.
“Is it about Major Lockyer?” She was nearly in tears.
“Yes, it is.”
“Is he dead?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No, no, I don’t.”
“May we look around?”
“Yes, are you from the police?”
“No, Miss Crane.”
“Where is Richard?” she asked.
“He was on a mission. Something went wrong with the mission. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Is Richard dead? Is he injured?”
“Something went wrong. That’s all we can say.”
They looked at everything in the apartment, even under the bed.
“It isn’t here,” Reynolds said.
“Is Richard all right?”
“No,” said Drake. His eyes fastened on the framed photograph on the nightstand. “Sorry to disturb you.”
And they walked into the October night.
Her beautifully packed suitcase still lay on the bed. Richard’s picture still smiled from the nightstand. Richard’s picture—maybe that’s all she had now—that and the stars that seemed to come into the room.
The phone rang.
“Ellen?”
It was Richard.
“Ellen? Ellen?”
Richard’s voice.
“Thank God,” was all she could say, over and over. “Thank God.”
“Ellen, something’s happened.”
“What happened, Richard? Richard?” For a moment he was missing again. “Richard.”
“I can’t talk now. Listen, Ellen, it’s nearly midnight. Meet me at the park in an hour, by our bench. Don’t let anyone see you. Don’t tell anybody you’ve heard from me.”
“Some men were here.”
“Are they gone?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me at the park. Don’t let anyone follow you.”
“What’s wrong, Richard?”
“They want Gordon, Ellen. But they won’t find him.”
“Richard—”
But the phone had stopped speaking.
It didn’t matter. Richard was all right. Nothing mattered but that.
• • •
She found the streets empty of all but leaves as she waded through shadows toward the park. The bench—their bench—lay buried in
shadows, too. All was so dark that even the stars seemed to have gone away.
Something stepped out of the shadows.
“Ellen.”
Richard’s arms held her. It was too dark to see his face, but she knew Richard’s arms.
“What’s happening, Richard?”
“I took Gordon, Ellen. They’re after me because I’ve got Gordon.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was flying, Ellen—Gordon was with me—but not a plane. It wasn’t a plane, Ellen. We were piloting—it doesn’t matter now—we were piloting a spacecraft, heading for something that was sending out signals. We were supposed to take pictures of it.
“We started our cameras when the object was nearly in sight; the next thing we knew, our lights were gone. We heard the hatch open. Bodies crept in. They took us somewhere—a dark, narrow place—it reminded me of—I don’t know what. They kept repeating the same words over and over. They did something to Gordon.
“Then I was back in the spacecraft at the controls. I didn’t know Gordon was in there with me. I knew only that I was over the base, about to land, the thing they told me shouting in my head like an alarm. I climbed out as soon as I landed; they covered Gordon right away and put us into an ambulance—both of us still in our space suits—that’s important—and drove us to base hospital. They left Gordon in the ambulance while a couple of them took me inside and got my space suit off and began to examine me. I tried to tell them the thing that was buzzing in my brain, but they paid no attention. I guess I got a little crazy. They ran to get help. They had clothes there waiting for me. I saw a white coat hanging from a hook on the door. I put it over my clothes and left by the window. The ambulance with Gordon was still outside.”
“Why did you run away?”
“They were going to pull Gordon out of his space suit.”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“They mustn’t do that. That’s the thing I was told over and over. Gordon has to remain in that space suit.”
“Why, Richard?”
“He has to remain in the space suit.”
“Why? Why should he stay in the space suit? He’s dead, isn’t he? How can it matter?”
Richard’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Maybe not so dead, Ellen.”