And, in Hamilton’s trembling hands, the chloroform-impregnated cloth faded away. The bottle, pressing against his hip, ceased to trouble him; he had been relieved of it. Mrs. Pritchet politely placed the sugar bundle in Miss Reiss’ nerveless hands and returned to her hard-boiled egg.
It was over. The strategy had collapsed, quietly and completely.
“Very delicious tea,” Mrs. Pritchet exclaimed, as Marsha came slowly over. “You’re to be congratulated, my dear. You’re a natural-born cook.”
“Well,” Hamilton said, “that’s that.” Settling down on the ground he rubbed his hands briskly together and surveyed the assortment of food. “What do we have here?”
Wide-eyed, David Pritchet gaped at him. “The bottle’s gone!” he wailed. “She took it!”
Ignoring him, Hamilton began collecting a lapful of food. “I guess I’ll have some of everything,” he said heartily. “It sure looks good.”
“Help yourself,” Mrs. Pritchet gushed, her mouth stuffed with egg. “Do try some of this marvelous celery and cream cheese. It’s really incredible.”
“Thanks,” Hamilton acknowledged. I’ll do that.”
David Pritchet, hysterical with despair, leaped to his feet, pointed his finger at his mother, and shrieked, “You wicked old frog—you took our chloroform! You made it disappear. Now what’ll we do?”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Pritchet said matter-of-factly. “It was a nasty, foul-smelling chemical, and I frankly don’t know what you can do. Why don’t you finish your meal and then go see how many kinds of ferns you can identify?”
In a funny, strained little voice Miss Reiss said, “Mrs. Pritchet, what are you going to do with us?”
“Gracious,” Mrs. Pritchet declared, helping herself to more potato salad, “what kind of a question is that? Eat your food, dear. You’re really too thin; you should have more flesh on your bones.”
Mechanically, the group of people ate. Only Mrs. Pritchet seemed to enjoy her meal; she ate with relish . . . and she ate quite a lot.
“It’s so peaceful up here,” she observed. “Only the sound of the wind rustling through the pines.”
Off in the distance, a plane buzzed faintly, a Coast Guard patrol craft on its way up the shore line.
“Dear me,” Mrs. Pritchet said, her brows drawing pettishly together. “What an unwelcome intrusion.” The plane, and all other members of the genus plane, ceased to be.
“Well,” Hamilton said, with mock carelessness, “there goes that. I wonder what next”
“Dampness,” Mrs. Pritchet answered emphatically.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dampness.” Uncomfortably, the woman squirmed around on her cushion. “I can feel the dampness of the ground. It’s very annoying.”
“Can you abolish an abstraction?” Miss Reiss inquired.
“I can, my dear.” The ground, under the six of them, became as warm and dry as toast. “And the wind; it’s a trifle chill, don’t you think?” The wind became a glowing caress. “How do you find it, now?”
A crazed abandon overcame Hamilton. What did he have to lose? There was nothing left; they had reached the end. “Isn’t that ocean a disgusting color?” he announced. “I find it offensive.”
The ocean ceased to be a dull, leaden gray. It became a gay, pastel green.
“Much better,” Marsha managed. Sitting close beside her husband she clutched convulsively at his hand. “Oh, darling—” she began hopelessly.
Pulling her close against him, Hamilton said, “Look at that sea gull flapping around out there.”
“It’s looking for fish,” Miss Reiss commented.
“Evil-minded bird,” Hamilton declared. “Killing helpless fish.”
The gull vanished.
“But fish deserve it,” Miss Reiss pointed out thoughtfully. “They prey on small water life; simple, one-celled protozoa.”
“Vicious, filthy-minded fish,” Hamilton said spiritedly. A faint ripple seemed to stir the water. Fish, as a category, had ceased to exist. In the middle of the picnic cloth, their small wad of smoked herring faded out.
“Oh dear,” Marsha said. “That was imported from Norway.”
“Must have cost quite a bit,” McFeyffe muttered sickly. “All that imported stuff costs.”
“Who wants money?” Hamilton demanded. Getting out a handful of change, he scattered it down the hillside. The bits of bright metal lay sparkling in the early-afternoon sun. “Dirty stuff.”
The glowing dots vanished. In his pocket, his wallet gave a queer thump; the paper bills had left it.
“This is charming, “Mrs. Pritchet giggled. “It’s so sweet of you all to help me. I run out of things, now and then.”
Far down the slope a cow was visible, making its way slowly along. As they watched, the cow did something unmentionable. “Abolish cows!” Miss Reiss cried, but it was unnecessary. Edith Pritchet had already felt displeasure; the cow was gone.
And so, Hamilton noted, was his belt. And his wife’s shoes. And Miss Reiss’ purse. All were made from hide. And on the picnic cloth, the yogurt and cream cheese had left, too.
Leaning over, Miss Reiss tugged at an annoying clump of dry, ragged weeds. “What offensive plants,” she complained. “One of them stuck me.”
The weeds vanished. So did most of the dry grass on the fields where the former cows had grazed. Instead, only barren rock and dirt were visible.
Racing around in an hysterical circle, David shouted, “I found some poison oak! Poison oak!”
“The woods are full of it,” Hamilton revealed. “And nettles. And treacherous vines.”
To their right, the grove of trees shuddered. All around them the forest gave a faint, almost invisible twitch. A thinness of vegetation became evident
Gravely, Marsha removed the remnants of her shoes. Only the cloth stitching and the metal staples remained. “Isn’t this sad?” she said mournfully to Hamilton.
“Banish shoes,” Hamilton suggested.
“That would be a good idea,” Mrs. Pritchet agreed, bright-eyed with enthusiasm. “Shoes cramp the feet” The remnants in Marsha’s hands disappeared, along with the various shoes of the group. McFeyffe’s great loud socks waggled starkly in the sunlight Embarrassed, he dragged them under him and out of sight.
On the horizon, the smoke of an ocean tramp steamer was faintly visible. “Crass commercial freighter,” Hamilton stated. “Wipe it off the map.”
The haze of dark smoke vanished. Commercial shipping had come to an end.
“A much cleaner world,” Miss Reiss commented. Along the highway, a car moved. Its radio blared up tinnily. “Abolish radios,” Hamilton said. The noise ceased. “And TV sets and movies.” No visible change occurred, but it had been consummated, nevertheless. “And cheap musical instruments—accordions and harmonicas and banjos and vibraharps.”
All over the world, those instruments were gone. “Advertisements,” Miss Reiss cried, as a heavy oval truck moved along the highway, its painted sides gleaming with words. The words disappeared. “Trucks, too.” The truck itself disappeared, hurtling the driver into the drainage ditch at the edge of the pavement.
“He’s hurt,” Marsha said feebly. The struggling driver was immediately gone.
“Gasoline,” Hamilton said. “That’s what the truck was carrying.”
All over the world, gasoline vanished.
“Oil and turpentine,” Miss Reiss added.
“Beer, rubbing alcohol and tea,” Hamilton said.
“Pancake syrup, honey and cider,” Miss Reiss said.
“Apples, oranges, lemons, apricots and pears,” Marsha said faintly.
“Raisins and peaches,” McFeyffe muttered grumpily.
“Nuts, yams and sweet potatoes,” Hamilton said.
Obligingly, Mrs. Pritchet abolished those various categories from the face of the earth. Their cups of tea became empty. The supply of picnic food markedly dwindled.
“Eggs and frankfurters,” Miss Reiss crie
d, leaping to her feet.
“Cheese, doorknobs and coat hangers,” Hamilton added, joining her.
Giggling, Mrs. Pritchet added the categories. “Really,” the gasped, heaving with merriment, “aren’t we going too far?”
“Onions, electric toasters and toothbrushes,” Marsha said clearly.
“Sulphur, pencils, tomatoes and flour,” David chimed in, getting into the swing of it
“Herbs, automobiles, and plows,” Miss Reiss shouted. Behind them, the Ford coupe quietly vanished. On the rolling hills and slopes of Big Sur Park, the vegetation again thinned.
“Sidewalks,” Hamilton suggested.
“Drinking fountains and clocks,” Marsha added.
“Furniture polish,” David screamed, dancing up and down.
“Hairbrushes,” Miss Reiss said.
“Comic books,” McFeyffe mentioned. “And that gooey pastry with all the writing on it. That French stuff.”
“Chairs,” Hamilton said suddenly, dazed by his daring. “And couches.”
“Couches are immoral,” Miss Reiss agreed, stepping on the thermos bottle in her excitement. “Away with them. And glass. Everything glass.”
Obligingly, Mrs. Pritchet abolished her spectacles, and all related items throughout the universe.
“Metal,” Hamilton cried in a weak, astonished voice.
The zipper of his trousers disappeared. What was left of the thermos bottle—a metal husk—vanished. Marsha’s tiny wrist watch, the fillings in their teeth; the staves and hooks of the women’s underclothing, ceased to be.
In a frenzy, David scampered off, screaming, “Clothes!” Instantly, they were all mother-naked. But it scarcely mattered; sex had long ago disappeared.
“Vegetation,” Marsha said, scrambling up to stand fearfully beside her husband. This time, the change was startling. The hills, the vast expanse of mountain, became as bald as a slab of stone. Nothing remained but the brown earth of autumn, baking under the cold, pale sun.
“Clouds,” Miss Reiss said, face twitching. The few puffs of delicate white that drifted overhead were gone. “And haze!” Instantly, the sun blazed furiously.
“Oceans,” Hamilton said. The pastel green expanse winked out abruptly; all that remained was an incredibly deep pit of dry sand that extended as far as the eye could see. Appalled, he hesitated for an instant, giving Miss Reiss time to cry:
“Sand!”
The titanic pit deepened. The bottom was lost from sight. A low, ominous rumble shook the ground under them; the basic balance of the earth had been shifted.
“Hurry,” Miss Reiss panted, her face distorted with passion. “What next? What’s left?”
“Cities,” David suggested.
Impatiently, Hamilton waved him aside. “Gullies,” he bellowed. At once, they were standing on a uniform plain; all depressions had been ironed out. Six naked, pale figures of assorted weights and shapes, they stood gazing fervently around them.
“All animals but man,” Miss Reiss gasped breathlessly.
It was done.
“All life forms but man,” Hamilton topped her.
“Acids!” Miss Reiss shouted, and instantly sank down to her knees, face contorted with pain. All of them writhed in an ecstasy of discomfort; basic body chemistry had been radically altered.
“Certain metallic salts!” Hamilton screamed. Again, they were convulsed by internal agony.
“Specific nitrates!” Miss Reiss added shrilly.
“Phosphorus!”
“Sodium chloride!”
“Iodine!”
“Calcium!” Miss Reiss sank semi-conscious onto her elbows; all of them lay strewn about in postures of helpless suffering. The bloated, palpitating body of Edith Pritchet wriggled in spasms; saliva dribbled from her slack lips as she fought to concentrate on the enumerated categories.
“Helium!” Hamilton croaked.
“Carbon dioxide!” Miss Reiss whispered faintly.
“Neon,” Hamilton managed. Everything around him wavered and faded; he was spinning in a chaos of infinite, gloomy darkness. “Freon. Gleon.”
“Hydrogen,” Miss Reiss’ pale lips formed, swimming in the shadows close by.
“Nitrogen,” Hamilton summoned, as the swirl of non-being closed around him.
In a last feeble burst of energy, Miss Reiss raised herself up and quavered, “Air!”
The world’s layer of atmosphere swept out of existence. His lungs totally empty, Hamilton descended into a crashing blur of death. As the universe ebbed away, he saw the inert form of Edith Pritchet roll over in a reflexive spasm: her consciousness and personality had fled.
They had won. Her grip on them was gone. They had put an end to her—they were finally, agonizingly free… .
He lived. He lay outstretched, too drained of energy to stir, his chest rising and falling, his fingers clutching at the ground. But where the hell was he?
With tremendous effort, he managed to open his eyes.
He was not in Mrs. Pritchet’s world. Around him, the dull pulse of darkness pounded and throbbed. An ugly undercurrent that drifted and swelled and pressed ominously against him. But dimly, he could make out other shapes, other bodies sprawled here and there.
Marsha, inert and silent, lay not far off. Beyond her lay the hulk of Charley McFeyffe, mouth open, eyes glazed. And, vaguely, in the swirl of drifting gloom, he could identify Arthur Silvester, David Pritchet, the limp form of Bill Laws, and the vast, clumsy shape of Edith Pritchet, still unconscious.
Were they back in the Bevatron? A brief, thrilling flicker of joy touched him … and then it slipped away. No. This was not the Bevatron. In his throat, a slow bubbling wail formed, forcing its way up and out of his mouth. Desperately, feebly, he struggled to creep away from the thing that loomed over him, the slender, bone-like shell of life that gradually crumpled into itself until it was bending down close to him.
In his ear, its dry, plucking whisper began. Vibrating dully, the sound drummed and echoed at him, coming again and again until he had stopped trying to scream it down, had stopped his futile effort to push it away.
“Thank you,” it breathed metallically. “You did your part very well. It happened just as I planned.”
“Get away!” he shrieked.
“I’ll get away,” the voice promised. “I want you to get up and go about your business. I want to watch you. All of you are very interesting. I’ve been watching you a long time, but not the way I want. I want to watch you close up. I want to watch you every minute. I want to see everything you do. I want to be around you, right inside you, where I can get at you when I need to. I want to be able to touch you. I want to be able to make you do things. I want to see how you react. I want. I want …”
Now he knew where he was; he knew whose world they were in. He recognized the calm, metallic whisper that beat relentlessly into his ears and brain.
It was the voice of Joan Reiss.
XII
“THANK HEAVEN,” a voice was saying, slowly and methodically. A woman’s crisp voice. “We’re back. We’re back in the real world.”
The pools of gloom were gone. The familiar scene of forest and ocean lay spread out everywhere; the green expanse of Big Sur Park and the ribbon of highway at the foot of Cone Peak had seeped back into existence.
Overhead hung the crisp blue sky of afternoon. The California golden poppies sparkled in the autumn moisture. There lay the picnic spread, the jars and dishes and paper plates and cups. To Hamilton’s right rose the cool
grove of evergreens. The Ford coupe, bright and shiny, glinted in a friendly, metallic way from where he had parked it, not far off, at the end of the meadow.
A sea gull flapped through the haze gathered along the horizon. A Diesel truck rumbled noisily along the highway, trailing clouds of black smoke. In the dry shrubbery halfway down the slope, a ground squirrel zigzagged toward his crumbling dirt burrow.
On all sides of Hamilton the others were stirring. They were seven in all: Bi
ll Laws was somewhere at San Jose, lamenting the loss of his soap factory. Through a pain-wracked blur, Hamilton could make out the form of his wife; Marsha had risen shakily to her knees and was gazing blankly around her. Not far off was the still-inert Edith Pritchet. Beyond were Arthur Silvester and David Pritchet. At the edge of the picnic spread, Charley McFeyffe had begun to feebly twitch.
Close by Hamilton sat the trim, sparse figure of Joan Reiss. Methodically, the woman was gathering together her purse and glasses; her face was almost expressionless as she circumspectly patted at her tight bun of hair.
“Thank heaven,” she repeated, climbing skillfully to her feet. “That’s over.”
It was her voice that had aroused him.
McFeyffe, from where he lay, gazed at her vacantly, his face blank with shock. “Back,” he echoed, without comprehension.
“We’re back in the real world,” Miss Reiss said, in a matter-of-fact voice. “Isn’t that wonderful?” To the large, unmoving shape stretched out in the moist grass beside her, she said: “Get up, Mrs. Pritchet. You don’t have any hold over us, now.” Bending over, she pinched the woman’s great bloated arm. “Everything’s the way it used to be.”
“Thank God,” Arthur Silvester muttered piteously, as he struggled to get up. “Oh, God, that awful voice.”
“Is it over?” Marsha breathed, her brown eyes misty with doubt and relief. Shuddering, she tottered up and stood swaying. “That awful nightmare at the end … I only caught a glimpse of it—”
“What was it?” David Pritchet pleaded, trembling with fright. “That place and that voice talking to us—”
“It’s gone,” McFeyffe said weakly, with prayerful avidity. “We’re safe.”
“I’ll help you up, Mr. Hamilton,” Miss Reiss said, approaching him. Extending her slender, bony hand, she stood smiling her pale, colorless smile. “How does it feel to be back in the real world?”
He could say nothing. He could only lie, petrified with terror.
“Come now,” Miss Reiss said calmly. “You’re going to have to get up sooner or later.” Pointing to the Ford, she explained, “I want you to drive us back to Belmont. The sooner everybody is back home safe and sound, the happier I’ll be.” Sharp faced without a trace of sentiment, she added, “I want to see you all back the way you were, back where you belong. I won’t be satisfied until then.”
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