Freddy Bates stood beside the huge refrigerator, one hand jammed deep into a jacket pocket.
“Shep,” said Freddy Bates, “if I were you, I wouldn’t try it. Fishhook has the place tied up. You haven’t got a chance.”
VI
Blaine stood frozen for a second while wonder hammered at him. And it was surprise and bafflement, rather than either fear or anger, that held him frozen there. Surprise that, of all people, it should be Freddy Bates. Freddy, no longer the aimless man-about-town, the inconsequential mystery man in a town that was full of such as he, but an agent of Fishhook and, apparently, a very able one.
And another thing—that Kirby Rand had known and had allowed him to walk out of the office and go down the elevator. But grabbing for a phone as soon as he had reached the corridor to put Freddy on the job.
It had been clever, Blaine admitted to himself—much more clever than he himself had been. There had never been a moment that he had suspected Rand felt anything was wrong, and Freddy, when he picked him up, had been his normal, ineffectual self.
Anger soaked slowly into him, to replace the wonder. Anger that he had been taken in, that he had been trapped by such a jerk as Freddy.
“We’ll just walk outside,” said Freddy, “like the friends we are, and I’ll take you back to have a talk with Rand. No fuss, no fight, but very gentlemanly. We would not want to do anything—either one of us—to cause Charline embarrassment.”
“No,” said Blaine. “No, of course, we wouldn’t.”
His mind was racing, seeking for a way, looking for an out, anything at all that would get him out of this. For he was not going back. No matter what might happen, he wasn’t going back with Freddy.
He felt the pinkness stir as if it were coming out.
“No!” yelled Blaine. “No!”
But it was too late. The pinkness had crawled out and it filled his brain and he was still himself, but someone else as well. He was two things at once and it was most confusing and something strange had happened.
The room became as still as death except for the groaning of the clock upon the wall. And that was strange, as well, for until this very moment, the clock had done no groaning; it had whirred, but never groaned.
Blaine took a swift step forward and Freddy didn’t move. He stayed standing there, with the hand thrust in the pocket.
And another step and still Freddy barely stirred. His eyes stayed stiff and staring and he didn’t blink. But his face began to twist, a slow and tortured twist, and the hand in the pocket moved, but so deliberately that one only was aware of a sort of stirring, as if the arm and hand and the thing the hand clutched in the pocket were waking from deep sleep.
And yet another step and Blaine was almost on him, with his fist moving like a piston. Freddy’s mouth dropped slowly open, as if the jaw hinge might be rusty, and his eyelids came creeping down in the caricature of a blink.
Then the fist exploded on his jaw. Blaine hit where he was aiming and he hit with everything he had, his torso twisting to follow through the blow. Even as he hit and the pain of contact slashed across his knuckles and tingled in his wrist, he knew it was all wrong. For Freddy had scarcely moved, had not even tried to defend himself.
Freddy was falling, but not as one should fall. He was falling slowly, deliberately, as a tree will topple when the final cut is made. In slow motion, he crumpled toward the floor and as he fell his hand finally cleared the pocket and there was a gun in it. The gun slipped from his flaccid fingers and beat him to the floor.
Blaine bent to scoop it up and he had it in his hand before Freddy hit the floor and he stood there, with the gun in hand, watching Freddy finally strike the floor—not actually striking it, but just sort of settling down on it and relaxing in slow motion on its surface.
The clock still groaned upon the wall and Blaine swung around to look at it and saw that the second hand was barely crawling across the numbered face. Crawling where it should have galloped and groaning when it should have whirred and the clock, Blaine told himself, had gone crazy, too.
There was something wrong with time. The creeping second hand and Freddy’s slow reaction was evidence of that.
Time had been slowed down.
And that was impossible.
Time did not slow down; time was a universal constant. But if time, somehow, had slowed down, why had not he been a party to it?
Unless—
Of course, unless time had stayed the way it was and he had been speeded up, had moved so fast that Freddy had not had the time to act, had been unable to defend himself, could under no circumstances have gotten the gun out of his pocket.
Blaine held his fist out in front of him and looked at the gun. It was a squat and ugly thing and it had a deadly bluntness.
Freddy had not been fooling, nor was Fishhook fooling. You do not pack a gun in a little game all filled with lightness and politeness. You do not pack a gun unless you’re prepared to use it. And Freddy—there was no doubt of that—had been prepared to use it.
Blaine swung back toward Freddy and he was still upon the floor and he seemed to be most restful. It would be quite a little while before Freddy would be coming round.
Blaine dropped the gun into his pocket and turned toward the door and as he did so he glanced up at the clock and the second hand had barely moved from where he’d seen it last.
He reached the door and opened it and took one last glance back into the room. The room still was bright with chrome, still stark in its utility and the one untidy thing within it was Freddy sprawled upon the floor.
Blaine stepped out of the door and moved along the flagstone walk that led to the long stone stairway that went slanting across the great cliff face.
A man was lounging at the head of the stairs and he began to straighten slowly as Blaine raced down the walk toward him.
The light from one of the upstairs windows shown across the face of the straightening man and Blaine saw the lines of outraged surprise, as if they were sculptured lines in a graven face.
“Sorry, pal,” said Blaine.
He shot his arm out, stiff from the shoulder, with the palm spread flat and caught the graven face.
The man reeled backward slowly, step by cautious step, tilting farther and farther backward with each step. In another little while he’d fall flat upon his back.
Blaine didn’t wait to see. He went running down the stairs and out in the road, beyond the dark lines of parked vehicles, stood a single car, with its tail lights gleaming and its motor humming softly.
It was Harriet’s car, Blaine told himself, but it was headed the wrong way—not down the road toward the canyon’s mouth, but into the canyon’s maw. And that was wrong, he knew, because the road pinched out a mile or two beyond.
He reached the bottom of the steps and threaded his way among the cars out into the road.
Harriet sat waiting in the car and he walked around it and opened the door. He slid into the seat.
Weariness hit him, a terrible, bone-aching weariness, as if he had been running, as if he’d run too far. He sank into the seat and looked at his hands lying in his lap and saw that they were trembling.
Harriet turned to look at him. “It didn’t take you long,” she said.
“I got a break,” said Blaine. “I hurried.”
She put the car into gear and it floated up the road, its airjets thrumming and the canyon walls picking up the thrumming to fling it back and forth.
“I hope,” said Blaine, “you know where you are going. The road ends up here a ways.”
“Don’t worry, Shep. I know.”
He was too tired to argue. He was all beaten out.
And he had a right to be, he told himself, for he had been moving ten times—or a hundred times?—faster than he should, than the human body ever had been intended to. He had been using energy at a terrific rate—his heart had beat the faster, his lungs had worked the harder and his muscles had gone sliding back and forth at an astoun
ding rate.
He lay quietly, his mind agape at what had happened, and wondering, too, what had made it happen. Although the wonder was a formalized and an academic wonder, for he knew what it was.
The pinkness had faded out of him and he went hunting it and found it, snug inside its den.
Thanks, he said to it.
Although it seemed a little funny that he should be thanking it, for it was a part of him—it was inside his skull, it sheltered in his brain. And yet not a part of him, not yet a part of him. But a skulker no longer, a fugitive no more.
The car went fleeing up the canyon and the air was fresh and cool, as if it had been new-washed in some clear mountain stream, and the smell of pine came down between the walls like the smell of a faint and delicate perfume.
Perhaps, he told himself, it had been with no thought of helping him that the thing inside his brain had acted as it did. Rather it might have been an almost automic reflex action for the preservation of itself. But no matter what it was, it had saved him as surely as itself. For the two of them were one. No longer could either of them act independently of the other. They were bound together by the legerdemain of that sprawling pinkness on that other planet, by the double of the thing that had come to live with him—for the thing within his mind was a shadow of its other self five thousand light-years distant. “Have trouble?” Harriet asked.
“I met up with Freddy.”
“Freddy Bates, you mean.”
“He’s the one and only Freddy.”
“The little noncompoop.”
“Your little nincompoop,” said Blaine, “was packing a gun and he had blood within his eyes.”
“You don’t mean—”
“Harriet,” said Blaine, “this is liable to get rough. Why don’t you let me out—”
“Not on your life,” said Harriet. “I’ve never had so much fun.”
“You aren’t going anywhere. You haven’t much road left.”
“Shep, you may not think it to look at me, but I’m the intellectual type. I do a lot of reading and I like history best of all. Especially if there are a lot of campaign maps to follow.”
“So?”
“So I’ve found out one thing. It is always a good idea to have a line of retreat laid out.”
“But not up this road.”
“Up this road,” she said.
He turned his head and watched her profile and she didn’t look the part—not the hard-boiled newspaper gal that she really was. No chatter column writer nor a sob sister nor a society hen, but one of the dozen or so top-notch reporters spelling out the big picture of Fishhook for one of the biggest newspapers in North America.
And yet as chic, he thought, as a fashion model. Chic, without being sleek, and with an air of quiet assurance that would have been arrogance in any other woman.
There was nothing, he was sure, that could be known of Fishhook which she didn’t know. She wrote with a strangely objective viewpoint, one might almost say detached, but even in this rare atmosphere of journalistic prose she injected a soft sense of human warmth.
And in the face of all of this, what was she doing here?
She was a friend, of course. He had known her for years, ever since that day shortly after she had arrived at Fishhook and they had gone to dinner at the little place where the old blind woman still sold roses. He had bought her a rose, he remembered, and being far from home and lonesome she had cried a little. But, he told himself, she’d probably not cried since.
Strange, he thought, but it all was strange. Fishhook, itself, was a modern nightmare which the outer world, in a century’s time, had not quite accepted.
He wondered what it had been like, that century ago, when the men of science had finally given up, when they had admitted that Man was not for space. And all the years were dead and all the dreams were futile and Man had finally ended up in a little planetary dead-end. For then the gods had toppled and Man, in his secret mind, had known that after all the years of yearnings, he had achieved nothing more than gadgets.
Hope had fallen on hard times and the dreams had dwindled and the trap closed tight—but the urge to space had refused to die. For there was a group of very stubborn men who took another road—a road that Man had missed, or deserted, whichever you might choose, many years ago and ever since that time had sneered at and damned with the name of magic.
For magic was a childish thing; it was an old wives’ tale; it was something out of nursery books—and in the hard and brittle world of the road that Man had taken it was intolerable. You were out of your mind if you believed in magic.
But the stubborn men had believed in it, or at least in the principle of this thing which the world called magic, for it was not actually magic if one used the connotation which through the years had been placed upon the word. Rather it was a principle as true as the principles which underlay the physical sciences. But rather than a physical science, it was a mental science; it concerned the using of the mind and the extension of the mind instead of the using of the hands and the extensions of the hands.
Out of this stubbornness and this belief and faith Fishhook had arisen—Fishhook because it was a reaching out, a fishing into space, a going of the mind where the body could not go.
Ahead of the car the road swung to the right, then swiveled to the left, in a tightening curve. This was the turnaround; here the road came to an end.
“Hang on,” said Harriet.
She swung the car off the road and nosed it up a rocky stream bed that ran along one of the canyon walls. The airjets roared and blustered, the engines throbbed and howled. Branches scraped along the bubble top and the car tilted sharply, then brought itself aright.
“This is not too bad,” said Harriet. “There is a place or two, later on, where it gets a little rough.”
“This is the line of retreat you were talking about?”
“That’s exactly right.”
And why, he wondered, should Harriet Quimby need a line of retreat. He almost asked her, but decided not to.
She drove cautiously, traveling in the dry creek bed, clinging close against the wall of rock that came down out of darkness. Birds fled squawling from the bushes and branches dragged against the car, screeching in their agony of tortured wood.
The headlights showed a sharp bend, with a barn-size boulder hemming in the wall of rock. The car slowed to a crawl, thrust its nose into the space between the boulder and the wall, swiveled its rear around and went inching through the space into the clear again.
Harriet cut down the jets and the car sank to the ground, grating on the gravel in the creek bed. The jets cut out and the engine stopped and silence closed upon them.
“We walk from here?” asked Blaine.
“No. We only wait a while. They’ll come hunting for us. If they heard the jets, they’d known where we had gone.”
“You go clear to the top?”
“Clear to the top,” she said.
“You have driven it?” he asked.
“Many times,” she told him. “Because I knew that if the time ever came to use it, I’d have to use it fast. There’d be no time for guessing or for doubling back. I’d have to know the trail.”
“But why—”
“Look, Shep. You are in a jam. I get you out of it. Shall we let it go at that?”
“If that’s the way you want it, sure. But you’re sticking out your neck. There’s no need to stick it out.”
“I’ve stuck out my neck before. A good newsman sticks out the neck whenever there is need to.”
That might be true, he told himself, but not to this extent. There were a lot of newspapermen in Fishhook; a few he could even call his friends. And yet no one of them—no one but Harriet—would do what she was doing.
So newspapering by itself could not be the answer. Nor could friendship be the entire answer, either. It was something more than either, perhaps a good deal more than either.
The answer might be that Harriet was not
a newsman only. She must be something else. There must be another interest and a most compelling one.
“One of the other times you stuck your neck out, did you stick it out for Stone?”
“No,” she said. “I only heard of Stone.”
They sat in the car, listening, and from far down the canyon came the faint muttering of jets. The mutterings came swiftly up the road and Blaine tried to count them and it seemed that there were three, but he could not be sure.
The cars came to the turnaround and stopped and men got out of them and tramped into die brush.
Harriet put out a hand and her fingers clamped around Blaine’s arm.
Shep, what did you do to Freddy (Picture of a grinning death’s-head.)
Knocked him out, is all.
And he had a gun?
Took it away from him.
(Freddy in a coffin, with a tight smile on his painted face, with a monstrous lily stuck between his folded hands.)
No. Not that. (Freddy with a puffed-up eye, with a bloody nose, a cross-hatch of patches on his blotchy face.)
They sat quietly, listening.
The shouts of the men died away and the cars started up and went down the road.
Now?
We’ll wait, said Harriet. Three came up. Only two went back. There is still one waiting. (A row of listening ears, all stretched out of shape with straining for a sound). They’re sure we came up the road. They don’t know where we are. This is (a gaping trap with jagged rows of teeth). They’ll figure we’ll think they went away and will betray ourselves.
They waited. Somewhere in the woods a raccoon whickered and a bird, disturbed by some night time prowler, protested sleepily.
There is a place, said Harriet. A place where you’ll be safe. If you want to go there.
Any place. I haven’t any choice.
You know what the outside’s like?
I’ve heard.
They have signs in some towns (a billboard with the words: PARRY, DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU HERE). They have prejudice and intolerance and there are (bearded, old-time preachers thumping pulpits; men clad in nightgowns, with masks upon their face and rope and whip in hand; bewildered, frightened people cowering beneath a symbolic bramble bush).
The Complete Serials Page 62
