The House that Stood Still

by A. E. van Vogt

  Stephens climbed out of the car. His intention was to open two graves. The first one (Francisco Tanequila who had died in 1770) and the other to be selected at random. After an hour he was still sweating away in a shallow hole that he had cut into the first grave. He was appalled at the adobe-like hardness of the ground, and when another hour had passed, he began seriously to consider abandoning the project. The blackness of the night decided him to stay. The decision paid off as his shovel abruptly struck softer dirt. Less than half an hour after that, he brought up a piece of rotted wood, and shortly after that he penetrated into the coffin and unearthed the stones.

  There was a dozen of them with a total weight of about a hundred and eighty pounds. Stephens made sure the coffin contained nothing else, then he filled in the grave, and sat down for a rest. He knew now that he would have to open a second grave.

  He tested several by sinking his shovel into them. The softest dirt drew his shovel again, and soon he was digging forcefully. But he had only gone a foot when he struck something that resisted his thrust. The resistance was of such a curious nature that Stephens bent down with his flashlight, and clawed at the dirt with his fingers. Human clothing.

  In a few minutes of careful scraping with his hands, he had the head uncovered. It was defaced beyond recognition. Stephens flinched as he studied it, but after a moment’s thought he exposed one of the hands, and took his sunglasses out of their case. Carefully, he impressed the imprint of the forefinger on the inside of one of the lenses, and the thumb on the inside of the other. He returned the glasses to their case, and slipped the case into his pocket.

  Very carefully, an emptiness in his stomach, Stephens covered the body and headed for home. It was after midnight and he had still to go to the airport He drove home without incident, called the airport, and asked that the pilot he had hired wait for him. Then he bathed and dressed.

  About one o’clock the plane took off, and landed half an hour later at a remote southern appendage of Western Avenue. A taxi took him to the Sunset strip, where Peeley had his law office in a Spanish-type court. The place was in darkness, the whole series of shops and offices untenanted at this hour of the night.

  He was prepared to break in, but one of the keys from Mistra’s purse fitted; and it was a simple matter then of finding the letter that Tannahill had signed, authorizing Peeley to “continue” the payments the estate had been making to “members of the Pan-American Club.”

  Stephens slept most of the way back to Almirante, and went to bed immediately when he got home.

  He was downtown again by noon.

  He had examined his sunglasses during the night, and the fingerprints of the dead man had seemed clear. Now, in the light of day, he took them out again; and there was no doubt about it. Each lens had an unblurred print on it.

  Stephens studied them, finally took out his handkerchief and partly removed the mark of the forefinger. For his purposes, it was a little pat to have both prints so good. The precaution taken, he headed for the police station, and gave the glasses to the officer in charge of the fingerprint bureau. He explained:

  “A few days ago I reported that vandals had cut my phone wires. This morning I found these glasses lying in the grass nearby. I thought it might be worth finding out if you could photograph the prints and have them checked.”

  The bespectacled lieutenant examined the glasses with interest. “Sure,” he said, “we’ll get ’em. We’ll call you, Mr. Stephens.”

  Stephens turned to go, then slowly faced the man again. The crises he was forcing might not wait on a slow investigation. He asked, “I have a vague notion that you’ll have to check them either with Washington or the driver’s license division at Sacramento. How long will that take?”

  The officer said casually, “If we don’t have a record here, it’ll take a week maybe.”

  Stephens gloomily guessed two weeks, hesitated once more, then said, “I also understand that you can wire.”

  “For a vandal?” the man was astounded.

  Stephens said, “I’m curious, and besides, I’m not too ready to dismiss the incident as unimportant. So I’ll pay the expenses of a wire check-up. How about getting me an authorization form to sign?”

  Stephens stopped in next at the assay office. The old man came out of the rear, blinking. “You’re a fine one,” he said. “Offer extra money for a job by ten, then don’t come in.”

  “I’ll still pay the extra,” said Stephens.

  The other seemed relieved. He began. “Chemically, there was nothing unusual about that sample. It was ordinary calcium carbonate in the form of marble.”

  “Damn!” said Stephens.

  “Not so fast.” The old man was grinning. “I’m not finished.”

  Stephens waited.

  “Lately, with so much prospecting for pitchblende going on, we’ve included tests with the electroscope as part of our routine, and surprisingly, your stuff was radioactive.”

  He stared at Stephens triumphantly, and repeated: “Radioactive . . . Very slight. I was unable to recover any residue. And, when separated, the calcium, the carbon and the oxygen were not in themselves radioactive. Very interesting. If it leads to anything, how about sending the business our way?”

  “If you’ll keep quiet about it for now,” said Stephens.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” was the retort.

  Outside again, he thought: Radioactivity. It explained everything and it explained nothing. It was a facet of nature that man had by no means thoroughly explored.

  He had a sudden vision of men living in houses made radioactive in exactly the right fashion and so immortalizing themselves.

  He wondered if the robot was limited in the extent of its operations. Or could the process be enlarged to include more than a privileged few; or even duplicated perhaps to include all mankind?

  XVII

  He drove to the editorial offices of the Almirante Herald. But Carewell, its publisher, was “out of town.” He phoned Judge Porter, Judge Adams and a dozen others of the group: “Gone for the holidays” “Out of town” “Expected back tomorrow.”

  Stephens left a message each time, asking to be called at any time, day or night, whenever the absentee returned.

  He ate lunch, then went to his office, and sat at his desk thinking over what he had done. He was committed. He could not undo the phone calls he had made. The group members, returning home, would find his message. When they checked with each other, it would become clear that he knew who they were.

  From their point of view, he would seem an intruder— a man who knew too much.

  He had to make his position stronger. He had to have them where he could make an attack on them if necessary.

  He was still considering how he might do so, and through whom, when Miss Chainer buzzed him. “Oh, Mr. Stephens, Mr. Howland is calling you.”

  Stephens felt a peculiar thrill. Why, of course, he thought, almost breathlessly, that’s one way.

  It would be a facet only, but not unimportant. The police might be very useful indeed in a crisis.

  Howland’s voice said, a moment later, “I want you to come to my office some time this afternoon. Can you make it?”

  “How about right now?” said Stephens.

  “Fine.”

  He hung up. And it was only slowly that his tension let go. It struck him then that he had been so intent on the vital things he had to say to Howland that it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what Howland wanted to say to him.

  He sighed, because the plunge was taken. And there was no turning back. Once more, he called to see if either the publishers or the judges were available. They weren’t.

  Stephens left his name.

  He drove to the courthouse, and was immediately admitted to the inner sanctum. Howland strode from behind his desk as Stephens entered, and offered his hand. Then: “Sit down!”

  Howland returned to his own chair, and said slowly: “Stephens, we finally located beyond ques
tion the fingerprints of Newton Tannahill. They do not match those of his nephew, Arthur. Accordingly, I’ve made a grave mistake in ordering Tannahill’s arrest.”

  He paused, and seemed to be studying Stephens’ face for a reaction. Stephens with difficulty maintained a poker expression. He said coolly, “I told you you were acting hastily.”

  Howland’s teeth clamped hard together. “Damn it,” he said, “why the hell weren’t there any prints earlier?” He calmed; then: “I need your help.”

  Stephens scarcely heard. The first blank feeling in his mind gave way to a great wonder. The group had actually solved the problem of altering fingerprints. He could only guess at the method but it must be part of the de-differentiation process. As the cells returned to their youth, the decisive change could be made. It was hard to believe that there could be any other satisfactory explanation, unless he was prepared at this late date to dismiss the immortality aspect of the affair as a hoax. He realized, rather grimly, that he was not prepared to do so.

  He brought his mind back to what Howland had said, and considered the bearing it might have on what he himself had to say to Howland. He decided that it did not change the situation appreciably.

  Howland leaned forward. “Stephens,” he said, “I’m prepared to forget the past. It’s over; and I’ve got my wits about me again. Here’s the problem: I’ll be ruined if I simply withdraw the charge. If you can suggest a way out, we’ll do business.”

  Stephens had to fight a tension that almost knotted his stomach muscles. Because here was the opportunity he had wanted. He said, “I’ll show you exactly how we can clear Mr. Tannahill.

  “Go on!” said Howland softly.

  Coolly, pausing only for breath, Stephens described the whipping of Mistra, but gave no indication of who the people were that had whipped her. He named no names, made no mention of spaceships, the cave, immortality, or the robot-ship under the mountain. Instead, he concentrated on the notion that a number of people belonging to a cult were apparently obtaining money from the Tannahill estate. And that that alone explained the caretaker’s murder and all subsequent events.

  When he finally left the district attorney’s office, it seemed to Stephens that he had taken another big step into darkness.

  He drove up to the Grand House. As he rounded the clump of trees and came within sight of that noble tier of steps, he half-expected to see signs of life around the estate.

  He rang the doorbell for several minutes, without an answer. He could have let himself in with one of Mistra’s keys, but instead he walked to the edge of the terrace, jumped to the grass below, and walked around to the back.

  The house looked dark and uneven as seen from the rear, silhouetted against the light blue heaven and the dark blue sparkling sea. The silence of isolation lay upon the structure, and the weight of unthinkable age was heavy over all the land as well as the building.

  The house stood in the sun. And there seemed little question that, to it, murder was an old story, violence common, and intrigue as natural as the life and death cycles it had been built to circumvent. The house that was old was as full of secrets as of years, its bland walls hiding a bloody history . . .

  All the out-buildings were well back from the house, being separated from it by a series of flower gardens and two lines of high shrubs. Trees had been planted skillfully beside each building to shield its uglier aspects from the view of those who dwelt in the house.

  He came to the east slope of the hill. A shallow valley spread below him, and in the distance among trees he could see a green-roofed farmhouse. Then more hills rolling away to the horizon. Stephens followed the crest of the hill to where the road came down to a cliff’s edge—the same road and the same cliff toward which Mistra had driven her car.

  By the time he returned to the nearest out-building, he had his first overall picture of the Grand House and its environs. The sun was low in the western sky, and the water an endless, glittering spectacle. Stephens had little interest in breaking through the padlocks that barred the doors of the nine rear buddings. He guessed that they contained nothing of significance. It was the house that mattered.

  He let himself into the front door of the Grand House, and explored each of the dozen rooms. There were eight bedrooms, a spacious library, a dining room, the living room, and an enormous kitchen. Every room had French doors leading onto a closed patio.

  He stood finally in the hall, and studied the structural design of the interior of the building. He saw that there had been skillfully reconstructed, two rooms to each section.

  It was growing dark as Stephens started down the hill. He was vaguely depressed. He had still to find a clue to the identity of the Indian who was the sole survivor of the first men who had lived in the house.

  He had dinner in town, and drove home. He put his car away, and he was heading toward the house when a rope looped out from behind a bush, and dropped neatly over his shoulders. The noose drew tight around his elbows, and simultaneously he was jerked off his feet.

  The blow of the fall stunned him, and he was unable to resist as the rope was wound around him and a gag was stuffed into his mouth.

  XVIII

  “All right, Stephens, get up and come along!”

  Stephens! The use of his name ended the vague hope that this was merely a gang of night marauders. Stephens climbed to his feet, and staggered as strong hands gripped his topcoat, and tore it halfway down his back—snatched at his suit coat and simultaneously ripped that and his shirt. Half naked, he was jerked against the trunk of a tree. The rope was wound around the trunk.

  It was only seconds after that that there was a thin, whistling sound. And a whip bit into his bare shoulders.

  Stephens gasped. It was as if a knife had slashed across his back. The second lash took his breath away, and brought the shrinking fear that the whip would tear his face and eyes. Clenching his teeth, he pressed his head against the tree bole. By God, he thought, they’d pay for this!

  It held him, that thought, that fury, as the whip reached for him vindictively. The pain lost its terrible sharpness and became a numb sensation. His knees began to sag, and a mist coated his brain. Just when the whipping ceased, he had no clear idea, but suddenly a voice said grimly:

  “We could have killed you. As it is, you have now received a warning. If you ever again concern yourself with our affairs for any reason, we’ll mark you for life. We’ll blind you. We’ll cut your pretty face to ribbons.”

  They must have gone away, for there was silence while he sagged against the tree. His strength came back slowly, and the first light was brightening the eastern sky when he realized that his legs were able to support him again. He grew aware that the loose end of the rope was merely tucked into one of the coils. He worked his arm around to the side of the tree. And tugged the rope free.

  He collapsed on the grass, and lay breathing heavily. At last he started for the house. Stephens unlocked the door, staggered into the living room and lay down on the sofa.

  After a while he went into his bedroom, stripped, and rubbed a soothing salve over the broken flesh. He cleansed and dressed it, then made some coffee. By the time he had finished his first cup, his anger had subsided, and he was feeling a lot better.

  He spent the morning and part of the afternoon lying down. His courage returned slowly, and it seemed clear to him that the group didn’t realize how much he knew. It was hard to believe that otherwise they would seriously expect him to give up.

  The stakes were beyond any resistance they might offer. An immortal group, living secretly in a land of mortal men, had been briefly forced into the open by the action of one or more of their members and by an imminent atomic war. Now, unaware of the schemes of the mysterious Indian, they were trying to close ranks. If they succeeded, the mists would begin to come down, vagueness settle over events. If they succeeded, all too soon in the natural course of events, Allison Stephens would go down into the shadows with the murdered John Ford and William Je
nkins. Become another name on the lists of the dead of some day not too far distant. A few years, a few decades, a moment in eternity. Entirely apart from his blurred plan to make longevity available to all humanity, his personal need was in itself great enough to force him to go on regardless of danger.

  About half past two, Stephens was so far recovered that he got up, shaved and dressed, and ate lunch out of the refrigerator. Then he dialed the Grand House. After several rings, the receiver at the other end clicked, and a woman’s voice said, “This is the housekeeper. Who is calling, please?”

  It was the voice of Gico Aine! The group was back all right.

  Stephens identified himself, waited as she apparently turned away from the phone, and then she said coolly: “Mr. Tannahill asks me to tell you that he had said all that he cares to say in the letter he sent to your office.”

  “Letter?” said Stephens, puzzled.

  He caught himself. “Is Miss Lanett there?”

  “Miss Lanett is also not available to you.”

  Click!

  Stephens slowly replaced the receiver; then he drove down to the office. As he came in, Miss Chainer said:

  ‘There’s a registered, special delivery letter on your desk. It’s marked ‘personal,’ so I didn’t open it”

  “Thank you!” said Stephen automatically.

  He read the letter with pursed lips:

  Dear Mr. Stephens:

  This is to notify you that your contract with the estate is terminated as of now. You will please mail your keys to the Grand House, and walk out of the office within the hour. Adequate separation compensation will be made to you in due course.

  Yours truly,

  Arthur Tannahill