by Keith Laumer
“Not only that,” David said, “we’ve surrounded the house. We’ve been watching you, Thrall―haven’t you noticed?” He smiled a grim smile. “They know I’m here. They sent me here―for a purpose.”
“Wha―what’s that?” Thrall backed to a window, glanced quickly out. In that instant, David’s hand flicked out, palmed a scalpel from the table beside him.
“Good lord!” Thrall’s voice was shaky. “There’s a car―hidden there, by the road . . . “ He whirled on David. “But you’ll never escape alive―”
“Wait!” David snapped. “I said I’d come for a purpose. Don’t you want to hear what it was?”
‘To kill me,” Thrall gasped. “I’m too dangerous to you. You need to put me out of the way―”
“Nonsense,” David said. “We need you. You’re too intelligent a man to kill. And your own people have never appreciated you. We want you to work for us, Mr. Thrall. You’ll be made Supreme Chief Overlord of the planet as soon as it’s conquered provided you cooperate with us.”
“Su―supreme chief? But―you’re lying It’s only a trick!”
“If we’d wanted to kill you, we could have done it last week―remember?” David felt the sweat trickle down the side of his face. He was playing it by ear, from moment to moment, never knowing at what second the man across the room mi^ht snap―might begin firing wildly, pushed beyond the fragile edge that now restrained him.
“Last week?” Thrall frowned. “You mean―at the bridge?”
David nodded. “Of course.”
“I thought at the time-but―”
“And the time before that,” David said. “We knew you realized what was happening. We did it intentionally, let you catch a glimpse of how things were―just so that you’d realize now that killing isn’t what I came for.”
“But―I brought you here . . . “
“Did you, Mr. Thrall?” David smiled. “And I suppose you also killed Cabrito―and dropped that boom that just missed me?”
“No―of course not. But . . . that means . . . and that car down there . . . .”
“We’re here in force,” David said coldly. “The time has come to make your decision, Thrall! Are you with us―or would you prefer to go on fighting alone, unappreciated, despised by your own, looked down on as an eccentric―”
“No,” Thrall said. His smile was a stark grimace as he thrust the gun forward. “A failure I may be―but a traitor to my own world―never!”
The shot rang out in the same instant that David threw himself aside, slammed against the cadaver case, sending the steel box and its grisly contents hurtling across the room. A bullet spanged off metal, a second thunked solidly into wood an inch from David’s head―and then Thrall screamed hoarsely as the heavy box knocked him down and backward against the dial-covered panel. David came to his feet, saw Thrall’s agonized face, twisting away from contact with the outflung arm of the cadaver lying across his body.
“My . . . my legs,” Thrall whispered. “You’ve broken them . . . “
David jumped past the stricken man to the wall switch, flipped it off. In the darkness, as Thrall whimpered, he went to the window, looked down at the weed-grown lawn, the pale ribbon of the drive leading toward the untrimmed hedge lining the road. A small, black car was parked there, amost invisible except for a stray glint of starlight from its windshield.
“Who’s car is that?” David snapped.
“I thought―you said . . . “
“We both talked a lot of nonsense,” David said. He lifted the heavy case off Thrall’s legs, knelt to crouch beside him. “Listen to me, Thrall: I’m no Invader! I went to that meeting for the same reason you did―to get a line on them!”
“Then―you believe―they’re here―among us!” Thrall’s voice was a hoarse rasp of agony.
“I believe we’re both in mortal danger,” David said quickly. “I think we were followed here. Now―”
“But-Cabrito,” Thrall said. “Didn’t you―shoot him?”
“Not me―and not you! There was someone else,
Thrall! I thought at the time you were working together; but not now. You haven’t killed anybody.”
Thrall’s eyes went to the terrible dead face of the cadaver only inches from his own, the dry lips stretched tight over yellowed teeth. “Aren’t you forgetting . . . him?” he whispered.
“That’s a medical supply cadaver. You can see the lesions on the underside of it from lying at the bottom of a formalin tank. Forget trying to impress me with how bad you are, Thrall! We’re in trouble! And I need your help!”
“You . . . you’re lying!” Thrall said with a sudden gleam of renewed fear in his eyes. “You know about last week, at the bridge―and before that, the tree . . . “
“I was stalling, stringing you along,” David said. “You were holding a gun on me, remember? I had to―”
“Do your worst!” Thrall gasped out. “I’ll never betray my own kind! And it’s too late for your friends to help you! You’ll never get out of this house alive! It’s trapped, damn you! Trapped to catch Invaders! And now . . . and now . . . “ His voice trailed off into a moan; his eyes rolled up and set. His head lolled sideways. David checked the injured man’s pulse. It beat, weakly, fluttering.
He stood. He had been right about a couple of things―but very wrong about others. And those mistakes could be fatal. That car down below―it might be innocent enough―but it bore a remarkable resemblance to the one he had seen parked at the alley mouth, behind the Opera House. As for Thrall’s warning―that might have been no more than the ravings of a demented mind. But if it were true . . .
As David tinned from the window, there was a tinkle of glass, a dull smack of lead striking the ceiling behind him. David dropped flat. There was no guard shot; only a threatening silence.
That answers one question, he thought. Now let’s see if I can get out of this place alive . . .
Chapter Four
At the top of the stairs, David hesitated. It was a logical place for a trap. Thrall, he remembered, had kept his hand firmly on the rail, hugging the left wall, all the way up. David felt under the bannister, his fingers touched a metal rod, countersunk in the wood, running lengthways. He pressed it, heard a click. He put his weight carefully on the top step. It held as he descended.
At the floor below, he paused, listening. From somewhere, a faint sound came―or was it merely the moan of wind under the eaves, the creak of aged timbers? He couldn’t be sure; but it would be foolhardy to use the main staircase; it was too exposed. He had to find another way down.
Moving silently, David turned, went along the gallery. Near its end, something moved in the darkness. David froze, then saw that it was only a glass-covered picture, hanging on the wall, reflecting his face. He started on―and Thrall’s voice whispered out of the shadows:
“Try to escape, if you will, Mr. Vincent―but you are doomed . . . doomed . . . “ The voice faded off into a whisper. For a moment, David heard tortured breathing; then a soft click, followed by silence.
“Hidden mikes, eh?” David murmured to himself. He wrenched the picture soundlessly from the wall. It came away trailing wires. He smiled grimly, replaced the spy-eye. Thrall was conscious again, it seemed―and following the action. Maybe in the next few minutes he’d get more than he’d counted on . . . .
The passage turned left here. David took a few cautious steps saw that it ended in a blank wall. He halted, suddenly wary, backed away―and sensed rather than heard a sliding of wood across wood. Tensed as he was, he threw himself back, as a massive panel dropped cutting off the cul de sac from which he had retreated barely in time. Thrall had not been voicing idle threats. Strangers ventured here at their own risk.
David took another turn, found himself in still another passage. He moved forward slowly, all his senses keened, his eyes straining through the darkness. There was an archway ahead. He halted, studying it, saw a small disc set in one side, emitting an almost invisible glow. Tentatively
he passed a hand in front of it. Above, there was the snick of a release mechanism, and with a rush and hiss of metal on oiled rollers, a glittering blade of polished steel slammed down against the massive oak threshold with a blow that shook the floor. David stared at it with incredulous eyes. A guillotine I One more step and the infernal machine would have halved him like a melon.
Shaken, he stepped across the knee-high barrier, moved close to the wall, striving to make out detail in the faint light coming from the open window at the far end. If he could reach it, perhaps he could climb down, bypassing any other surprise the crazed man might have prepared . . .
A row of small perforations along the picture mould caught his eye. Probably they were merely nailheads, from which paintings had hung in the past, but it was as well to be cautious, here in this crazy-house of lethal snares. He reached up, touched one. The shape was a blunted cone, with a small perforation in the end; not a nail―more like a tiny nozzle―
With a sudden hiss, pale liquid jetted from the orifices. David leaped back as stinging drops of the fluid spattered his cheek and neck, burninfr like fire. He wiped at them with his sleeve, saw the fibres of the cloth curl and turn brown. Acrid fumes rolled along the passage―the fumes of raw sulphuric acid. Coughing, David retreated . . .
Ten minutes later, still groping through the seemingly endless maze of corridors which turned and twisted through the old house, David heard the faint click which twice before had warned him of the threat of a mechanical nightmare. This time it was impossible to tell from which direction it came. David threw himself forward, felt the swish of air by his face; a rough noose closed about his outflung arm, yanked him upright with a wrench that almost dislocated his shoulder. Hanging by one arm, with his toes barely touching the floor, David reached up, felt a harsh, hempen rope looped tight about his wrist. If his dive had taken him a few inches to the left, it would have been his neck instead of his wrist entoiled in the noose.
For a moment David hung slackly, too exhausted to struggle. And then, from somewhere ahead, a soft footfall sounded. He strained through the darkness to see, made out the vague rectangle of a stairwell. And against the lesser blackness, there was a movement. A man’s head appeared, then his shoulders, coming slowly up the steps twenty feet away. For an instant, as the advancing figure passed through the faint glow from the window on the landing, his face caught the light: lean, hollow features, set in a slack, emotionless expression―features David had seen before. The features of the alien, Dorn.
Dorn! the name rocketed through his mind. Dorn, still alive―still hunting him―even as he himself hunted the Invaders.
David tugged futilely at the rope. Then, at a sudden thought, his hand went to his jacket pocket, brought out the scalpel, he had palmed in Thrall’s tower chamber of horrors. With uncertain, fumbling strokes, he slashed at the rope, felt the icy sear of pain as the blade bit into his own flesh. But he slashed again, felt tough fibres part, once more, and the rope stretched, snapped.
David landed on his feet, crouched. The dark figure on the stair had halted. David could imagine cold eyed, piercing the darkness. He didn’t know how well the aliens could see in dim light. No better than he, perhaps. But this was not a time to take chances. Silently, with infinite caution, David backed away. Dorn stood where he was, his head cocked, as if listening. Somehow, that silent immobile figure was more menacing than if he had charged, howling his hatred . . .
There was a railing at David’s back. He recognized the spot: the gallery, above the entry hall. A few feet to the left, the grand staircase led down. From here, while hidden in deep shadow, he could see the front entry, the open library door where the light still burned feebly. Against the light, something moved, casting a long shadow across the floor. David tensed, watching as the shadow elongated. He was trapped―cornered. He moved back toward the deeper darkness near the wall―and something prodded him sharply in the back. In instant reflex, he whirled aside―and saw the basalt Death-god tilt outward, fall from its pedestal past the spot he had occupied an instant before. It struck with an impact which was deafening in the silence, smashed halfway through the floor before coming to rest amid the splintered boards.
David backed swiftly, silently, watching the darkness below. The study light snicked off, leaving total darkness. Feet sounded, crossing the floor, not bothering with caution now. They reached the steps, started up. And Dorn was advancing along the gallery now. David turned, pushed at a door behind him. It swung in―and, too late, David felt the yielding of the floor underfoot, felt himself falling headlong into blackness.
2
Even as he fell, David’s hand swept out, caught the edge of the opening through which he had dropped. His groping feet scraped a rough masonry wall underlying the partition above, thumped against a parallel wall behind. The space he had dropped into was a hollow, in the walls, probably unnoticeable to anyone without a tape measure, and a previous hint of its existence. Hanging by his straining hands, David felt nothing below his feet.
Above, the steps reached the top of the stairs, hesitated, came his way. Quickly, David twisted sideways, pressed a foot against each wall―about a yard apart―and, bracing himself like a climber scaling a rock chimney, let go his handhold. He slid down a few inches; then his exploring hands found purchase. He swung against one wall, climbed swiftly down, to the floor a few feet below.
In the darkness, something rustled. “Clever, Mr. Vincent,” Thrall’s breathy voice hissed. “And agile as well. But it won’t help you. Nothing will help you. You will die here . . . “
“Thrall, can you hear me―?” David whispered urgently; but the click cut off all sound. David felt his way along the narrow passage, reached a dead end. From somewhere, a cold draft blew. He heard soft sounds above, a faint humming that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. It was a sound he had heard before; the sound of a creature not human. And now such a creature was peering down, he knew, mere feet away, searching out his hiding place . . .
“It is below,” a cold voice said. “I monitor its air-and blood-pumps.”
“Follow it,” Dorn’s flat voice rasped.
The reply was a harsh, inhuman buzzing.
“Speak the native dialect!” Dorn’s voice was iron-hard.
“And allow the creature to overhear?”
They moved away; David heard the faint sibilance of their voices, but could no longer make out their words. He put his face close to the spot from which Thrall’s voice had come.
“Thrall,” he whispered. don’t know if you can hear me; but you should know by now that I’m not the only one in the house. They’re here, Thrall! They’re hunting me! Listen to them! Listen to what they’re saying!”
There was no reply. Had Thrall heard him? There was no way to know.
David felt over the wall. The draft had to be coming from somewhere; there must be an opening here . . .
He found it: a small, rectangular hatch, about eighteen inches square, probably an access hole for installation of―whatever other diabolical engines Thrall’s mad mind had devised to complicate the plight of unwelcome guests. But it was a way out. As he crawled into the cramped tunnel, he heard the sound of feet scraping the walls of the space behind him.
He moved quietly along the rough planks that floored the crawlspace. There was no room to stand; splinters stung his hands and knees. Blood from the cuts on his wrist was slippery under his palm. He sensed a barrier ahead, reached out, felt bricks. The route ended here.
But the draft still flowed cold around him. He groped his way to the left, crossed open joists. An electrical cable snaked across here, incongruously massive. On impulse, David followed it, traced it to the point where it dived down suddenly to disappear through the floor. Faint light leaked in around the opening through which it passed.
He went on, twenty feet farther reached what he was sure was the outer wall of the house. With his head against the dry, dusty boards, he could feel the minute vibration from the wind outside.<
br />
Carefully, David felt his way along the wall. Behind him, at the far side of the wide, cramped crawl space, he heard soft sounds. He was no longer alone, here in the close darkness . . . .
Again rough stonework blocked his path; a chimney, he guessed. He worked his way around it―and there, set in the outer wall, his groping fingers discovered a framed opening closed by a small hinged panel and secure, by a padlock. The panel was rotted, badly fitted. It was from here that the draft came. David brushed sweat from his eyes―this in spite of the chill in the air―and gripped the door. It would be noisy, he knew, but without hesitation, he wrenched the decayed wood free, laid it aside, and thrust his head through the opening into icy, fresh air.
He was twenty feet above the ground, he saw. Starlight showed him a spiked iron fence directly below, an ornamental border for a long-defunct flower bed. It would be possible to worm through the opening, but to drop twenty feet to that was out of the question. There had to be another way. Leaning farther out, David scanned the wall below. There was a high window just barely in reach of his toes―perhaps―if he hung at arm’s length . . .
It was not an inviting prospect―but it was the only one in sight. Swiftly he reversed himself, pushed his feet out, until he rested on his chest. Then he slid backward, forcing his shoulders through, lowering himself until his arms were extended, only his hands still grasping the frame above. He felt with his feet, found the narrow trim strip above the high window. Gingerly, he lowered his weight to it. Then, twisted sideways and pressed close against the wall, he released his grip above, bent one knee, lowering the other foot. He felt his toe slide across glass, touch a cross member. With a delicate movement, he kicked at it. The tinkle as the pane shattered seemed shockingly loud. He tested the new foothold. It seemed fragile, but perhaps it would hold. He put his weight on it, lowered the other foot―
