Seven Come Infinity

by Groff Conklin

  He spent an uneasy five minutes waiting for a call from the censor on the exposure of her naked body, but he had his arguments ready. While vulgarity and lewdness were strictly against the code, exposure in itself was not. The criterion, as stated explicitly, was that the exposure be “implicit to the story,” and not inserted for carnal purposes. There could be no argument about it being “implicit to the story” in a live broadcast such as this—with nothing planned—except by the cat woman herself.

  The censor did not call.

  Nelson continued to follow the activities of the doctor and the alien woman with absorbed attention. This scene would make good showing; as engrossing as any of the earlier running.

  The cat’s face would readily pass as a Human’s, he decided—there was even a certain beauty there—but her body would not. It was too much an instrument of sinew and muscle. For a time he wondered why he had not suspected, before, that she was female. However, there was no way he could have guessed. Her most unEarthly features were her breasts. They ran in double rows of three down either side of her stomach. They were too small to have shown through the fur. Very probably they expanded considerably when she was childbearing.

  The doctor walked to a sofa at one end of the room, after his work had been completed, and sat with his head in his hands. This had been at least as much of an ordeal for him as it had for the cat woman.

  Suddenly Nelson jerked erect in his desk chair. Without warning the cat had swerved in her striding. She knocked the old doctor from his seat and throttled him, squeezing her hands around his throat until his laboring body weakened, and grew still.

  It was over in a minute. The cat woman left by a rear door, making certain first that she was unobserved. She returned to her hotel and lay on her bed, dropping off into fitful slumber occasionally, but most of the time stirring restlessly. Often she snarled in her sleep. She scratched the exposed, itching skin of her body almost continuously. Sweat soon formed a thin glistening film over her twitching muscles.

  “And so the cat returns to her den to lick her wounds,” the commentator said.

  * * * *

  The night after her operation Pentizel still suffered, but a growing hunger edged aside her lesser discomfort, and at last drove her from her room. Her appetite, however, was not so great as to make her lose her caution. She waylaid two unwary pedestrians before she had the money she decided she needed. Afterward she bought a complete female outfit, and a large package of meat, at a late closing department store, and rented a room in a different hotel. She ate sparingly that night, and not very satisfactorily. Her teeth still pained her excruciatingly, and she had no liking for meat that was not dripping fresh.

  She slept all during the following day. By evening her resilient organism had rebred much of its intense vitality. And with the vitality came her renewed hunger!

  She waited in a barely restrained frenzy for the full darkness of night. Her new face gave her confidence she had not had before, but her hot-blooded caution was still dominant.

  As she restlessly prowled her room Pentizel found a small bottle, a fourth filled with brown liquid, in the room’s wastebasket. Her gnawing stomach prompted her to drink. She swallowed a tentative mouthful. It burned her throat harshly, but after a minute brought a strange warmth to her body. She tried a second drink with less reluctance. This seemed to intensify the warmth into a flow of excitement. She drained the bottle.

  * * * *

  All her sly reason abandoned Pentizel. She went outside the hotel and sprang at the first pedestrian she met. She pulled him to the sidewalk and buried her nails in his neck. But her claws had been blunted, and as the man beneath her struggled, Pentizel’s fingers slipped in the shallow flood of blood. Her victim jerked his head free and yelled for help, with an incredulous horror in his voice.

  Pentizel lunged for his neck with her fangs, but they, too, had been stunted. Furiously she spun the sobbing man around and climbed on his back. Putting both hands under his chin she twisted his head around until his neck abruptly snapped.

  Only then did she look up. Shouting pedestrians were running toward her from three directions. Pentizel’s animal instincts came to her rescue, and she leaped into the street, knocking aside those who tried to block her way.

  She soon outdistanced her pursuers, but others heard their cries and began shouting as she passed. It was not until Pentizel reached Lactonatown again that she was able to lose herself. She ran through back streets and alleys, with her breath rasping in her throat, until she came to a large warehouse. She could find no way to enter, but found a board loose on the enclosed truck landing in front of the building and crawled inside.

  No one observed Pentizel go into her hiding place, and soon she knew she was safe. As her agitation subsided the liquor began to take over again, and this time it made her drowsy. She curled up on the dirt where she lay and slept.

  She awoke, hours later, with all her faculties sharply alert. Her first thought was that the rampant hunger pulling at her vitals had awakened her. However, as the lay without moving, she heard the sound of a small movement directly ahead. To her nostrils came a waft of scent—heavy, rancid, and sweet. Her eyes slid gently open. A small gray form moved cautiously across her vision.

  In one swift motion she uncoiled herself, clutched the small animal, and killed it. Pentizel ate the rat with great gusto. After that she waited patiently until she had captured and eaten two more.

  * * * *

  Vern Nelson swore softly. “If only I could have had a camera under that truck landing,” he reviled himself. “There was blood on her hands and dress when she came out. Probably killed a rat.” In his mind he pictured the sight of this beautiful woman—in outward appearance like any Earth woman—kneeling in the dirt, ravenously tearing apart a rat with her teeth. It would have made a great scene. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

  Nelson’s attention was soon taken with matters that required his more immediate concentration. It started with the commissioner of police on the vid-phone.

  “We’re canceling your exclusive on that cat woman,” the commissioner said without preamble.

  “But why?” Nelson assumed an innocent expression, though he knew what the answer would be. Even though the broadcast was blacked out in the St. Paul area, the police would be keeping in touch, through connections outside, and probably had full details.

  “That killing of the salesman outside the Emporium was too much,” the commissioner said caustically. “As you are well aware. The old facial surgeon was an ex-felon, with demerits a yard long—and with no relatives to complain. We let that pass. But when you allow a reputable citizen to be killed it has to stop.”

  “Can’t you give us a few days to close it out?”

  “I can’t take the risk of more killing. I’m getting heat myself.”

  Nelson tried a new tact. “We have a contract,” he said. “It’s verbal, but legal.”

  “I’m canceling it—as of right now. Domain Populi. We’re going to get that cat woman.”

  “Hold off just fifteen minutes, will you?” Nelson begged. “I’ll call you back.” He switched off before the commissioner could refuse.

  “Get me the major, Benny,” he said in to the intercom. That was his only hope. If the commissioner could be stalled, the major could do it. He’d find out now just how big tracks Gower made in this town.

  Nelson explained the situation to the major and left the matter in his hands.

  Major Gower called with a twelve-hour reprieve twenty minutes later. An hour after that he paid a visit to Nelson’s office. “You’ve done some mighty nice work with that special feature of ours, Vern,” he said, easing himself gracefully into a visitor’s chair. “We’ve topped all previous ratings—on any network.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Nelson answered cautiously. He straightened the papers on his desk while he waited. This was more than a casual visit. The major had something on his mind. “I’ve been following those rat
ings with great interest myself,” he said, when the major, instead of continuing, lit a cigar.

  “What are your plans now?” Gower asked.

  “Well, at this minute we’re bringing the cat woman’s ship up from the bottom of the Mississippi,” Nelson said. “The program’s dragging a bit, with her skulking down by the river. I thought shots of the ship being raised would furnish some welcome diversion. And the ship will make good advertising display for the reruns. There’s certain to be a big demand for them. If GM buys the rerun rights, you might offer them the ship as a good-will gesture.”

  “That’s headwork,” the major complimented. “But you realize that this will be all over by eight o’clock tonight. Twelve hours was the best I could browbeat out of the police commissioner. I had to threaten his job to get that. What do you have in mind for the finish?”

  “Why…I hadn’t given it any thought—that is, I haven’t come up with any new ideas. I just figured that when the police took over, the cat would fight, and perhaps provide some final excitement.”

  “Not good enough, Vern. As far as we know she’s unarmed. The police will simply shoot her down, and that will be the end of it. Rather anti-climactic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Nelson made a motion to speak, but the major stopped him with an upraised hand. “You understand, I’m not reprimanding you, Vern,” he said. “You’ve done a splendid job. Better, I’m certain, than anyone else could have done in your place. But look at it this way. We’ve made a terrific run on this—so far. The greatest live spectacle of the century. There possibly will never be another like it. But.… A story such as this deserves a crash ending. We can’t let it die with scarcely a whimper.”

  Nelson was forced to admit that the major was right. “Do you have any suggestions, sir?” he asked.

  Gower shook his head regretfully. “I’m depending on you for that, son,” he said. “You’re my brand-new genius.” He picked his hat and gloves from Nelson’s desk, bowed genially, and walked out.

  Nelson did not leave his office for lunch. He spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon going through files, old video programs, and generally racking his brain. He called any of his friends and acquaintances who might have an idea that would help him. Without any concrete results.

  He knew he needn’t come up with anything sensational; there was no necessity for more spectacles such as those of the cat displaying her ferocity. Just something that would pick up the pace. Something that would hang a closing grip of suspense to the story. A sort of final curtain scene.

  The beginning of his idea came to him about one in the afternoon. The cat would certainly die today. As the protagonist in the story, it was a shame that she had to die beneath the guns of the police—without a chance to fight back—without even a small chance to win. If the odds against her could be made more even…

  Nelson’s next thought was to hire a professional hunter to track down the cat woman, and kill her, but he discarded that after a few minutes’ consideration. That would be little better than letting the police do it. To make good copy this final scene had to be more of an even contest. It would be played up, on video, as a matching of wits and ingenuity between Earth man and cat woman. There had to be more to the tableau than a mere shooting. But who, then, if not a professional hunter?

  An hour’s poring through the news sheets brought the answer. The Assassin. The reporters had given him that melodramatic alias when he’d killed his first man nearly eight years ago. He had been good for headlines many times since.

  Nelson was a bit vague on the details of the Assassin’s background, and he dug in the company files until he came up with the man’s dossier.

  His real name was Frank Hall. He lived in Anoka, Minnesota, about twenty miles from St. Paul. He could easily reach here in time, Nelson calculated mentally. Hall was definitely an eccentric, but a colorful eccentric.

  He was a self-appointed dispenser of justice. Earth’s courts, being dedicated to the maxim that “it is better that a thousand guilty men go free than that one innocent man be wronged,” naturally erred often. Many guilty men escaped their just punishment.

  Eight years ago a quite notorious criminal, with a record of many previous offenses, had shot and killed a child during a “getaway” following a robbery. With the aid of a clever lawyer, and obviously corrupt witnesses, the killer had been acquitted.

  The following day he had received a note from Hall: “You are guilty—you will die within the week.” Hall signed his name, which gave the man a fair break—and showed that Hall loved the dangerous play. Three days later the man died—in an automobile accident. There was no way to connect Hall with the occurrence.

  Another acquitted killer seven months later received the same worded note. He was found dead in the basement of his own home. All the evidence pointed to suicide. Again Hall could not be linked with the death.

  Fifteen other times since, Hall had sent his note. All had died. Nine by accident, or by their own hand. The other six had tried to avert their fate by killing Hall before he could kill them. He had been able to prove self-defense each time. His nickname, the Assassin, was well earned.

  * * * *

  Nelson’s call to Hall’s home in Anoka was answered by his wife, Gladys. A charming girl, Nelson noted. Frank was not in, she informed him. He had gone to Grand Forks—to watch the cat woman feature!

  That should save some explaining, Nelson told himself. He did some more, tortured, mental mathematics. Hall could still reach here in time by plane.

  He found Hall in on his second call.

  “Mr. Hall,” Nelson said, deciding to strike sharply, “my name is Vern Nelson. I’m the director of the special feature on the cat woman. I’m prepared to offer you twenty thousand dollars to kill her.”

  For just a moment Hall’s face registered his surprise, and incredulity. Then he smiled. A sense of humor hid in the crinkles about his eyes. “Are you certain you have the right party?” he asked dryly. “I have never killed anyone—except in self-defense, of course.”

  “Of course.” Nelson restrained his own smile. “However, my belief is that a man hunting the cat woman would very soon find himself in a position where he would be defending his life,” he said, matching Hall’s dry tone.

  “Probably true,” Hall agreed reflectively, and sat regarding Nelson for a long moment. “I won’t be coy, and ask why you called me,” he said finally. “But why aren’t you simply turning this over to the police?”

  “The police have given us until eight o’clock tonight to handle it our own way. After that time they will do the job themselves.”

  “And this would be better video. The cat woman versus the Assassin.”

  “Touché,” Nelson acknowledged. “I won’t be coy either. That’s exactly the reason why I’m offering you the twenty thousand dollars.”

  Hall shook his head regretfully. “This may sound ridiculous to you,” he said, “but I’m just not constitutionally fitted to kill anyone in cold blood. Not even that she-animal. So I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Nelson was not deterred. He had been leading toward the offer he was about to make since their conversation began. “Then let’s pretend that this cat woman is one of the men you decided needed to be killed,” he said. “Do it in the same manner you did the others—in a way that would leave you legally in the clear. If you succeed, I’ll raise the ante to one hundred thousand. Or, I will pay you fifty thousand if you capture her, instead of killing her. How does that appeal to you?”

  Hall was obviously intrigued. “She is a killer,” he mused, almost to himself. “And it wouldn’t be an unequal contest: There’s a strong possibility that I might be killed myself.” He paused, then made his decision. “You’ve hired yourself a hunter,” he told Nelson.

  * * * *

  Pentizel knew the time had come for her to change her plans; she was no longer safe in St. Paul. They would be able to recognize her now—even though they still did not know what
she was. Further quick thinking made her realize that she would probably be safe nowhere here. She had to get to her spaceship and leave this world.

  The taste of defeat was sour in Pentizel’s mouth as she headed for the river. She was here in a world of weaklings, physically and mentally her inferiors. She should have been able to rape it at will. Instead, less than a week after landing she was slinking away. She spat bitterly, and tore the flimsy Earth garments from her body.

  She reached the river without difficulty. There were few people about this early in the morning. However, soon after taking cover in the brush growing along the river bank, automobiles began to pass carrying workers to their jobs, and her movements became more difficult.

  It took her most of the day to traverse the two miles of river bank. She reached the ship site late in the afternoon—and her heart sank at what she saw. All the signs indicated that the ship had been removed from the river! She was marooned on this deadly world!

  Refusing to abandon her last shred of hope, Pentizel slipped into the open place in the icy river and swam down to where the ship had rested. It was gone. When her head broke through the water a minute later she snarled forlornly.

  Her only chance to stay alive now, she decided swiftly, was to reach wooded country. She had no idea where that might be, but her best guess was to head north.

  Suddenly all Pentizel’s senses sounded an urgent alarm. Above her lurked danger!

  She flattened against the river bank and probed for the nature of the threat. Only very small sounds came down to her. For several long breaths she lay tense and motionless. The only certainty she arrived at was that her life hung on how well she conducted herself the next few minutes.

  Another five minutes passed before Pentizel was satisfied that only one person waited above her. Much of her high-pitched arrogance returned. She began to raise her head—infinitesimally slow. The first object that came within the range of her vision was the edge of an automobile top. That, then, was how her stalker had gotten here so soon. He had driven up while she had been submerged in the water.