Then he met Sylvia by accident after losing his fifth job—a girl who had inherited a fortune big enough to spread his message in paid ads across the country. They were married before he found she was hardheaded about her money. She demanded a full explanation for every cent beyond his allowance. In the end, she got the explanation. And while he was trying to cash the check she gave him, she visited Dr. Buehl, to come back with a squad of quiet, refined strong-arm boys who made sure Dane reached Buehl’s “rest home” safely.
Hydrotherapy… Buehl as the kindly firm father image… Analysis… Hypnosis that stripped every secret from him, including his worst childhood nightmare.
His father had committed a violent, bloody suicide after one of the many quarrels with Dane’s mother. Dane had found the body.
Two nights after the funeral, he had dreamed of his father’s face, horror-filled, at the window. He knew now that it was a normal nightmare, caused by being forced to look at the face in the coffin, but the shock had lasted for years. It had bothered him again, after his discovery of the aliens, until a thorough check had proved without doubt that his father had been fully human, with a human, if tempestuous, childhood behind him.
Dr. Buehl was delighted. “You see, Dane? You know it was a nightmare, but you don’t really believe it even now. Your father was an alien monster to you—no adult is quite human to a child. And that literal-minded self, your subconscious, saw him after he died. So there are alien monsters who return from death. Then you come to from a concussion. Harding is unconscious, sprawled out covered with blood—probably your blood, since you say he wasn’t wounded, later.
“But after seeing your father, you can’t associate blood with yourself—you see it as a horrible wound on Harding. When he turns out to be alive, you’re still in partial shock, with your subconscious dominant. And that has the answer already. There are monsters who come back from the dead! An exaggerated reaction, but nothing really abnormal. Well have you out of here in no time.”
No non-directive psychiatry for Buehl. The man beamed paternally, chuckling as he added what he must have considered the clincher. “Anyhow, even zombies can’t stand fire, Dane, so you can stop worrying about Harding. I checked up on him. He was burned to a crisp in a hotel fire two months ago.”
It was logical enough to shake Dane’s faith, until he came across Milo Blanding’s picture in a magazine article on society in St. Louis. According to the item, Milo was a cousin of the Blandings, whose father had vanished in Chile as a young man, and who had just rejoined the family. The picture was of Harding!
An alien could have gotten away by simply committing suicide and being carried from the rest home, but Dane had to do it the hard way, watching his chance and using commando tactics on a guard who had come to accept him as a harmless nut.
In St. Louis, he’d used the “Purloined Letter” technique to hide—going back to newspaper work and using almost his real name. It had seemed to work, too. But he’d been less lucky about Harding-Blanding. The man had been in Europe on some kind of tour until his return only this last week.
Dane had seen him just once then—but long enough to be sure it was Harding—before he died again.
This time, it was in a drunken auto accident that seemed to be none of his fault, but left his body a mangled wreck.
* * * *
It was almost dark when Dane dismissed the taxi at a random address a mile from the entrance to the cemetery. He watched it turn back down the road, then picked up the valise with his camera and folding shovel. He shivered as he moved reluctantly ahead. War had proved that he would never be a brave man, and the old fears of darkness and graveyards were still strong in him. But he had to know what the coffin contained now, if it wasn’t already too late.
It represented the missing link in his picture of the aliens. What happened to them during the period of regrowth? Did they revert to their natural form? Were they at all conscious while the body reshaped itself into wholeness? Dane had puzzled over it night after night, with no answer.
Nor could he figure how they could escape from the grave. Perhaps a man could force his way out of some of the coffins he had inspected. The soil would still be soft and loose in the grave and a lot of the coffins and the boxes around them were strong in appearance only. A determined creature that could exist without much air for long enough might make it. But there were other caskets that couldn’t be cracked, at least without the aid of outside help.
What happened when a creature that could survive even the poison of embalming fluids and the draining of all the blood woke up in such a coffin? Dane’s mind skitted from it, as always, and then came back to it reluctantly.
There were still accounts of corpses turned up with the nails and hair grown long in the grave. Could normal tissues stand the current tricks of the morticians to have life enough for such growth? The possibility was absurd. Those cases had to be aliens—ones who hadn’t escaped. Even they must die eventually in such a case—after weeks and months! It took time for hair to grow.
And there were stories of corpses that had apparently fought and twisted in their coffins still. What was it like for an alien then, going slowly mad while it waited for true death? How long did madness take?
He shivered again, but went steadily on while the cemetery fence appeared in the distance. He’d seen Blanding’s coffin—and the big, solid metal casket around it that couldn’t be cracked by any amount of effort and strength. He was sure the creature was still there, unless it had a confederate. But that wouldn’t matter. An empty coffin would also be proof.
Dane avoided the main gate, unsure about whether there would be a watchman or not. A hundred feet away, there was a tree near the ornamental spikes of the iron fence. He threw his bag over and began shinnying up. It was difficult, but he made it finally, dropping onto the soft grass beyond. There was the trace of the Moon at times through the clouds, but it hadn’t betrayed him, and there had been no alarm wire along the top of the fence.
He moved from shadow to shadow, his hair prickling along the base of his neck. Locating the right grave in the darkness was harder than he had expected, even with an occasional brief use of the small flashlight. But at last he found the marker that was serving until the regular monument could arrive.
His hands were sweating so much that it was hard to use the small shovel, but the digging of foxholes had given him experience and the ground was still soft from the grave-diggers’ work. He stopped once, as the Moon came out briefly. Again, a sound in the darkness above left him hovering and sick in the hole. But it must have been only some animal.
He uncovered the top of the casket with hands already blistering.
Then he cursed as he realized the catches were near the bottom, making his work even harder.
He reached them at last, fumbling them open. The metal top of the casket seemed to be a dome of solid lead, and he had no room to maneuver, but it began swinging up reluctantly, until he could feel the polished wood of the coffin.
Dane reached for the lid with hands he could barely control. Fear was thick in his throat now. What could an alien do to a man who discovered it? Would it be Harding there—or some monstrous thing still changing? How long did it take a revived monster to go mad when it found no way to escape? He gripped the shovel in one hand, working at the lid with the other. Now, abruptly, his nerves steadied, as they had done whenever he was in real battle. He swung the lid up and began groping for the camera.
His hand went into the silk-lined interior and found—nothing! He was too late. Either Harding had gotten out somehow before the final ceremony, or a confederate had already been here. The coffin was empty.
There were no warning sounds this time—only hands that gripped under his arms and across his mouth, lifting him easily from the grave. A match flared briefly and he was looking into the face of Buehl’s chief strong-arm man.
“Hello,
Mr. Phillips. Promise to be quiet and we’ll release you. Okay?” At Dane’s sickened nod, he gestured to the others. “Let him go. And, Tom, better get that filled in. We don’t want any trouble from this.”
Surprise came from the grave a moment later. “Hey, Burke, there’s no corpse here!”
Burke’s words killed any hopes Dane had at once. “So what? Ever hear of cremation? Lots of people use a regular coffin for the ashes.”
“He wasn’t cremated,” Dane told him. “You can check up on that.” But he knew it was useless.
“Sure, Mr. Phillips. We’ll do that.” The tone was one reserved for humoring madmen. Burke turned, gesturing. “Better come along, Mr. Phillips. Your wife and Dr. Buehl are waiting at the hotel.”
The gate was open now, but there was no sign of a watchman; if one worked here, Sylvia’s money would have taken care of that, of course. Dane went along quietly, sitting in the rubble of his hopes while the big car purred through the morning and on down Lindell Boulevard toward the hotel. Once he shivered, and Burke dug out hot brandied coffee. They had thought of everything, including a coat to cover his dirt-soiled clothes as they took him up the elevator to where Buehl and Sylvia were waiting for him.
She had been crying, obviously, but there were no tears or recriminations when she came over to kiss him. Funny, she must still love him—as he’d learned to his surprise he loved her. Under different circumstances…
“So you found me?” he asked needlessly of Buehl. He was operating on purely automatic habits now, the reaction from the night and his failure numbing him emotionally. “Jordan got in touch with you?”
Buehl smiled back at him. “We knew where you were all along, Dane. But as long as you acted normal, we hoped it might be better than the home. Too bad we couldn’t stop you before you got all mixed up in this.”
“So I suppose I’m committed to your booby-hatch again?”
Buehl nodded, refusing to resent the term. “I’m afraid so, Dane—for a while, anyhow. You’ll find your clothes in that room. Why don’t you clean up a little? Take a hot bath, maybe. You’ll feel better.”
Dane went in, surprised when no guards followed him. But they had thought of everything. What looked like a screen on the window had been recently installed and it was strong enough to prevent his escape. Blessed are the poor, for they shall be poorly guarded!
He was turning on the shower when he heard the sound of voices coming through the door. He left the water running and came back to listen. Sylvia was speaking.
“…seems so logical, so completely rational.”
“It makes him a dangerous person,” Buehl answered, and there was no false warmth in his voice now. “Sylvia, you’ve got to admit it to yourself. All the reason and analysis in the world won’t convince him he’s wrong. This time we’ll have to use shock treatment. Burn over those memories, fade them out. It’s the only possible course.”
There was a pause and then a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”
Dane didn’t wait to hear more. He drew back, while his mind fought to accept the hideous reality. Shock treatment! The works, if what he knew of psychiatry was correct. Enough of it to erase his memories—a part of himself. It wasn’t therapy Buehl was considering; it couldn’t be. It was the answer of an alien that had a human in its hands—one who knew too much!
He might have guessed. What better place for an alien than in the guise of a psychiatrist? Where else was there the chance for all the refined, modern torture needed to burn out a man’s mind? Dane had spent ten years in fear of being discovered by them—and now Buehl had him.
Sylvia? He couldn’t be sure. Probably she was human. It wouldn’t make any difference. There was nothing he could do through her. Either she was part of the game or she really thought him mad.
Dane tried the window again, but it was hopeless. There would be no escape this time. Buehl couldn’t risk it. The shock treatment—or whatever Buehl would use under the name of shock treatment—would begin at once. It would be easy to slip, to use an overdose of something, to make sure Dane was killed. Or there were ways of making sure it didn’t matter. They could leave him alive, but take his mind away. In alien hands, human psychiatry could do worse than all the medieval torture chambers!
The sickness grew in his stomach as he considered the worst that could happen. Death he could accept, if he had to. He could even face the chance of torture by itself, as he had accepted the danger while trying to have his facts published. But to have his mind taken from him, a step at a time—to watch his personality, his ego, rotted away under him—and to know that he would wind up as a drooling idiot…
He made his decision, almost as quickly as he had come to realize what Buehl must be.
There was a razor in the medicine chest. It was a safety razor, of course, but the blade was sharp and it would be big enough. There was no time for careful planning. One of the guards might come in at any moment if they thought he was taking too long.
Some fear came back as he leaned over the wash basin, staring at his throat, fingering the suddenly murderous blade. But the pain wouldn’t last long—a lot less than there would be under shock treatment, and less pain. He’d read enough to feel sure of that.
Twice he braced himself and failed at the last second. His mind flashed out in wild schemes, fighting against what he knew had to be done.
The world still had to be warned! If he could escape, somehow…if he could still find a way… He couldn’t quit, no matter how impossible things looked.
But he knew better. There was nothing one man could do against the aliens in this world they had taken over. He’d never had a chance. Man had been chained already by carefully developed ridicule against superstition, by carefully indoctrinated gobbledegook about insanity, persecution complexes, and all the rest.
For a second, Dane even considered the possibility that he was insane. But he knew it was only a blind effort to cling to life. There had been no insanity in him when he’d groped for evidence in the coffin and found it empty!
He leaned over the wash basin, his eyes focused on his throat, and his hand came down and around, carrying the razor blade through a lethal semicircle.
Dane Phillips watched fear give place to sickness on his face as the pain lanced through him and the blood spurted.
He watched horror creep up to replace the sickness while the bleeding stopped and the gash began closing.
By the time he recognized his expression as the same one he’d seen on his father’s face at the window so long ago, the wound was completely healed.
ESCAPE TO EARTH, by Manly Banister
Originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, November 1957.
CHAPTER 1
The platinum-haired man in black cutaway and cloak crouched, and I watched his finger tighten on the trigger of his revolver. The girl lighted full red lips and golden eyes with a smile, tossed flaming hair over bare shoulders.
The weapon bucked and slammed. Kettle drums rolled, crashed to a climax; the audience held its breath. Behind the G-string clad girl, incandescent light bulbs shattered, unheard above the pistol shots and drums. The bullets rang in a steel catch basin.
Coleman the Great turned, bowed smiling toward the audience. Cleo Parker, his assistant, waved gaily; then, lightning crackled and thunder rolled. Blue smoke gushed from the stage. The smoke lifted. Coleman stood where Cleo Parker had been, and Cleo occupied Coleman’s place. They ran laughing to center stage and held each other’s hands aloft, while the audience roared.
The curtain came down on the last act of the performance of the world’s greatest illusionist.
“Yah, I get it,” said the man next to me, as the audience rose. “Them’s blanks he’s got in the gun, see; and them lights behind the girl, they’re wired, see; so they explode when somebody backstage pushes a button. Makes it look like he’s shootin’ right throu
gh her—see?”
“Yeah,” said a querulous female voice in the rounded tones of wadded gum. “But how about them changing places like that, huh?”
“Simple, kid.” The man chuckled, pleased with his own perspicuity. “Real simple! They got doubles, see, that come out under cover of the smoke!”
“Gee, Gerald,” the woman said admiringly, “you oughta be a magician! They sure can’t put nothin’ over on you!”
I wasn’t sure it was that simple. For just a moment, as Coleman had fired, I had seemed to see something—an opalescent veil that dimmed the view of flesh and blue-sequined G-string. Or, had my eyes, under the percussion of instruments and the hammering of the pistol, deceived me?
I’m not the kind of person who watches a magic act to find out if I can see through the illusion; I don’t want to watch a magician that clumsy. I want to be mystified, entertained. Only another magician should care how the tricks are done.
As for Coleman and mystification, he still had the experts guessing, though there were millions like friend Gerald, who thought they had every trick figured. In fact, Gerald’s thumbnail sketch hadn’t impressed me at all.
Coleman had them still wondering in Europe, and I’d heard he had even shown the Indian fakirs a thing or two, by not only imitating their rope trick, but fashioning a few improvements on it.
In three years, Coleman the Great had climbed from the abysm of nonentity to the glittering heights of theater; he was box office. For the past two years, Cleo Parker, his beautiful, red-haired, tawny-eyed assistant, had scaled the precipices of audience approval with him.
I hadn’t missed a performance while the show was in town. Not because I’m a devotee of stage magic, but because of Cleo. I was mad about Cleo. I’d been in love with her for a long time, in spite of what she had done to me three years ago.
The whole thing, of course, began and ended with Cleo. It happened to be a very busy season in the advertising business; my position at the agency, as account executive, always hectic, was suffering a siege of particular confusion. But that’s advertising.
The Alien MEGAPACK® Page 11
