More important, however, he realized that he had just discovered the method of referring to the knowledge stored in this library. He must think of some key word — that was how "waste” had evoked such an unfortunate vision. Now, swallowing his nausea, Taylor thought: "mines connected with this city.”
The vista which now appeared to him was an aerial view of the city. It was totally lightless, but in some way he sensed the outlines of the buildings. Then the point of view descended until he was looking down from directly above the library; and it gave him an odd vertigo to see, in the seat from which he was viewing, a figure seated. Whatever was transmitting the images began to move along the street bordering the library, traversed a straight toad directly to a widening of the road, and showed him the mitie-pit a few yards further on.
The transmitter, however, now seemed to be working independent of his will. Now it tracked back six hundred yards or so up the road, to a junction with a wider street at the right. Taylor realized that something important was to follow. It moved up the branching street, and he saw that the buildings ended a few yards further on; from there a rougher path stretched to the edge of a pit, much larger than the first. The transmitter moved forward, stopping at the edge of the buildings. He willed it to go closer, but it remained in that position. When he persisted, a loud noise made him start; it was only part of the transmission — not like a voice, it resembled glass surfaces vibrating together, but forming definite patterns. Perhaps it was a voice, but its message was meaningless — what did xada-hgla soron signify? Whatever it meant, the phrase was repeated seven times, then the image disappeared.
BafHed, he rose. He had been unable to glean any further information from the discs. The larger pit was further, but it would contain more mineral; and the buildings did not crowd so close to it, hence the danger of interruption was less likely. He decided to head for it.
When he reached the junction, he hesitated briefly, then remembering the squat black towers which had encircled the nearer mine, he turned off to the right. His shoes clanked on the black pavement and crunched on the rocks of the continuing path. The beam of the torch trembled on the crumbling rim, and then he stood on the edge of the pit. He looked down.
At first he saw nothing. Dust-motes rising from below tinted the beam a translucent green, but it showed nothing except a wavering disc of black rock on the opposite wall. The disc grew and dimmed as it descended, but dim as it was it finally outlined the ledge outcropping from the rock, and what stood upon it.
There is nothing horrible about a group of tall deserted pyramids, even when those pyramids are constructed of a pale green material which glitters and seems to move in the half-light. Something else caused Taylor to stare in fascination; the way the emerald cones were drinking in the light from his torch, while the bulb dimmed visibly. He peered downward, awaiting something which he felt must come.
The torch-bulb flickered and went out, leaving him in total darkness.
In the blackness he unscrewed the end of the torch and let the dead battery clatter far down the rock surface. Drawing the last battery from his pocket, he fumbled blindly with the pieces of metal, squinting into the darkness, and saw the torch in his hands. It was faintly limned by the glow from beneath, growing clearer as he watched. He could see the distant side of the pit now, and, noting the grating metallic sound which had begun below him, he looked down into the green light.
Something was climbing toward him up the rock face; something which slithered up from the rock ledge, glowing greenly. It was vast and covered with green surfaces which ground together, but it had a shape — and that was what made Taylor flee from the miles-deep pit, clattering down the ebon pavements, not switching on the torch until he collided with a black spire beyond the widening radius of the green light, not stopping until he reached the frustum-shaped building he remembered and the tower near it. He threw himself up the outer steps recklessly, crawled on all fours and swung from the catwalks, and reached the last roof.
He glanced across the tower roofs once, then heaved open the trapdoor and plunged down the unlit steps, through the searing barrier across the passage and clattered down into the blinding daylight, half-fell down the Devil’s Steps and reached the car. Somewhere what he had glimpsed at the last was still moving — that green-radiating shape which heaved and pulsed above the steeples, toppling them and putting forth glowing arms to engulf fleeing dwarved forms…
* * *
When passers-by telephoned the Brichester police after hearing unusual sounds from a house on South Abbey Avenue, few of the documents in that house had not been destroyed by Taylor. The police called in the Mercy Hill doctors, who could only take him to the hospital. He became violent when they refused to explore the Devil’s Steps, but when they tried to reassure him with promises of exploration he protested so demonstratively that he was removed to the Camside Home for the Mentally Disturbed. There he could only lie repeating feverishly:
"You fools, why don’t you stop them going up the Steps? They’ll be dragged into space — lungs burst — blue faces… And suppose It didn’t destroy the city entirely — suppose It was intelligent? If It knew about the towers into other parts of space, It might find its way through onto the Steps—It’s coming down the stairs through the barrier now—It’ll push through the forest and into the town. Outside the window! It’s rising above the houses!”
Edward Taylor’s case yet stirs controversy among doctors, and is a subject for exaggerated speculation in Sunday newspaper features. Of course the writers of the latter do not know all the facts; if they did their tone would certainly be different, but the doctors felt it unwise to reveal all that had happened to Taylor.
That is why the X-ray photographs taken of Taylor’s body are carefully restricted to a hospital file. At first glance they would seem normal, and the layman might not notice any abnormality even upon close examination. It takes a doctor to see that the lungs, although they function perfectly, do not resemble in any respect the lungs of a human being.
The Will of Stanley Brooke
As a close acquaintance of Stanley Brooke's rather than a friend, Ernest Bond probably noticed his oddities the more readily.
These oddities became apparent soon after Brooke learned that he was dying of cancer. First he sent out to the libraries for medical books and journals, in an obvious attempt to find some cure the doctors had overlooked. Then, when he found no solace in orthodox medicine, he began to search volumes of faith-healing, and Bond realised how desperate he was becoming. It was not until the final phase that Bond began to worry; but he was disturbed by Brooke's quest through ancient grimoires for some answer. He watched Brooke slide gradually into depression, and knew of nothing he could do to help.
He was all the more surprised, therefore, when he arrived at Brooke's house one afternoon in response to a call, and found the owner sitting up in bed smiling.
Brooke placed a bookmark in the yellowed volume he had been reading, and put it down beside him. 'Sit down, Bond, sit down,' he grinned. 'I'm afraid I didn't ask you round just for your company — there's some business we have to discuss, but I told you that on the 'phone.'
'Yes — well, what can I do for you?'
'I want to dictate a will,' Brooke told him.
Bond wondered if the man's condition had brought on amnesia. 'But you've already made one.'
He had indeed made a will, and at his death five people would receive an appreciable legacy. His three sisters and his brother would come into a few thousand pounds each — while Emily, one of the sisters, and his niece Pamela, who had insisted on being his housekeeper for some years, would also come into possession of the large house. Strangely, Brooke was notoriously mean, and remarked that the vultures could pick up what they liked once he was dead, but he could not afford to be generous while alive.
'I know I've already made one,' he said impatiently. 'My mind hasn't gone yet, you know. I want to make a new one. The people next door are going to act a
s witnesses — they're probably downstairs now. It's completely different from the old one — you see, I've found out something—'
He reached for the book beside him, hesitated, and left it where it was.
'But first you must promise not to tell anyone any of the terms of the will until after I'm dead… All right? Good. Now let's get the witnesses up here.'
As Brooke dictated, the lawyer realised why he had been made to promise. The terms of the will shocked him exceedingly; and for some time he debated whether he should keep that promise — whether he should not at least hint the amendments to Brooke's sister Emily. But she would be bound to have it out with Brooke; and, besides revealing Bond's indiscretion, this was surely not the kind of barrage to which a dying man should be subjected. So the lawyer continued to debate.
The decision was taken out of his hands when, on August 6, 1962, Brooke died.
He was buried four days later in St Mark's churchyard, Brichester, and on the afternoon of that day Bond described the general terms of the will to the expectant relatives.
'Impossible,' said Terence Brooke, the dead man's brother. 'I flatly refuse to believe it.'
'I'm afraid it's true all the same,' the lawyer insisted. 'I can't give you the details until the beneficiary arrives, but I can tell you that under the terms of the new will none of you will benefit—'
'The worm!' Emily said. 'After all I did for him, and what my daughter did too—'
Pamela James, her daughter, was obviously upset by the whole business. 'I wish you wouldn't use that horrible word, mother,' she protested. 'After all, this man's going to get Uncle's money, and there's nothing we can do—'
'Oh, shut up, girl!' snapped Emily. 'I don't know about the rest of you, but I'll be here when Mr Bond reads the will — maybe when this man sees how we were all expecting something, he'll give us all some money. I think that's the least he can do.'
'And how are you going to recognise this fellow,' Terence Brooke inquired, 'when nobody's ever seen him before?'
'That's the queerest thing about all this,' Bond replied. 'This man — William Collier, he calls himself — is the exact double of the late Mr Brooke. If that isn't enough, he'll be carrying a letter proving his identity written by Mr Brooke, in an unfranked envelope with his name on it also in Brooke's script.'
'When are you expecting him to arrive?' Joyce, another of the sisters, put in.
'That's odd, too,' said Bond. 'I asked him that — because, as you know, I can't open the will until Collier arrives — and he just said "he'll be here about a week after the burial." What that means I don't know.'
On August 17 the lawyer was invited round to the house on King Edward's Way, into which, in spite of protests, Emily and Pamela James had moved. He arrived just before five o'clock, and joined them at tea. Not long after, Terence, Joyce and Barbara, the third sister, arrived.
Quite soon the real reason for this gathering became apparent.
'Mr Bond,' asked Emily, 'do you think it would be ethical for you to point out to this man how distressed we all are by this new will? We don't want all his legacy — it wouldn't be right to interfere with Stanley's wishes like that — but maybe if the six of us got equal shares—'
'Oh, please, mother!' Pamela cried. 'Must you be such a vulture?'
'I must say I agree with the girl,' Terence said. 'We didn't know we were coming to this, you know.'
'Will you all please be quiet!' Emily shouted, striking the table. 'Mr Bond, what have you got to say?'
The lawyer was saved from the quarrel he would have caused by a knock at the door.
'Don't get up — I'll go,' he said quickly, and opened the door for William Collier.
Bond recognised him at once, yet for a moment it had been as if the dead had returned. Every detail was reminiscent of the dead man except one, and that only added to the unpleasant illusion; for the man's skin was almost white, and abnormally translucent.
'I'm William Collier,' he introduced himself. 'I heard Stanley Brooke was dead, and came as soon as I could.'
'Yes — won't you come in?' Bond invited. 'Have you had a long journey? Perhaps you'd like something to eat — we're just having tea.'
"Thank you, but first—' Collier hesitated. 'Well, I have had a long journey, and I'd like to, ah—'
'Yes, of course,' said the lawyer. 'It's the door right at the top of the stairs. But here, let me take your coat.'
As he hung up the coat, Terence Brooke appeared in the dining-room doorway. They watched the figure to the top of the stairs.
'I like the way you make him feel at home!' Brooke remarked. 'So that's the new tenant, is it? My God, it's going to be like dining with a corpse!'
'The resemblance certainly is striking,' Bond began, but was interrupted by the arrival of Emily.
'You two can go back inside,' she told them. 'I want to meet him when he comes down, and then introduce everybody.'
As he sat down again at the table the lawyer heard footsteps on the stairs, then an inaudible conversation outside the door. Soon Emily ushered in Collier, and introduced those present, adding: 'We all expect to get something under the will,' at which Collier's face briefly took on an odd expression.
A rather uncomfortable silence ensued. Barbara, who was notoriously fond of macabre humour, took advantage of an offer from Emily of cold meat to remark:
'No, thanks, I don't care for meat very much. I always think that if you eat pieces of animal, you'll get to look like them.'
'How do you make that out?' Pamela prompted.
'Well, you know… if you eat too much pork you'll get like a pig, and I suppose you'll get pretty fishy if you eat nothing but fish… In fact, if you concentrate on one food, I think pretty soon you'll look exactly like it.'
There was a thud. Everybody looked up.
'It's all right,' Collier said with a curious expression, 'I just dropped my spoon, that's all. If I could have another one—'
'I always like vegetables,' Bond interrupted quickly, 'so what does that make me?'
'Well, Mr Bond,' said Barbara, 'nobody could call you exactly vital…'
'Here's a spoon, Mr Collier,' Emily said. 'Have all the rest of you finished? — What, don't want any more either, Mr Collier? In that case, we may as well all go into the lounge.'
The lawyer was the last to leave the dining-room, and he found Terence waiting for him in the hall.
'You know, I think there's something wrong about that fellow,' Brooke confided. 'I have a feeling he may be an imposter.'
'But what about his appearance? And the letter, if he has it.'
'As for the letter—' Brooke lowered his voice. 'Suppose if when we went upstairs, he got it from somewhere Stanley had hidden it?'
'Hardly. Besides,' Bond pointed out, 'surely that proves his claim must be genuine, or he wouldn't have known where to find the letter.'
They entered the lounge. Bond decided to get the night's business over at once.
'Mr Collier,' he asked, 'do you have any proof of your identity?'
'Why, yes. I believe this is what you want.' And the lawyer took from the pale fat hand an envelope which, he found, contained the appropriate document.
'Yes, this seems right enough,' he admitted. 'Well, then, I'd better get the reading over with.'
Collier showed no emotion when Bond reached the relevant passage:
'To my closest friend, William Collier: the property at 19 King Edward's Way, the furnishings thereof, and any others of my possessions remaining after payment of death duties, &c.'
'But — is that all?' Emily asked, seemingly incredulous.
'Yes,' replied Bond rather coldly, 'I'm afraid it is.'
'You were his closest friend?' Emily said to Collier. 'Surely you're shocked that he was so mean — I realise it's natural to see your friends are provided for, but we were his family, and we did quite a bit for him too…'
'Oh, please don't try to be subtle,' Collier advised her. 'I know what you're after, and I c
an tell you now that I wouldn't dream of splashing my money about.'
'Why, you worm—' began Emily. Collier recoiled and collided with the sideboard, overturning a vase.
'My God,' Bond said tonelessly.
'What's wrong, Mr Bond?' asked Pamela.
'It doesn't matter now — nothing… I don't think you need me here any more tonight — I'd better be off… But could I just speak to you a minute, Mr Collier? Alone?'
Collier followed him into the hall, and the lawyer remarked:
'I'm afraid they don't feel very friendly towards you at the moment. I'm driving into the town centre, so if you'd like a lift somewhere to let them simmer down… Yes?' He called into the lounge: 'Mr Collier's leaving with me — he'll be back in a couple of hours.'
They drove away into the night. Collier dozed in the back seat but woke when the car began to slow down.
'But surely we're not in Brichester now! Haven't you come the wrong way?'
'Oh, no,' Bond said, stopping the car at the edge of a quarry. 'I assure you this is the right way.'
Two weeks later, Terence Brooke arrived at the lawyer's house in Almshouse Gardens, and found the owner at work in the greenhouse.
'Why, hello,' Bond greeted him. 'Any word about Collier yet?'
'No, none,' said Brooke. 'Nobody seems to know what to do about it.'
'Well, as I told the police at the time,' Bond went on, 'I took him to my office and told him how generally hated he'd be if he did you all out of your legacies, and he left, and that was the last I saw of him.'
'Somehow,' Brooke mused, 'I have the feeling he won't be back… But anyway, I didn't really come here about that-what-?'
'Bloody worms,' said Bond, driving his spade down again and again while something pale writhed. 'I can't stand the things… Oh, sorry. Go on.'
The Inhabitant of the Lake and Less Welcome Tenants Page 18
