Maybe it was.
Maybe the whole world held together only when you kept your attention centered on it and believed in it. If you let discrepancies creep in, you began to doubt and it began to go to pieces. Maybe this had happened to Cynthia because he had doubted her reality. If he just closed his eyes and believed in her alive and well, then she would be—
He tried it. He shut out the rest of the world and concentrated on Cynthia—Cynthia alive and well, with that little quirk to her mouth she had when she was laughing at something he had said—Cynthia, waking up in the morning, sleepy-eyed and beautiful—Cynthia in a tailored suit and a pert little hat, ready to start out with him anywhere. Cynthia—
He opened his eyes and looked at the bed. There she still lay, unchanged and deathly. He let himself go for a while, then blew his nose and went in to put some water on his face.
VIII
The house buzzer sounded. Randall went to the hall door and jiggled the street-door release without using the apartment phone—he did not want to speak to anyone just then, certainly not to whoever it was that Joe had found to deliver the groceries.
After a reasonable interval there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it, saying, “Bring ’em in,” then stopped suddenly.
Hoag stood just outside the door.
Neither of them spoke at first. Randall was astounded; Hoag seemed diffident and waiting for Randall to commence matters. At last he said shyly, “I had to come, Mr. Randall. May I…come in?”
Randall stared at him, really at loss for words. The brass of the man—the sheer gall!
“I came because I had to prove to you that I would not willingly harm Mrs. Randall,” he said simply. “If I have done so unknowingly, I want to do what I can to make restitution.”
“It’s too late for restitution!”
“But, Mr. Randall—why do you think that I have done anything to your wife? I don’t see how I could have—not yesterday morning.” He stopped and looked hopelessly at Randall’s stony face. “You wouldn’t shoot a dog without a fair trial—would you?”
Randall chewed his lip in an agony of indecision. Listening to him, the man seemed so damned decent—He threw the door open wide “Come in,” he said gruffly.
“Thank you, Mr. Randall.” Hoag came in diffidently. Randall started to close the door.
“Your name Randall?” Another man, a stranger, stood in the door, loaded with bundles.
“Yes,” Randall admitted, fishing in his pocket for change. “How did you get in?”
“Came in with him,” the man said, pointing at Hoag, “but I got off at the wrong floor. The beer is cold, chief,” he added ingratiatingly. “Right off the ice.”
“Thanks,” Randall added a dime to the half dollar and closed the door on him. He picked the bundles up from the floor and started for the kitchen. He would have some of that beer now, he decided; there was never a time when he needed it more. After putting the packages down in the kitchen he took out one of the cans, fumbled in the drawer for an opener, and prepared to open it. A movement caught his eye—Hoag, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Randall had not invited him to sit down; he was still standing. “Sit down!”
“Thank you.” Hoag sat down.
Randall turned back to his beer. But the incident had reminded him of the other’s presence; he found himself caught in the habit of good manners; it was almost impossible for him to pour himself a beer and offer none to a guest, no matter how unwelcome.
He hesitated just a moment, then thought, Shucks, it can’t hurt either Cynthia or me to let him have a can of beer. “Do you drink beer?”
“Yes, thank you.” As a matter of fact Hoag rarely drank beer, preferring to reserve his palate for the subtleties of wines, but at the moment he would probably have said yes to synthetic gin, or ditch water, if Randall had offered it.
Randall brought in the glasses, put them down, then went into the bedroom, opening the door for the purpose just enough to let him slip in. Cynthia was just as he had come to expect her to be. He shifted her position a trifle, in the belief that any position grows tiring even to a person unconscious, then smoothed the coverlet. He looked at her and thought about Hoag and Potbury’s warnings against Hoag. Was Hoag as dangerous as the doctor seemed to think? Was he, Randall, even now playing into his hands?
No, Hoag could not hurt him now. When the worst has happened any change is an improvement. The death of both of them—or even Cyn’s death alone, for then he would simply follow her. That he had decided earlier in the day—and he didn’t give a damn who called it cowardly!
No—if Hoag were responsible for this, at least he had shot his bolt. He went back into the living room.
Hoag’s beer was still untouched. “Drink up,” Randall invited, sitting down and reaching for his own glass. Hoag complied, having the good sense not to offer a toast nor even to raise his glass in the gesture of one. Randall looked him over with tired curiosity. “I don’t understand you, Hoag.”
“I don’t understand myself, Mr. Randall.”
“Why did you come here?”
Hoag spread his hands helplessly. “To inquire about Mrs. Randall. To find out what it is that I have done to her. To make up for it, if I can.”
“You admit you did it?”
“No, Mr. Randall. No. I don’t see how I could possibly have done anything to Mrs. Randall yesterday morning—”
“You forget that I saw you.”
“But—What did I do?”
“You cornered Mrs. Randall in a corridor of the Midway-Copton Building and tried to choke her.”
“Oh, dear! But—you saw me do this?”
“No, not exactly. I was—” Randall stopped, realizing how it was going to sound to tell Hoag that he had not seen him in one part of the building because he was busy watching Hoag in another part of the building.
“Go on, Mr. Randall, please.”
Randall got nervously to his feet. “It’s no use,” he snapped. “I don’t know what you did. I don’t know that you did anything! All I know is this: Since the first day you walked in that door, odd things have been happening to my wife and me—evil things—and now she’s lying in there as if she were dead. She’s—” He stopped and covered his face with his hands.
He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. “Mr. Randall…please, Mr. Randall. I’m sorry and I would like to help.”
“I don’t know how anyone can help—unless you know some way of waking up my wife. Do you, Mr. Hoag?”
Hoag shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t. Tell me—what is the matter with her? I don’t know yet.”
“There isn’t much to tell. She didn’t wake up this morning. She acts as if she never would wake up.”
“You’re sure she’s not…dead?”
“No, she’s not dead.”
“You had a doctor, of course. What did he say?”
“He told me not to move her and to watch her closely.”
“Yes, but what did he say was the matter with her?”
“He called it lethargica gravis.”
“Lethargica gravis? Was that all he called it?”
“Yes—why?”
“But didn’t he attempt to diagnose it?”
“That was his diagnosis—lethargica gravis.”
Hoag still seemed puzzled. “But, Mr. Randall, that isn’t a diagnosis; it is just a pompous way of saying ‘heavy sleep.’ It really doesn’t mean anything. It’s like telling a man with skin trouble that he has dermatitis, or a man with stomach trouble that he has gastritis. What tests did he make?”
“Uh…I don’t know. I—”
“Did he take a sample with a stomach pump?”
“No.”
“X ray?”
“No, there wasn’t any way to.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Randall, that a doctor just walked in, took a look at her, and walked out again, without doing anything for her, or applying any tests, or bringing in a consulting opin
ion? Was he your family doctor?”
“No,” Randall said miserably. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about doctors. We never need one. But you ought to know whether he’s any good or not—it was Potbury.”
“Potbury? You mean the Dr. Potbury I consulted? How did you happen to pick him?”
“Well, we didn’t know any doctors—and we had been to see him, checking up on your story. What have you got against Potbury?”
“Nothing, really. He was rude to me—or so I thought.”
“Well, then, what’s he got against you?”
“I don’t see how he could have anything against me,” Hoag answered in puzzled tones. “I only saw him once. Except, of course, the matter of the analysis. Though why he should—” He shrugged helplessly.
“You mean about the stuff under your nails? I thought that was just a song and dance.”
“No.”
“Anyhow it couldn’t be just that. After all the things he said about you.”
“What did he say about me?”
“He said—” Randall stopped, realizing that Potbury had not said anything specific against Hoag; it had been entirely what he did not say. “It wasn’t so much what he said; it was how he felt about you. He hates you, Hoag—and he is afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me?” Hoag smiled feebly, as if he were sure Randall must be joking.
“He didn’t say so, but it was plain as daylight.”
Hoag shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I’m more used to being afraid of people than of having them afraid of me. Wait—did he tell you the results of the analysis he made for me?”
“No. Say, that reminds me of the queerest thing of all about you, Hoag.” He broke off, thinking of the impossible adventure of the thirteenth floor. “Are you a hypnotist?”
“Gracious, no! Why do you ask?”
Randall told him the story of their first attempt to shadow him. Hoag kept quiet through the recital, his face intent and bewildered. “And that’s the size of it,” Randall concluded emphatically. “No thirteenth floor, no Detheridge & Co., no nothing! And yet I remember every detail of it as plainly as I see your face.”
“That’s all?”
“Isn’t that enough? Still, there is one more thing I might add. It can’t be of real importance, except in showing the effect the experience had on me.”
“What is it?”
“Wait a minute.”
Randall got up and went again into the bedroom. He was not quite so careful this time to open the door the bare minimum, although he did close it behind him. It made him nervous, in one way, not to be constantly at Cynthia’s side; yet had he been able to answer honestly he would have been forced to admit that even Hoag’s presence was company and some relief to his anxiety. Consciously, he excused his conduct as an attempt to get to the bottom of their troubles.
He listened for her heartbeats again. Satisfied that she still was in this world, he plumped her pillow and brushed vagrant hair up from her face. He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly, then went quickly out of the room.
Hoag was waiting. “Yes?” he inquired.
Randall sat down heavily and rested his head on his hands. “Still the same.” Hoag refrained from making a useless answer; presently Randall commenced in a tired voice to tell him of the nightmares he had experienced the last two nights. “Mind you, I don’t say they are significant,” he added, when he had done. “I’m not superstitious.”
“I wonder,” Hoag mused.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean anything supernatural, but isn’t it possible that the dreams were not entirely accidental ones, brought on by your experiences? I mean to say, if there is someone who can make you dream the things you dreamed in the Acme Building in broad daylight, why couldn’t they force you to dream at night as well?”
“Huh?”
“Is there anyone who hates you, Mr. Randall?”
“Why, not that I know of. Of course, in my business, you sometimes do things that don’t exactly make friends, but you do it for somebody else. There’s a crook or two who doesn’t like me any too well, but—well, they couldn’t do anything like this. It doesn’t make sense. Anybody hate you? Besides Potbury?”
“Not that I know of. And I don’t know why he should. Speaking of him, you’re going to get some other medical advice, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I guess I don’t think very fast. I don’t know just what to do, except to pick up the phone book and try another number.”
“There’s a better way. Call one of the big hospitals and ask for an ambulance.”
“I’ll do that!” Randall said, standing up.
“You might wait until morning. You wouldn’t get any useful results until morning, anyway. In the meantime she might wake up.”
“Well…yes, I guess so. I think I’ll take another look at her.”
“Mr. Randall?”
“Eh?”
“Uh, do you mind if—May I see her?”
Randall looked at him. His suspicions had been lulled more than he had realized by Hoag’s manner and words, but the suggestion brought him up short, making him recall Potbury’s warnings vividly. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said stiffly.
Hoag showed his disappointment but tried to cover it. “Certainly. Certainly. I quite understand, sir.”
When Randall returned he was standing near the door with his hat in his hand. “I think I had better go,” he said. When Randall did not comment he added, “I would sit with you until morning if you wished it.”
“No. Not necessary. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Randall.”
When Hoag had gone he wandered around aimlessly for several minutes, his beat ever returning him to the side of his wife. Hoag’s comments about Potbury’s methods had left him more uneasy than he cared to admit; in addition to that Hoag had, by partly allaying his suspicions of the man, taken from him his emotional whipping boy—which did him no good.
He ate a cold supper and washed it down with beer—and was pleased to find it remained in place. He then dragged a large chair into the bedroom, put a footstool in front of it, got a spare blanket, and prepared to spend the night. There was nothing to do and he did not feel like reading—he tried it and it didn’t work. From time to time he got up and obtained a fresh can of beer from the icebox. When the beer was gone he took down the rye. The stuff seemed to quiet his nerves a little, but otherwise he could detect no effect from it. He did not want to become drunk.
HE WOKE WITH A TERRIFIED start, convinced for the moment that Phipps was at the mirror and about to kidnap Cynthia. The room was dark; his heart felt as if it would burst his ribs before he could find the switch and assure himself that it was not so, that his beloved, waxy pale, still lay on the bed.
He had to examine the big mirror and assure himself that it did reflect the room and not act as a window to some other, awful place before he was willing to snap off the light. By the dim reflected light of the city he poured himself a bracer for his shaken nerves.
He thought that he caught a movement in the mirror, whirled around, and found that it was his own reflection. He sat down again and stretched himself out, resolving not to drop off to sleep again.
What was that?
He dashed into the kitchen in pursuit of it. Nothing—nothing that he could find. Another surge of panic swept him back into the bedroom—it could have been a ruse to get him away from her side.
They were laughing at him, goading him, trying to get him to make a false move. He knew it—they had been plotting against him for days, trying to shake his nerve. They watched him out of every mirror in the house, ducking back when he tried to catch them at it. The Sons of the Bird—
“The Bird is Cruel!”
Had he said that? Had someone shouted it at him? The Bird is Cruel. Panting for breath, he went to the open window of the bedroom and looked out. It was still dark, pitchdark. No one moved on the streets below. The direction
of the lake was a lowering bank of mist. What time was it? Six o’clock in the morning by the clock on the table. Didn’t it ever get light in this God-forsaken city?
The Sons of the Bird. He suddenly felt very sly; they thought they had him, but he would fool them—they couldn’t do this to him and to Cynthia. He would smash every mirror in the place. He hurried out to the kitchen, where he kept a hammer in the catch-all drawer. He got it and came back to the bedroom. First, the big mirror—
He hesitated just as he was about to swing on it. Cynthia wouldn’t like this—seven years bad luck! He wasn’t superstitious himself, but—Cynthia wouldn’t like it! He turned to the bed with the idea of explaining it to her; it seemed so obvious—just break the mirrors and then they would be safe from the Sons of the Bird.
But he was stumped by her still face.
He thought of a way around it. They had to use a mirror. What was a mirror? A piece of glass that reflects. Very well—fix ’em so they wouldn’t reflect! Furthermore he knew how he could do it; in the same drawer with the hammer were three or four dime-store cans of enamel, and a small brush, leftovers from a splurge of furniture refinishing Cynthia had once indulged in.
He dumped them all into a small mixing bowl; together they constituted perhaps a pint of heavy pigment—enough, he thought, for his purpose. He attacked the big beveled glass first, slapping enamel over it in quick careless strokes. It ran down his wrists and dripped onto the dressing table; he did not care. Then the others—
There was enough, though barely enough, to finish the living room mirror. No matter—it was the last mirror in the house—except, of course, the tiny mirrors in Cynthia’s bags and purses, and he had already decided that they did not count. Too small for a man to crawl through and packed away out of sight, anyhow.
The enamel had been mixed from a small amount of black and perhaps a can and a half, net, of red. It was all over his hands now; he looked like the central figure in an ax murder. No matter—he wiped it, or most of it, off on a towel and went back to his chair and his bottle.
Let ’em try now! Let ’em try dirty, filthy black magic! He had them stymied.
He prepared to wait for the dawn.
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 37
