Rand recognized the situation instantly. And now he knew just what to do. He side-slipped—and the bullets punched harmless holes in his wing. Then he jerked around in a swift curve and came up and under the belly of a Messerschmitt whose tail had previously attracted him. He fired a short burst, and the Nazi craft lurched drunkenly and nosed down.
In a continuation of his curve, Rand slid into a tight inside loop. As he came out of it, he caught one of his two attackers squarely in his sights. He fired with automatic reaction, and sudden flame boiled from the Messerschmitt’s engine. The other leaped at him vengefully, but before he could act, converging lines of tracer bit into it, and a moment later a Hurricane streaked across his vision. The Nazi craft, riddled vitally, began twisting and turning to its death crash on the ground far below.
Rand looked around for the other Hurricane, but it was gone. He decided that anti-aircraft fire or machine-gun bullets must have gotten it. The one that had come to his rescue, however, was streaking back toward the badly besieged bombers, and Rand followed it.
Just then the Nazi anti-aircraft fire made a direct hit on one of the bombers. Its deadly cargo exploded with terrific violence, spewing fragments of metal across the sky. Rand was blinded and deafened, and he lost control of his P-38 under the force of the awful concussion. Grimly, he fought the plane back on an even keel. Then, as vision crept back into his eyes, he looked about him.
He became fiercely exultant. The Nazis had defeated their own purpose. The bomber had been suffering under the attack of an especially large number of Messerschmitts, and its explosion had knocked almost all the remaining number of intercepting enemy craft out of the sky.
The farthermost of the two surviving bombers was directly over the blacked out town. Now it began unloading its cargo. There came the familiar bursts of light with their accompanying explosions. Here and there on the ground below fires began burning.
The Hurricane was battling savagely against three remaining Messerschmitts. As Rand came to its rescue, it got one. An instant later, however, it fell in flames itself. The two surviving Nazi craft disregarded Rand and went after the bomber that was dropping its deadly load upon the town. But it had been fatally disabled, completing its mission while in the throes of death. Even as the Messerschmitts began firing into it, it turned over and began falling.
Rand hurled his P-38 after the two remaining Nazi craft. Only one bomber was left. He was grimly, stubbornly determined that it should be able to finish its task.
Never had he fought as intently or as well. He employed every cunning trick which he had learned in more than two years of war. His consciousness merged with his plane, until the machine and himself were as one, and every roll, loop, and turn was made as though with his own bodily members. Time and place lost all meaning for him.
And then he got one of the two Messerschmitts squarely in his sights. His guns spat leaden doom, and the Nazi craft, a lifeless shell, began hurtling earthward.
Only one more remained now. Rand looked around for it eagerly. Abruptly, his breath caught in his throat.
The lone bomber was directly over the town below. Its bombs couldn’t miss, for the town was a beautiful target, outlined as it was in flames. Every bomb was certain to hit a vital spot.
But arrowing at it was the sole surviving Messerschmitt. It wasn’t firing at the bomber, for its guns were either jammed or out of ammunition. It was hurtling straight at the bomber with one very obvious intent—to ram it.
Rand sent his P-38 streaking forward. Desperately, he forced out every last bit of speed and power which the craft possessed. He knew that the only hope of accomplishing the mission successfully rested upon that last bomber. He knew, too, that merely firing at the Messerschmitt wouldn’t deflect it from its set and deadly course. There was only one thing to do.
Eagerly, gladly, Rand did it. In that final moment he remembered what Madge had told him. Only one way of death had been seen for him—from enemies. Anything that had not directly menaced him had apparently been overlooked. But he was going to die just the same. And it would take place quite in the line of duty. He was going to sacrifice himself so that last bomber could finish its task.
Triumph coursing vibrantly through him, Rand sent his P-38 crashing into the Messerschmitt. There was a brief instant of shock and pain, and then he was soaring up and up on great, white wings—up and into an ever brightening sky.
Faintly and from far away, he seemed to hear a roar of sound that could only have come from an exploding munitions works. Then a sudden swelling of exquisite music rose over it, burst after ecstatic burst. And on its strains, as though on a breeze, Rand floated down to that tiny cottage in the grove, where so many things awaited his doing.
FIDO
Originally published in Unknown Worlds, October 1943.
The cabbie pulled to a stop in front of the apartment hotel and swung around in his seat. “Your number, mister,” he announced wearily.
Nick Bevins, his hands plunged deep into the trouser pockets’ of his rumpled tuxedo, looked up with a start. “Huh?” he muttered. “Oh, yeah.” He glanced at the meter, then pulled out a wallet from which he selected two bills. He handed these to the cabbie without waiting for change and climbed from the cab. It grumbled into motion and shot away.
Alone at the curb, Bevins absently rubbed the palm, of his right hand over the back of his left. He looked around him slowly, his large, slightly protruding brown eyes glistening in apprehensive expectancy.
It was early morning. A hint of dawn showed on the horizon at the eastern end of the street. The lamps burned with a pale luminescence in the fog which had crept in from Lake Michigan little more than three blocks distant. Darkness still pressed heavily upon this portion of Chicago’s north side, and the tall apartment buildings loomed cliff-like in the gloom, unlighted and featureless.
Bevin’s gaze had probed both sides of the street, from one end to the other. It seemed unfamiliar in the fog, almost eerie. But he saw nothing move, nor was there any sound. He had a growing sense of relief. Almost he was becoming convinced that his conviction of the past week that someone followed him was due merely to nerves.
A cold, thin breeze came in suddenly from the lake. Bevins shivered and drew the open ends of his overcoat about his short, slender figure. He felt an abrupt burst of impatience. What was he waiting for? Was he actually hoping to see something? He glanced at the glass and metal door that led into his apartment hotel, and in his mind there began the impulse which would set his legs into motion.
And then he froze into rigidity. For a moment his eyes had glanced from the door before him, and in the cone of light from the street lamp five yards distant, he thought he had seen something move. But when his frightened eyes darted to cover the spot, there was nothing to be seen except curling wisps of fog vapor. But he was certain that someone—or something—had stood for an instant in the circle of illumination.
Bevins felt a rush of terror. He was positive his experience wasn’t due to nerves or imagination. Someone was following him. Or something. Something that was as silent as the approach of death itself, that moved with such rapidity that it left only a flicker of motion in a turning eye.
Bevins’ mind completed its previous impulse and he rushed madly through the door. The night clerk, reading a magazine in the light above the telephone switchboard, looked up in alarm. “Oh! Morning Mr. Bevins.”
Bevins gave him a short nod and let himself into the self-operating elevator.
He punched the button for his floor and frowned in frightened thought while he nibbled the tip of his thin blond mustache. He wondered if Grange had found out that there was something wrong going on at the club and was having him followed. But Bevins shook his head. Big Steve Grange, didn’t work that way. He wouldn’t have him followed. He, Bevins, would just quietly disappear one dark night.
Bevins wondered how soon he could
get the club books straightened out before Grange decided to look them over. He’d made a profit on International Life, but that would all have to go back into the club’s funds. He’d lost heavily on his Consolidated stock, however, and that made a balance of three hundred dollars short which would have to be covered up somehow.
Bevins shuddered. He knew now that he had been a fool to try to make money that way. Grange would have him killed if he learned that he, Bevins, had been speculating with club funds.
Bevins felt appalled at the thought of how close he was to disaster. Big Steve Grange was cruel, ruthless, utterly without mercy or compunction. He never forgave a mistake, nor did he ever pardon a crime. He was one of the last of the old-time racketeers, though still quite powerful. His practices had remained much the same through the years, but his methods had changed to conform with the times. He owned more than a dozen profitable enterprises of which the Variety Club—which Bevins managed—was only one.
Bevins frowned as he sought to recall what Grange had mentioned about the books that night. Grange had been at the club, with the latest of his mammas, and Bevins had sat at his table for a while. But he’d had too many drinks and Vic Hendron’s orchestra was swinging into a fast number, and he just couldn’t remember precisely what Grange had said. His mind retained only a reference to the books.
Suddenly Bevins realized that the elevator had stopped at his floor. He pulled open the door and let himself out into the hall.
He was fishing for his key when his eyes caught an abrupt flicker of motion at the further end of the hall. Ice water filled his veins and he gazed a long, dreading moment at the spot. But nothing else happened, and the hall was still. Bevins felt haunted. He knew now that something followed him. But he wished desperately that he knew just what it was. There would be a shred of comfort in the mere fact of knowing.
Bevins let himself quickly into his room and locked the door. He wondered suddenly if he really wanted to know. Something that moved so fast and was so silent just couldn’t be human. It had trailed him from the club, though he had heard no following car. How had it done so? And—Bevins gasped in dismay—how had it gotten into the building?
But whatever it was, whatever its uncanny abilities, it at least wasn’t dangerous. He had been followed a whole week now and nothing had happened to him. The thing just, followed him around, and when he noticed, it was gone.
Bevins felt a small return of his confidence. He found himself wishing again that he knew what it was. He pulled off his hat and coat, ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair and began to remove his tuxedo.
An unframed publicity photo of Patsy Clark atop the bookcase caught his eye. His sallow face became bitter and sullen. Patsy was a permanent entertainer at the club, and her voice was as lovely as she was herself. She sang popular numbers with a vivacity and charm that never failed to bring down the house. The picture wasn’t in colors, but Bevins knew that her long hair was light brown, glinting with golden lights. Her eyes were a sparkling hazel and her skin was white and dear. She was small but delightfully rounded, with a hint of plumpness at arms and hips.
Though Bevins was uncertain as to what Grange had said about the books, he remembered the exact words Patsy had used in rejecting his proposal that night. That was before he had started drinking. It was, in fact, the thing that had gotten him started.
Patsy had said, “I’m awfully sorry, Nick, but I just couldn’t marry you. You’ve been swell to me and I’m grateful. But, gosh, Nick, if I haven’t got anything for you, I just haven’t. You understand, don’t you?”
Bevins recalled that he had nodded, but he hadn’t understood. That was gratitude, he thought blackly now. Why, he’d taken Patsy in at the club when she was just a little nobody. He’d given her the chance to become what she was now. Why didn’t women look into their heads instead of their hearts in matters of this sort?
Of course, Bevins forgot the little wave of desire which had swept over him when he had first seen Patsy, the day she had appeared at the club looking for a job. She’d been very pretty with her plain hair-do and her simple dress. He’d wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before, and he’d hired her on the strength of that alone. Patsy’s own silver voice and wonderful little personality had taken care of the rest, but Bevins chose to forget that.
The thing which Bevins found most humiliating about the situation was that he was really willing to marry Patsy, though there were any number of other women he could have without legal entanglements. There were a lot of cheap entertainers who would be willing to be nice to him for the chance to appear at the club. But he wanted Patsy.
Scowling, Bevins went into the bedroom and climbed into a pair of green silk pajamas. It was that band leader, Vic Hendron, Bevins thought furiously. He should never have signed up Hendron’s orchestra for that three-week engagement. Hendron had been playing at the club for over a week now, and Bevins had often seen him and Patsy standing close together, talking and laughing as if nothing else in the world mattered but what they had to say to each other. Bevins was vain about his dapper sleekness, but there were times when he did envy Hendron for his height and handsome, vigorous youth.
Bevins dropped onto the bed and pulled the covers about him. He was preparing to turn out the light on the night table beside him when something moved into sight in the bedroom doorway. Bevins looked. His mouth dropped open as though it had relinquished relationship with the thin blond mustache above it. His brown eyes, usually slightly popped, seemed ready to jump from their sockets. A chilling tide of horror such as he had never known overwhelmed him.
A thing squatted in the doorway. It looked like an insane mixture of St. Bernard dog and chimpanzee, but neither of these two familiar animals possess long, silver hair, horns, claws, and inch-long fangs. The thing did not move, neither did it make a sound. It merely looked at Bevins with weird yellow eyes that had neither iris nor pupil.
Bevins felt a wild need for a scream, but he was incapable of accomplishing one. He just had time to remember his wish that he could see the thing which had been following him. Then he quietly fainted.
* * * *
When Bevins awoke it was past noon. He lay still for a moment, looking around the bedroom, dark with its shades still drawn. He was relieved when he found nothing. His courage returned. He climbed out of bed, stretched, then pulled up the shades.
A sudden thought made him pause in the act of pulling off his pajama, top. Maybe the thing was still in the apartment, in another room. He looked into the living room—and there it was.
The thing lay curled up in an armchair for all the world like a nightmarish, overgrown dog. It turned vacant yellow eyes to Bevins and just looked.
Bevins managed a thin bleat this time. He clung weakly to the door frame, his muscles bunches of quivering horror. His frightened mind sought desperately for some answer as to what he should do. Abruptly, he remembered that the thing had appeared to him only because he had wanted it to. Perhaps if he wanted it to go away—
“G-get out!” Bevins quavered.
It worked. The thing paled into colorlessness, became transparent. The outlines of its form thinned like smoke in a breeze and it was gone.
Bevins released his breath in a gasping sigh. He rubbed the palm of his right hand over the back of his left.
He wondered if he had gone mad. He was a little surprised to find himself thinking quite clearly and rationally about it, and finally he decided that wasn’t quite the answer. Neither was nerves or hallucinations. What he had experienced was too real and crystal-clear for that. He thought of liquor, but he was careful enough of his job never to get himself actually drunk. A heavy drinker might see such an animal, but it would take a lot of whiskey to do it.
Bevins came to the conclusion that there was nothing really wrong with himself. It was the thing. What it was and why it had taken to following him, he couldn’t guess. He tr
ied it a moment, but his mind began to wander into realms so dark, dank, and hideous that he was afraid to continue. But the fact remained that it existed. It had appeared when he wanted to see it, and it had gone away when he told it to do so. Whatever the thing was, then, wherever it had come from, it possessed a quite definitely tractable nature.
Bevins’ mind reeled beneath the sudden blow of the realization that the thing had been in the apartment with him all morning. And nothing had happened! He was still safe and sound.
He shook his head in bewilderment. It seemed that he had acquired a mighty strange pet! Not only was it harmless, but obedient as well.
Though still a little worried about the future, Bevins nevertheless felt a return of his courage and confidence. He was not very much astonished to find that he had accepted the thing, frightful appearance, uncanny powers, and all.
Bevins dressed and groomed himself with his usual painstaking care, had breakfast downtown, and got to work in his office at the club. He attended to various routine matters first. Then, his forehead wrinkled in anxiety and concentration, he got down to fixing the books. It required a lot of imagination and manipulation of expenses, but at last he was satisfied with his efforts. The books wouldn’t stand up under expert scrutiny, but they would pass Grange’s none-too-educated gaze. Bevins felt safe enough.
Affairs at the club that night moved with the rapidity and hectic gaiety with which they always did. The bar was covered with a haze of cigarette smoke, the closely grouped tables were noisy with talk and laughter, and the dance floor was crowded. The floor show went smoothly, and Vic Hendron’s orchestra played well. Patsy was lovely in a patriotic red, white, and blue gown.
Later, Bevins saw the band leader and the girl, seated close together at the bar. He watched in jealous anger, wondering how they found so much to say to each other. And as he watched, he saw them touch lips in a swift kiss.
The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK Page 13
