The Fritz Leiber Megapack

by Fritz Leiber

  With the stew was served—inappropriately enough—a sugary port wine. Helen and I, our appetites satisfied, toyed with the meat. Cynthia Orne hardly touched a thing; she’d grow thin soon enough on this diet, I thought. But Malcolm ate enormously, voraciously, knife and fork moving with a perfectly correct yet machinelike rapidity.

  Gradually I found myself loathing the man. I think his attitude toward his wife was chiefly responsible, at first. He so obviously gloated in possessing her and dominating her, so that she dared not speak a word for herself. He was showing her off, drinking in our admiration. And he gloated in his mystification of us, too: his veiled references to coming revelations, his unwillingness to discuss even the lesser mystery of Buford and the mastiff. Oh, I was still devilishly curious to know the explanation of the baffling phenomenon with which we were faced—a phenomenon which had changed a midget into a giant—but my curiosity was dulled, and I felt that the solution would somehow be sickening. Again and again I studied his face, racking my memory for the exact appearance of Malcolm Orne the midget, comparing, contrasting. Even the head seemed larger, the forehead more swollen, though those features had been characteristic of the midget too. I tried hard to pretend that this was a different man—and I failed. The identity was too apparent. I went over in my mind the manner of Malcolm Orne the midget. Sardonic he had been, I recalled, and at times overly in love with his own cleverness.

  A not very pleasant or kindly person. One expects such behavior in an individual seeking to compensate for marked physical deficiencies. Malcolm Orne the giant retained all these qualities, but there was added to them supreme self-satisfaction along with a wanton delight in exercising power. His sense of inferiority, which had been the balance wheel in his nature, was now gone, and the result was not very nice. And beyond all this I sensed something else—some unguessed, almost inhuman power or some equally unguessed, equally inhuman striving, unwholesome force emanated from him. I recalled Helen’s words: “…changed from a pygmy into a giant almost overnight. The psychological implications. Why it opens up all sorts of vistas.” I did not like the look of those vistas.

  Bufort splashed stew, a great puddle of it, on the tablecloth. I looked at him. His face was muddy with fear. It was the sound from outside that was affecting him—an excited growling and yapping, growing louder every moment. Malcolm Orne, frowning, half rose. I expected him to strike Bufort, but he did not. He was listening too.

  “Sounds as if your mastiff’s caught something,” I remarked. Malcolm Orne impatiently motioned me to be silent.

  Suddenly the sound changed in character, became a wail of terror, one vast horrid squeal that rose and fell without ever ceasing, like a siren. Moving with startling rapidity for so tall a man, Malcolm Orne darted toward the door. I rose to follow. He turned and rapped out a peremptory command, “None of you are to leave this room until I return.” Then, seeing my angry look, he added with obvious, effort. “If you please, Tom. I can best handle this alone.” The door slammed behind him.

  The wailing decreased in volume, though becoming more pitifully agonized. With a shrug I sat down. The Negress Milly had come in from the kitchen, and she and Bufort were clinging together in abject terror, though he if anything seemed the more frightened.

  “Caught another dog, I suppose—” ventured Helen. Her voice trailed off.

  “Very likely,” I replied. But I was thinking that if there were a second dog involved he had a very similar voice.

  “Well, I’m sure your husband knows just how to handle him, Mrs. Orne,” Helen remarked with an attempt at reassurance.

  Mrs. Orne did not reply. I looked at her more closely. Her lips were moving wordlessly, as though she were seeking to reply and unable to. Beads of sweat stood out on her white forehead, and trickled from the line of her golden hair. Her whole body was trembling, so slightly that you hardly noticed it at first, but continuously. Gradually it was borne in on me that this was no mere anxiety for her husband. She was in the grip of ultimate panic.

  The wailing sank to a coughing moan, then mercifully ceased. And now we heard the voice of Malcolm Orne, in sharp accents of command.

  Again Mrs. Orne seemed to be attempting unsuccessfully to speak. Her eyes were fixed on Helen’s beseechingly. Then, with rapid nervous movements, she spread out her tiny handkerchief on the tablecloth, and began to write something on it in lipstick with shaking hand. We watched her, fascinated. There came the sound of slamming doors, and then, during one moment of stillness, a rustling, so very faint that I could hardly be sure I had heard, yet it wrung from Bufort a pitiful groan of horror. I recalled the first words we had heard him speak, “Dat rustlin’ soun’—” Hardly a noise that one would associate with a mastiff.

  Another door slammed. There were footsteps in the hall. In frantic haste Mrs. Orne wadded up the handkerchief and held it out to Helen, who quickly tucked it in the bosom of her dress. Then the door opened, and Malcolm Orne stood regarding us. His shoes and trouser legs were muddied.

  “A dangerous beast—to outsiders,” he remarked, breathing a little heavily. “A stray hound wandered in, and he tore it to ribbons before I could interfere.” He looked around, as if challenging us to say that what we had heard hadn’t sounded like a dog-fight.

  “I shouldn’t think you’d want to have such a brute around,” said Helen rapidly.

  He seemed about to reply when his gaze lighted on Bufort and Milly. “What do you mean coming in here?” he snarled at the Negress. “Get out! Bufort, we will take coffee now.”

  His urbane manner returned when he had settled himself again at the table. “Sorry I can’t offer you coffee in the living room. But I’ve shut it up. It’s a great barn of a place, two stories high, very hard to heat. Besides, before his death, my brother had begun to use it as a sort of laboratory, for his experiments.” Again the gloating, secretive smile.

  Night-black coffee, in fragile eggshell china, was something I welcomed. Malcolm Orne drained his cup, refilled it and began abruptly to speak.

  “I’m hardly the right one to tell this story, since I’m no scientist. But I’m the only one who knows it all. So bear with me if I fumble for words.” His manner belied what he said. He was obviously supremely self-confident; savoring the dramatic quality of his introduction. “Well, you may have heard something of my brother’s work on growth processes. His early investigations created quite a stir. But first I should try to explain something.

  “Growth, as I understand it, is not a process that has any absolutely fixed stopping point. It may stop early in the ’teens, or continue on well into the twenties. It may seem to stop, and then start again. Moreover, there are well-authenticated cases of growth during middle age. Though usually in such cases the growth is of an unbalanced and localized sort, as in acromegaly, where the bones of the hands and jaw become abnormally enlarged. Factors of heredity, diet, and climate are all of importance. Scientists today are of course able to exert some control over growth by influencing glandular secretions. If they knew enough, their control would become complete. They would know how to start growth when it had seemed to stop forever.

  “Perhaps my being a midget turned my brother’s mind to this problem. But once he had begun, he pursued it with a single-mindedness that crowded out all other interests. Not that he had a narrow range of thought—he was a genius!—but he saw in every phenomenon some aspect of the process of growth. His country clinic here was a part of it—he made extensive statistical studies of the sizes and growth rates of country and city people. Growth Factor One—that was what he called the thing he was looking for. The hormone or sub-vitamin that influenced all the others. The ultimate physiological catalyst. The master switch to turn on or shut off the whole process of growth.”

  Helen and I were leaning forward now, hanging on his words. He waited, for a moment, relishing the suspense, then said lazily, “Well, that’s about all there is to the story. Except tha
t eventually he found it. Found Growth Factor One.” He rolled the words on his tongue.

  “What was it, you ask? That’s something I’d like to know too, now. But I’m no scientist. It was something that was injected. That much I know, since after the preliminary experiments on animals and insects, I insisted on being his first human subject. You can readily guess why.”

  His gloating smile and his air of utter superiority were fast becoming insufferable, but you just had to listen.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “I think you can all readily imagine why a midget should want to grow. No one loves a midget, eh dear?” His words caressed his wife cruelly, like a whip dragged slowly across naked skin. “And a midget loves no one. Or at least that midget didn’t.”

  He seemed then to become lost in reverie, but I felt sure he was only taking time to let his words sink in, and to absorb our unwilling interest. Helen gripped my hand under the table and I could feel her shivering.

  Then, staring past us, he continued in a low dreamy voice, “An interesting thing, the way this Growth Factor One works. It doesn’t merely increase the size of and number of body cells already existing. After the fashion of true growth, it develops new kinds of cells. I have, for example, in my brain, neurons of a sort that probably have never existed before. “Very likely they have—new powers. The same holds for muscular cells. I could demonstrate; but it would be rather melodramatic, wouldn’t it, if I crumpled this coffee urn in one hand? Incidentally, the growth process would work in the same way with animals. By careful use of Growth Factor One you might make an animal as intelligent, almost, as a man.” He broke off and looked around at us, patronizingly. “Well, now you’ve heard it. A year ago my brother died. His work was turned over to a group of distinguished scientists. But his notes were inadequate and very confusing. I don’t think they’ll ever be able to learn much from them. I remain the sole product of his labors. The other creatures he experimented with were all destroyed.”

  Helen gave a little squeal of fright and jerked away from the table. A tiny black spider was scuttling among the silverware. Malcolm Orne calmly reached out the gravy ladle left from the stew, and crushed it with a little thwack. Then, as Helen began to apologize for being so startled, we noticed that Cynthia Orne had fainted.

  Her husband made no movement. For a moment I stared at him, then hurried around and did what I could to revive her, chaffing her temples with a wet napkin, lowering her head to bring the blood back. Finally her lips twitched and her eyes shuddered open. Leaning over her, close to her face, I seemed to hear her murmur over and over again a peculiar phrase: “Not the web again. Not the web.” Mechanically, almost inaudibly, but with an accent of extreme fear. Then she realized where she was and quickly sat up. She seemed embarrassed by my attempts to help her.

  Malcolm Orne sipped the last of his coffee, and stood up. “It’s time we were all in bed,” he remarked. “Our guests must be tired from their trip. Come, dear.”

  She struggled to her feet, swaying a little, and took his arm. Helen and I followed silently, though angry words were on the tip of my tongue.

  Right then and there I suppose I ought to have had it out with him, but after all it was his house, so I held myself in.

  In the hall the unpleasant odor that I had ascribed to defective plumbing was more noticeable, and as we passed the high double doors of the living room I fancied I heard a faint sibilant rustling. Up the stairs we followed them, Cynthia Orne leaning heavily on her husband’s arm. He did not look down at her. At the first door at the head of the stairs he paused. “Good night, dear. I’ll be coming considerably later,” he said. She unlinked her arm from his, nodded at us with the specter of a smile, and went in.

  At the door to our bedroom he said good night, adding, “If you want anything, there’s the bell-pull. Please don’t consider stirring out of this room. The servants or I can attend to all your wants.”

  The door closed and his footsteps moved away. Helen drew out Cynthia Orne’s handkerchief, spread it out on the table. We read it together. The lipstick had smudged, and the printing was hurried, but there was no question as to what the words were.

  “Get out. For your lives.”

  Half an hour later I was tiptoeing in my stockinged feet down the almost pitch-black hall toward Cynthia Orne’s bedroom. I felt slightly ridiculous and not altogether sure of myself. Meddling with the affairs of a married couple is undiplomatic to say the least. But Helen and I had decided there was nothing else we could do. Malcolm Orne certainly gave the impression of being vindictive, cruel, and dangerous. And the woman’s warning to us implied that she herself was in danger. For her own sake as well as our own, it seemed imperative that one of us talk with her alone and find out what it was all about.

  I had successfully negotiated the turn in the hail and was approaching the head of the stairs when the noise of talking from below brought me to a stop. It sounded like Malcolm Orne. After a few moments I inched forward past the bedroom door and peered over the ornately carved balustrade down the well of the stairs. There were no candles below, but the storm had blown over and moonlight shone through the fanlight—enough to illuminate vaguely the face of our host. An oblong of darkness showed me that the door to the living room was open, and there mounted to my nostrils that now-familiar stench, stronger than before. Somehow that odor, more than anything else, cut through my conscious mind to the hidden levels of fear below.

  Orne was looking in that open doorway. At first I thought he was talking to someone, but afterward I became certain that he was conducting a wild, moody monologue. At least, one does not expect a sane man to talk with the dead.

  “You’ll rot forever eternally embalmed in hell,” were the first words I heard. He intoned them like a malign indignation. “Yes, dear brother, you’re well taken care of. You who always felt so sorry for me and wanted to make a ‘real’ man out of me, yet were so contemptuous of my intelligence that you treated me as a child. You with your babbling about ‘humanity’ and your moralizing lectures. Well, you succeeded all right. You made a man—or perhaps more than a man out of me. But you found out too late what the consequences are. I wish you comfort, dear brother. I hope you like my wife’s company. She’s not been behaving well of late. Again good night, brother.”

  A mocking laugh ended this murderous confession. Then he whistled and snapped his fingers impatiently, as if calling a dog, and moved off toward the dining room.

  It is not pleasant to confess that one has ever been literally paralyzed by fear, but what happened then did just that to me. I saw nothing. The moonlight struck too high to illuminate what issued from the living room and hurried down the hall after him. But there was a rustling, clicking sound—Merciful heavens, how I tried to convince myself a dog might make such a sound!—and it carried an indescribable impression of swift scurrying movement. With it came a sharp increase in the fetid stench.

  I am not certain how long I crouched there with the cold sweat of terror breaking out from my forehead. Hardly a minute probably. Then my mind began to work again, returning automatically to the problem with which it had previously been engaged—the urgent need of conferring with Cynthia Orne.

  Cautious rapping at her door brought no response. I tried it and found it locked. Then I risked a little louder rapping, and, with my lips close to the keyhole, softly called her name. Still no response. Memory of Orne’s fantastic words rose in my numbed mind, “I hope you like my wife’s company.” And with those words the chilling possibility of murder rose in my mind.

  Then, as I stepped back from the door, I heard again that abominable rustling, but this time behind me, in the direction of our bedroom. And then I heard Helen scream. That stung me into instant action. But in my reckless haste I misjudged the turn in the corridor and crashed against the wall. Half stunned, I staggered onward and wrenched open the bedroom door. The flickering light from the branched candelabrum revealed an
undisturbed and empty room: Helen was gone.

  My first move was toward the open window. Below, rapidly crossing the moon-silvered unkempt lawn, I saw two figures. But they were not the ones I expected. Burdened with an ancient carpetbag and several ragged bundles, Bufort and Milly were hurrying away from Orne House.

  My next move, after quickly rummaging in my suitcase for the flashlight, was back toward the stair. I had remembered the crossed sabers on the wall in the hall below, and it seemed to me essential that I procure a weapon of some sort before I start my search. But I was stopped short at the head of the stairs, for again Malcolm Orne was standing at the library door. Only this time the front door was open too and this time his words were brief.

  “After ’em boy. Get ’em, boy,” he called, snapping his fingers and then pointing outside. There was a momentary pause. Then something scuttled like a shadow across the path of moonlight, moving with such rapidity that I could make out nothing of its shape except that it was squat but not small. Malcolm Orne gave a low laugh and followed it, closing the door behind him. With a sickening heart I realized that the desperately fleeing figures I had seen crossing the lawn were to be hunted down.

  But at least I was momentarily safe to pursue my search. I switched on the flashlight, hurried down the stairs and lifted one of the sabers from the wall. It was a heavy yet well-balanced weapon. Then I entered the living room.

  The stench was nauseously thick here, the very air a sea of decay. My flashlight, directed at random, fell twice on moldering tapestries and then on something so incredible that I believed I must be going mad. Suspended in midair at the far end of the room, still clad in that red velvet evening gown, was the body of Cynthia Orne. ;

  The head, its golden hair disarranged, lolled backward. The arms stretched taut to either side. Then I began to see the thin opalescently grayish strands that twined around her wrists and arms, and wrapped around her skirt, drawing it tight against her legs. The strands seemed to radiate off in all directions. My flashlight roved outward across the glimmering network. Horror and revulsion rooted me to, the spot where I stood. The thing was a gigantic spider web.