She wasn’t frightened. Nothing bad could happen to her—yet. She was, on this knife-edged moment in time, supreme.
Then the man stuck a needle into her arm, and she tried to scream.
But no sound came from her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. They were putting a robe about her, leading her to the door.
Where were they taking her?
Why?
August 10th,1972
Dickie Williams was ten years old. He was a freckle-faced, red-haired boy, rugged and cheerful, humming to himself as he played before his home on a pleasant, tree-bordered street. He was getting ready to shoot an elm tree, stalking it carefully, his small, grimy hand tense above an imaginary holster and gun. It wasn’t a tree really, it was Doctor Edmonds, who’d be coming tomorrow to swab his throat, and that would be the doctor’s last visit. Bang! Bang! Bang!
A man tapped his shoulder, and Dickie looked up. The man was funny-looking, with a perfectly blank face. Dickie started to say hello, but he couldn’t talk. Something had hurt his arm. It was stinging. The man was leading him to a car.
He felt angry and belligerent. He’d kick this man in the shins, he’d drill him full of holes.
But he did nothing at all.
August 10th, 1972
J. Worthington Macklin was a Texas rancher, oil man, and real-estate man. Anything he touched, business-wise, had a way of acquiring the significance of blue chips in a high-stake poker game. But in other things, his family, for instance, it was an entirely different matter.
He was thinking of this, not gloomily, but with self-righteous anger, as he rode across the rich range land that spread for hundreds of thousands of acres about his baronial home. Everything he could see belonged to him; herds of cattle, rich grass, smartly kept out-buildings, they were all his.
His house dogs were either Great Danes or Belgian cart dogs, immense pure-breds as big as Shetland ponies. Macklin liked things big; he had no use for little dogs, little horses, little ranches, or little people. Even his wife, a statuesque woman now in her late forties, followed the pattern. Macklin’s sons were All-America football players, out-sized young men with tremendous bodies and appetites, but without much native intelligence. They were good-natured behemoths, rather dull, rather stupid. The only disappointment in his life had been the birth of a daughter eighteen years before; he was ashamed of siring a girl. In his clubs, and at his office, he had treated the thing as an embarrassing joke, one which he didn’t want to be reminded of.
He thought of her now, as he rode his great white stallion over the range, wondering how he could make her conform to his own ideas of seemly womanly behavior.
Then he saw something that made him forget all about his daughter. An autogyro which he had seen hovering about in the air, was settling down to land. Previously, he had wished that the autogyro would clear the hell away from his ranch. It was flying over his land, and he didn’t like it. The autogyro bothered him as a gnat might annoy a giant. But now the pesky thing was actually coming down on his land. And it was in no trouble, obviously. It was simply trespassing. Spurring his horse, and enjoying the righteous wrath that was pepping up his endocrines, he galloped toward the now-landed plane.
Two men hopped out of the” plane. Little men, he thought contemptuously, and in city clothes. Their faces were the pale blank faces of city dwellers.
“G-get off!” he yelled, stuttering slightly, as was his custom. “G-get off, you hear?”
He reined up beside the men, glaring at them from cold, shiny blue eyes. One of them moved his hand toward the horse, then touched Macklin on the leg. He felt a stinging sensation.
He realized, with a vast sense of outrage, that he was falling from his horse. The men didn’t catch him; they let him strike the ground heavily.
The stallion reared and dashed off, neighing in terror.
The men loaded Macklin into the autogyro . . .
August 10th, 1972
Patience O’Neill was a grade-school teacher in a rural area of New England. She was a small, quick girl of twenty-five, with clean brown hair which she wore parted in the middle and coiled in braids at the base of her neck. Her complexion was clear and healthy, a result of sensible diet, and regular exercise. She walked the two miles from the village to the school-house each day, only taking the bus on the worst of the winter days. At all other times Patience used the road, a small, conservatively dressed figure, walking with a long free stride and making a point of inhaling deeply to a regular count. She didn’t smoke or drink, and she had never been in love. There were no repressions or inhibitions threatening to expose her orderly psyche. She would love a man when she found one to love, and she had tried cigarettes and liquor but hadn’t enjoyed them. Her name, Patience, was the touchstone of her character; she was a woman who could wait without anxiety, who could plan without feeling she was deluding herself, and who could do her work with pleasure, savoring today and not asking tomorrow to keep any preposterous promises.
She left her school-house at mid-day, having tutored several young boys and girls who were putting in extra hours to make up work lost in the regular term through illness. The day was sunny and bright, with a high cheerful wind blowing through the green trees. She set out smartly, her small, neatly-shod feet falling as regularly as the hand of a metronome, and breathing the warm clear air down deeply into her lungs.
The car that drew up beside her, and the man who got out and beckoned to her, were hardly enough to interrupt her rhythmic stride. She would have strode on, her back a bit straighter because she didn’t like men addressing her this way, but sympathy and sense of responsibility were instinctive to her, and so she stopped, grave and composed, as the man approached and, surprisingly, put a hand on her arm.
She cried out against the needle-prick of pain in her wrist, but no sound passed her lips.
The man was leading her toward the car.
It was peculiar and unreasonable.
Unless . . .
Her last thought was typical of her, practical and tolerant; if he planned to use her lustfully, she was grateful that she would know nothing of it until afterwards . . .
August 10th, 1972
Mrs. Maria Consolo had celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday the day before and now, as she puttered aimlessly about her little fruit and vegetable store in Brooklyn, she was smiling with pleasure at the memories of the party. All those people, her family and friends, and all that food and wine. Mama Mia! Her memory was bad; scenes from her native Sardinia were sharper in her old head than the events of yesterday, and she couldn’t remember all the people who came in to wish her health and long-life. She was a tiny woman, with a face as withered as a winter apple, and eyes that were as sharp and black as tiny marbles. Her husband had their little business until he had retired with a pain in his back, and so now she ran it, weighing out potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and eggplants to her own kind, people she had known all her life, who liked her manner, and her prices, and who were slightly afraid of the giant super-market in the next block.
Maria looked up smiling as the two men entered her store.
She asked them what they wanted as the man put a hand on her shoulder. This didn’t strike her as unusual; lots of her customers patted her old back as she bustled about serving them. She didn’t feel the little sting of pain for several seconds; her body was old and its reflexes slow. When she did feel the pain she let out a yelp of profanity in her native tongue.
But the words didn’t sound.
She was aware that the men were leading her out of her store and she knew nothing but a blind terror and confusion.
They awoke the following day, these six strangely assorted humans, and despite the differences in their ages, sex, and backgrounds, their reactions were identical. At first, as consciousness flickered dimly, they knew confusion. Then, as the light of intelligence burned brighter, they were gripped with terror.
Each of them, at the moment of awakening, was alone, lying on a
narrow cot in a small, windowless room. After the paralyzing moment of pure terror faded, they got to their feet, moving clumsily, fearfully, and faced the closed doors of their rooms . . .
Larry Colby, the newspaperman, was the first to put out a hand, turn the knob, and open the door. He walked forward into a large, circular, windowless chamber. There was no furniture in this larger room; the concrete floor and walls were bare, unadorned.
Larry put a trembling hand to his forehead, trying then to think, trying to fight down a swiftly burgeoning hysteria.
A door opened on his right and he wheeled to the sound, his instincts prodding him with animallike intensity.
A small boy ran into the room, sobbing, gazing about wildly. He saw Larry and backed away from him, his babyish mouth twisting in fear.
“Let me alone,” he cried, in a high, breaking voice. “I want to go home. I got to go home!”
“Take it easy, kid,” Larry said. He swallowed with difficulty. “I’ll—I’ll see that you get home. Where do you live?”
“Elm street. 2142 Elm Street.”
“In Chicago?”
“No, in Butte. That’s in Montana. Mister, you got to take me home. You said you would.”
“Sure, kid.”
Another door opened and a strikingly attractive woman entered the large, circular chamber. She wore a robe over a slip, and her bare feet were thrust into pink satin mules. There was fear and confusion in her face, but, under that, a swiftly growing anger.
Larry recognized those flawless features, the imperiously slender body, with a distinct start. This was Valerie Ward, whose name sounded in the world of the theatre with the same authority as Bankhead’s and Cornell’s.
She stared at Larry, her hands on her hips. “Okay, where do we go from here?” she said in the wonderful, husky voice which night-club comics had been imitating for a decade.
“I’ll be damned if I know,” he said.
“It was a kidnapping, wasn’t it? Or was it a fraternity stunt? I’d like to know, since I’m the package you kids are playing with so gaily.”
Still another door opened. Maria Consolo hobbled into the room, crying and wringing her hands. The boy began to cry when he saw her, and dropped down on the floor and buried his face in his arms.
“What the hell is going on?” Valerie Ward yelled. “Who are you people? The cast of a soap opera?”
Maria Consolo sank to her knees and began to pray, her shaky old voice bouncing harshly from the concrete walls and ceiling. Maria, “Mother of God . . .”
Patience O’Neill, the trimly-dressed Maine schoolteacher, joined the group at that point. She was badly shaken and scared, but her hard, native common sense hadn’t deserted her; she looked from one face to another and then wet her lips.
“My name is Patience O’Neill,” she said. “I would be obliged if you could tell me why I was brought here?”
There was no answer.
“Well?” Patience said, a trifle irritably. “Do you know, or don’t you?”
“We don’t,” Larry said.
This blunt answer jarred Patience. She took a small step backward, as if the words had struck her with tangible, physical force, and then squared her straight, firm shoulders. “Who are you?” she said. “Can you tell me that?”
“That’s a sensible approach,” Larry said. He liked this girl. She was direct and intelligent. The way she stood and looked—her small feet close together, her body straight, her brown eyes puzzled but unafraid—it added up to a picture of comforting sanity. There was scant room for hysteria and foolishness in this orderly little person.
“I’m Larry Colby, a newspaperman,” he said. “I work for a paper in Chicago. The kid here told me he lives in Butte, Montana. Miss Valerie Ward, whom you may recognize, is an actress. She lives all over the world. I don’t know the old woman.”
“Aren’t we an exciting group,” Valerie Ward said bitterly. “All right, I’ve had enough of these fascinating autobiographies. I’ve got a show to do tonight. What the hell time is it, anyway?”
Larry glanced at his watch, but it wasn’t on his wrist.
Patience repeated the gesture, but her watch was gone, too.
“There’s a trick involving a stick and a strong sun,” Larry said. “You draw a circle in the ground. It’s very clever. Sometimes it works, too.”
“Oh, a wit,” Valerie said, rubbing her forehead.
Patience crossed the room and knelt down beside the little boy. She took him in her arms and he snuggled close to her, still wailing hideously.
Worthington Macklin made his appearance then, and the group was complete. Macklin’s appearance had altered radically during the past twenty-four hours. He seemed to have shrunk in size; his clothes hung loosely on his frame, and his bold, arrogant features were changed by fear. He stared at the other five persons, squaring his shoulders, trying to buck himself up, to regain his confidence. But the memory of the two men who had landed in the autogyro was too vivid, too recent; he couldn’t bluster that recollection from his mind. And so, almost humbly, he asked the group what they wanted of him, what he might do to please them. When he learned that they shared his confusion, he began to feel slightly better. Also he had recognized Valerie Ward; and this pleased him mightily. He was a great snob and the thought of being involved in anything with this illustrious legend was very stimulating. The rest of the group he dismissed with his customary arrogance: Colby, a poorly-paid newspaperman, Patience O’Neill, a poorly-paid schoolteacher, the boy and the old woman, completely insignificant.
“W—well, what are we going to do?” he said, addressing the question to Valerie Ward. “I’ve got three board meetings lined up for today, plus the job of reorganizing a railroad.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Larry Colby said. He glanced at the walls. “It’s solid concrete. No openings that I can see. We’re stuck here until they let us out.”
“Who are ‘they’ ? Valerie Ward said, pacing restlessly.
Larry shrugged.
Macklin worried his lip.
Maria Consolo got up from her knees, blessing herself quickly, and looked around with quick, darting eyes. “I have said my prayers, and now I must go home. My husband needs me, and my little store is without me.”
She tottered away from them to the wall. She pressed her old hands against the concrete. “I cannot see the door,” she said.
“There isn’t any door,” Larry said.
“Oh, yes, there is,” Maria said in a reasonable voice. “It is here and I must find it.” She moved to her left, touching the wall with the tips of her fingers.
“She’s off her rocker,” Valerie Ward said.
“How long will the rest of us last?” Larry said.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “The atmosphere isn’t ideally conducive to peace of mind.”
“You’re a quitter, eh?” Macklin shouted. He began striding up and down, pounding a fist into his palm. “By Gad, where’s your courage, your old-fashioned guts?” From the corner of his eye he watched the effect of this on the actress, Valerie Ward. She’d see what a red-blooded man, a Texan, was made of, he thought. And Valerie was impressed. In this atmosphere of pointless mystery, of defeatism, of insanity, it was something to hear a confident, affirmative voice.
“Well, bully for you,” she said. “I’m glad you aren’t giving up. What’re you going to do?”
Macklin stopped pacing, and looked blank.
Larry grinned slightly. “The next move is up to them,” he said.
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Macklin said in a worried voice
Several hours passed. Larry squatted on the floor beside Patience O’Neill, and they took turns at trying to amuse the little boy, Dickie Williams. He was already in a sunnier mood; Patience was telling him quaint, imaginative stories, and Larry was regaling him with bloodthirsty epics of the newspaper world.
Macklin was chatting with Valerie, telling her of his baronial holdi
ngs, of the mighty coups he had engineered in the business world, of his brilliant climb to fame and fortune and acclaim.
She was impressed—but not as Macklin would have wished. Valerie was impressed with the fact that any man could take himself so seriously, could be, in short, such a crashing bore. They sat side-by-side with their backs against the wall. Valerie’s slim legs were crossed at the ankles, and she was nodding and yawning as Macklin’s voice boomed into her ear. Old Maria Consolo continued her patient search for the door, circling the room slowly, stepping over Valerie’s legs, tapping the wall hopefully with gnarled old fingers.
Abruptly, a metallic noise sounded.
Everyone got quickly to his feet.
“Look!” Dickie Williams shouted.
A section of the wall was turning slowly. This section was a cylinder-like affair that ran from floor to ceiling. It was about two feet wide. As it revolved they suddenly noticed something else; the odor of food. When the column completed half a revolution it stopped. Trays of food and drink were stacked neatly in niches in the back of the pillar.
“They’re going to feed us at least,” Larry said.
There were six trays, and on each a plate containing two broiled pork chops, French-fried potatoes, lima beans, and sliced tomatoes. On smaller plates was a dessert of chocolate pudding and cookies. There were five cups of coffee, and one glass of milk.
Patience persuaded Maria to eat something, and everyone settled to the floor with a tray. The food” was hot, excellently prepared, and they ate hungrily.
“D—damn good, isn’t it?” Macklin said, gnawing at the bone of his pork chop. He laughed. “Pity they didn’t send in some cigars.”
“Return the trays when you have finished,” a voice said.
Macklin looked at Colby. “What’s that?”
Larry was frowning. “I didn’t say anything. Listen a second.” They all waited, staring at the walls, the ceilings, the revolving column which had given them food.
Again, the voice sounded. It came from above them, but none of them could determine the exact place it originated. They stared upward, their eyes roving the ceiling.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 296
