Eye in the Sky (1957) (29 page)

“That’s that,” Laws observed.

Hamilton
started toward the car. “It’s going to be a real pleasure to kill
her,” he stated.

“Not
the car,” Laws warned. “We can’t trust it.”

Halting,
Hamilton considered. “Well go over to her
apartment on foot. I’ll try to get her to come outside; if
we
can catch her in the open, without going indoors—”

“She’s probably already outdoors,” Marsha said. “This
would be working against her, too.
Maybe she’s already dead; maybe her apartment house devoured her as soon
as she went inside.”

“She’s
not dead,” Laws pointed out sardonically. “Or
we wouldn’t still be here.”

From the
dark shadows by the garage, a slim shape emerged. “That’s right,” it
said, in a quiet, colorless
voice. A
familiar voice. “I’m still alive.”

* * * * *

From his
coat pocket, Hamilton got the .45. As his fingers probed for the safety catch,
a bizarre realization came to him. He had never in his life used the gun before—or
even seen it. In the real world, he owned no
.45.
The gun had appeared with Miss Reiss’ world; it was
part of his personality and existence in this
feral, patho
logical fantasy.

“You escaped?” Bill Laws asked Miss Reiss.

“I
was wise enough not to go upstairs,” the woman’s answer came. “I
realized what you had planned as soon as I set foot on the lobby carpet”
There was a touch of frantic triumph in Miss Reiss’ voice. “You’re not as
clever as you thought”

“My God,” Marsha said. “But we never—”

“You’re
going to try to kill me, aren’t you?” Miss
Reiss inquired. “All of you, the whole group. You’ve been
conspiring for some time, haven’t you?”

“That’s
true,” Laws admitted suddenly. “It really is.”

Harshly,
metallically, Miss Reiss laughed. I knew it. And you’re not afraid to come
right out and say it, are
you?”

“Miss Reiss,” Hamilton said, “of course we’re conspir
ing to kill you. But we can’t. There isn’t a human being in
this insane world that could lay a finger on you. It’s
these horrors you’ve dreamed up that—”

“But,” Miss Reiss broke in, “you’re not human beings.”

“What?” Arthur Silvester demanded.

“Of
course not I knew that when I first saw you, that day at the Bevatron. That’s
why you all survived the fall; it was an obvious attempt to get me out there
and push me to my death. But I didn’t die.” Miss Reiss
smiled. “I have a few resources of my
own.”

Very
slowly, Hamilton said, “If we’re not human be
ings, then what are we?”

At that
moment Bill Laws stirred. Whirring up from the moist grass, he glided directly
toward the small, thin shape of Joan Reiss. Unfolded wings, dusty and
parchment-like, flapped and rustled in the night gloom. His aim was absolutely
correct; he was on top of her before she could move or cry out

What had
seemed to be a human being was a multi-jointed, chitinous entity that buzzed
and fluttered as it folded itself around Miss Reiss’ feebly protesting body.
The elongated rear portion of the creature twisted; with a sharp jab, it stung
the woman, held its poisonous tail deep in her body for an interval, and then,
satiated, withdrew. Gradually, the creature’s clicking, scrabbling
claws released her. Swaying, Miss Reiss pitched
onto her hands and knees and lay stunned, face down and gasping
in the
wet grass.

“She’ll
crawl away,” Arthur Silvester said quickly. Running forward, he sprang on
the shrinking body and turned it over. Rapidly, efficiently, he squirted quick-
drying cement in a continuous trail around the
woman’s
bony hips; revolving her, he
wound her tightly in a thick
net of
tough fibers. When he had finished, the elongated i
nsect that had been
Bill Laws grappled her up in his claws; supporting the feebly quivering cocoon,
he held it in place while Silvester spun a long strand and tossed it over the
limb of a tree. In a moment, the half-paralyzed shape of Joan Reiss hung head
downward in her sack of gummy webs, eyes glazed, mouth half-open, swaying
slightly with the night wind.

“That
should hold her,” Hamilton said, with satis
faction.

I’m glad you kept her alive,” Marsha said avidly. “We
can take our time with her … There’s nothing she can
do.”

“But
we’ve got to kill her eventually,” McFeyffe pointed out “After we
have our pleasure.”

“She killed my mother,” David Pritchet said, in a small,
vibrating voice. Before any of them could catch him, he
sprinted forward, crouched, and leaped up onto the swaying cocoon. Extending a
protruding feeding-tube, he pushed aside the strands of the cocoon, tore away
the woman’s dress, and greedily drilled into her pale flesh. Very shortly, he
had probed deep into the moistures of her body. After a time he dropped back
to the ground, bloated and dizzy leaving behind him a withered, dehydrated
husk.

The husk
was still alive, but it was dying rapidly. Fain-blurred eyes gazed sightlessly
down at them. Joan
Reiss was past
comprehension; only a vague, dull spark
of personality remained. The
members of the group
watched appreciatively,
conscious that the final seconds
of
her agony were drifting away.

“She deserved it,” Hamilton said hesitantly. Now that
the job had been accomplished, he was beginning to
have doubts.

Beside him, the tall, multi-pointed chitinous insect that was Bill Laws
nodded in agreement “Of course she did.”
His voice was a thin, buzzing rasp.
“Look what she did
to Edith
Pritchet”

“It’ll
be good to get out of this world,” Marsha said.
“Back to our own world.”

“And our own shapes,” Hamilton added, with an un
easy glance at Arthur Silvester.

“What do you mean?” Laws demanded.

“He doesn’t understand,” Silvester said, with a trace of
cold amusement “These
are
our
shapes, Hamilton. But
they
haven’t appeared before.” He added: “At least, not
where you could see them.”

Laws laughed brittlely. “Listen to him. Listen to what
he thinks. Hamilton, you’re so very
interesting.”

“Maybe
we should see what else he thinks,” Arthur
Silvester suggested.

“Let’s
watch him,” Laws agreed. “Let’s get up close where we can see what he
has to say. Let’s find out
what he can
do.”

Aghast,
Hamilton said, “Kill her and let’s end this— you’re part of her insanity
and you don’t know it”

“I wonder how fast he can
run,” Arthur Silvester conjectured, slowly approaching Hamilton.
“Keep away from me,” Hamilton said, reaching for his gun.

“And
his wife,” Silvester said. “Let’s give her a go-
around, too.”

“I
want her,” David Pritchet said greedily. “Let me have her. You can
hold her for me if you want. You
can keep
her from trying to—”

Hanging
silently in her cocoon, Miss Reiss quietly
died.
And, without a sound, the world around them ex
pired into random
particles.

Weak with
relief, Hamilton pulled the dim shape of
his
wife to him and stood holding her. “Thank God,” he sa
id. “We’re out of there.”

Marsha
hung on tight to him. “It was just in time, wasn’t it?” Swirling
shadows drifted around them; patiently, Hamilton stood waiting. There was
going to be pain ahead, as they emerged on the litter-strewn concrete floor of
the Bevatron. All of them were injured;
there
would be a period of suffering and slow recovery,
long empty days in the
hospital. But it would be worth it. Well worth it.

The shadows cleared. They were not in the Bevatron.

“Here
we go again,” Charley McFeyffe said heavily. He rose from the moist lawn
and stood gripping the
porch railing.

“But
it can’t be,” Hamilton said stupidly. “There aren’t any left. We’ve
been through all of them.”

“You’re wrong,” McFeyffe said. “Sorry, Jack. But I told
you. I warned you about her and you
wouldn’t listen.”

Parked at the curb in front of Hamilton’s house was an
ominous black car. The doors had been pushed open; from the
back seat stepped a vast waddling figure that
stalked
rapidly across the dark yard and up to Hamilton.
Behind it came hulking,
grim-faced men in overcoats and hats, hands thrust menacingly in their pockets.

“There
you are,” the corpulent man grunted. “Okay,
Hamilton. Come along.”

At first, Hamilton didn’t recognize him. The man’s face
was a mass of doughy flesh, corrupted by a weak chin and
ugly little eyes set deep in the fat. His fingers, as
they closed roughly over Hamilton’s arm, were fleshy
talons; he gave off a foul odor of rancid but
expensive
cologne and—blood.

“Why weren’t you at work today?” the heavy-set man grunted.
“I’m sorry for you, Jack. I knew your father.”

“We found out about the picnic,” one of his company
toughs added.

“Tillingford,” Hamilton said, dazed. “Is it really
you?”
With an ugly
leer, Doctor Guy Tillingford, the
bloated, blood-smeared capitalist, turned and shambled
back toward his parked Cadillac.
“Bring him along,” he ordered his gang of men. I have to get back to
the Epidemic Development Agency labs. We’ve got some new
bacterial poisons we want to try. He’ll make a good
subject.”

XV

death
lay heavily in the chill
night darkness. In the gloom ahead of them, a great corroded organism was
dying. Cracked and broken, the crumpled shape painfully oozed body fluids onto
the curb and sidewalk; around it a growing pool of shiny moisture formed,
expanding and bubbling.

For a moment Hamilton failed to identify it. The shape quiver
ed slightly as it settled onto one side. Starlight pulsed
weakly from its shattered windows. Like rotten wood
, the bulging hull of the car sagged and collapsed,
as he
watched, the hood split open like an egg;
parts
dribbled from it and lay spread out, half-submer
ged in the puddle of oil, water, gasoline and brake fluid.

Momentarily,
a flicker of solidity played through the
massive
frame. Then, with a protesting groan, the remains
of the engine settled down through the corroded supports
and onto the pavement The motor block broke
in half and began a slow, methodical collapse
into used, blunted particles.

“Well,” Tillingford’s driver said, resigned, “there goes
that.”

Glumly, Tillingford gazed at the wreck that had been h
is Cadillac. Gradually, infuriated
outrage crept visibly thro
ugh
him. “Everything’s collapsing,” he said. Viciously,
he gave the remains of the car a kick; the Cadillac settled
further into a shapeless blob of metal that faded
into the night shadows.

“That
won’t do any good,” one of his men pointed out. “
Might as well leave it alone “

“We’re
going to have trouble getting back to the plant
,” Tillingford said, shaking ugly drops of oil from his
trouser
cuff. There’s a working class district separating
us.”

“They
may have the highway barricaded,” his driver
agreed. In the semi-gloom, the company toughs were indistinguishable
from one another; to Hamilton each was
a vague, heavy-set Germanic
giant, brutal-faced and
emotionless.

“How many men do we have
here?” Tillingford de
manded.

“Thirty,”
the answer came.

“Better light a flare,”
another company tough suggested, without particular conviction. “It’s too
dark to
see them when they start
moving.”

Shouldering his way to Doctor
Tillingford, Hamilton said harshly, “Is this all serious? Do you people
really believe
—
”

He
broke off, as a brick crashed against the remains of
the Cadillac. Off
in the gathering shadows, dim shapes
raced
and crouched.

“I see,” he said, filled
with dread. And with compre
hension.

“Oh my God,” Marsha said
thinly. “How can we live through it?”

“Maybe
we won’t,” Hamilton answered.
A second brick came singing through
the darkness. With a shudder of fright, Marsha ducked and made her way to
Hamilton. “It almost hit me. We’re right in the middle; they’re going to
kill each other right here.”