Читать книгу Fantastic Stories Presents the Imagination (Stories of Science and Fantasy) Super Pack - Edmond Hamilton - Страница 16

Oh, damn! she thought. This happened once before. How long will it last this time?

A great chill exploded in her body.

. . . suppose—?

Now she ran in earnest. Her legs moved like pistons. The few patrons in the lobby glanced up in disapproval. At the door she almost bowled over a young man with a brown sack full of quarts of beer.

Once in the street, she stopped and darted frightened glances about her. It was growing dark. Neon winked. The street was unnatural and brittle under the artificial lights. Well dressed women, serious and unsmiling (serenely confident that they were being mistaken for movie stars) walked beside athletic escorts; sales girls and office clerks window shopped intently.

At the curb Julia almost danced with nervousness.

He can come upon me invisible! she thought. He can throw things! He can—! I can’t even tell when he’s near me!

She waved desperately for a cab.

“Cab! Cab! Taxi!”

It receded toward Vine Street.

Even now he’s coming out of the hotel! she thought. Or he sees me from the Window! . . . I can’t wait here; I’ll have to run; I’ll . . . .

A chartreuse convertible with its top up drew to a stop in front of her. The driver opened the door by pressing a button on the dash. The upholstery was made of tiger skin. He smiled nervously. “Going down this way?”

She hesitated only an instant. “My God, yes!” she said.

“Get in.”

She got in and slammed the door. “Let’s go! mister.”

“When you’re in a hurry, these cabs . . . you never can find one.”

He wore a sports jacket, most of which was canary yellow. He had thin, delicate hands; his face was lean and sunless; his eyes were sad and misunderstood. The hands threaded the convertible into traffic.

Julia fidgeted. She kept glancing behind her.

“Somebody following you?”

Julia shuddered. “I hope not.”

The driver waited. Julia did not amplify; she was half turned now, so she could see out the rear window.

“I had to talk to someone,” the driver said apologetically. “I was driving along, and suddenly I had to talk to someone. You know how it is? . . . Then there you were; you seemed in such a hurry.”

“I’m sure glad you stopped, mister!”

“I mean,” the driver said intently, “I get wanting to talk. My name’s Green. You may have heard of me. I produce pictures—motion pictures. I’m a producer.”

How can I ever get away from Walt! Julia thought. He can run me down whenever he wants to!

“Nobody hears of producers,” the driver said. “That’s all right with me. Let other people take the credit. I don’t like to call attention to myself.” He brought out a monogrammed cigarette case and flicked it open. “Cigarette?”

“No, no, thank you.” Julia twisted at the strap of her handbag.

“Who can you talk to, I mean really? All they’re after is your money . . . . I’ll tell you what I really want. I want a farm—no, don’t laugh: it’s the truth—a little piece of land. I want to settle down, you know. Most people don’t understand how it is.” He gazed sadly down Hollywood Boulevard. “To be famous, I mean.”

*

Julia was scarcely listening. She bit her lip.

“My wife, now, she’s an actress. In her next picture, she opens a beer can with her teeth. Not a bottle; anyone can open a bottle. She doesn’t understand me. She’s an actress.” One of his delicate hands moved over the tiger skin toward Julia. “I’d like—sometimes to get away. Go away for a weekend. Some place where they’d never heard of A. P. Green, the big producer. You know. I wish—I honestly wish I weren’t—some times.”

The hand touched Julia’s dress. She was too preoccupied to notice.

“ . . . you have an interesting face. It’s very, very expressive. I want to give you my card. I want you to come in for a test.”

Julia moved away from him. All she could think about was Walt. Could he be in that car just behind? “ . . . please . . .” she said vaguely in protest.

He blinked his eyes; the hand retreated a few inches. “I’ve never talked to anyone like this before,” he said. “But your face, your eyes . . . . When I saw you standing there—saw you were running from something—I knew you’d understand.”

Julia swallowed stiffly. She pivoted to face him. “Listen mister. I need help. Would you drive me into L. A. ? Fast, mister?”

He was hurt. He drew back. “I thought we could go . . . . I know a little place . . . . They know me there; we could eat, and—” He moved one hand pathetically.

Julia felt a flutter of thought. (There was still a tiny bit of residual power remaining; it was fading fast.) Walt was starting after her!

“Mister, for God’s sake, can you drive me into L. A. ? I’ve got to get some money out of the all-night bank!”

“ . . . yes, of course, yes.” He moved his lips without words. “I thought you’d understand. Your face . . . . Nobody does, really. How it is, I mean.”

“Please hurry,” she said. If I can just get a car before Walt catches me, she thought. That’s the only way I can keep away from him. I’ve got to keep moving until I get my powers back; or until . . . until . . . what? Her lower lip trembled. She was cold and numb. Hurry! she wanted to shriek.

*

For a full minute Walt did not realize she was gone. When he did, he was relieved. He found himself trembling. Where did that demon go? Thank God she’s gone; I—!

The thought of her, diminutive and infinitely superior, made him cringe. He was afraid of her. He wanted to cry.

Forential understands, Walt thought. If he were here now, he’d understand. He’d . . . he’d tell me what to do.

Walt stared at the back of his hand.

Steady, he thought, steady. Try to relax. The shock . . . it’s not fair . . . she knows so much . . . .

Study the room; think of something else. The ship; I’d like to see Calvin’s face again . . . . There’s my face—in the mirror. It looks all right.

Forential will be angry. I shouldn’t have let her get away. I should have—what should I have done? Could I have?

I could have . . . .

He shook his head. No: that wouldn’t have fooled her either.

Forential, what am I going to do now?

Walt sat down. He tried to think things out. I’m no good, he thought. The only thing I’m good for is to kill earthlings. I ought to be ashamed of myself.

. . . I’m alone, he thought. Things are going all wrong.

I’ve . . . I’ve got to learn to depend on myself.

I’ve always depended too much on Forential.

I’ve always been told what to do, he thought. It’s time for me to begin telling myself what to do.

He nodded his head at the truth of this. I’m on my own, he thought. Well, by God, it’s time to face that! I’ll stop her some way.

Forential is depending on me!

At last it occurred to him to try to locate Julia. He concentrated. He formed Julia’s pattern in his mind. He sought to equate it with reality. For a moment of bleak despair, he felt nothing. Then the pattern and reality overlapped. He fixed her in space. He had her. She was fleeing in an automobile.

And—she had changed! She was now—as she had been once before—as impotent as an earthling.

He sprang to his feet. Elation filled him. A rising tide of confidence swept over him.

Damn, damn, damn! he thought in excited delight. She’s mine now!

Julia, oh Julia, can you hear me?

She couldn’t.

He could feel her fleeing.

I’ll show her now, he thought with savage satisfaction.

Wait’ll I catch you!

There’ll be no nonsense about privacy this time! he promised himself. I’ll kill her where ever I find her. Forential may not like it as well as—to hell with Forential!

*

Outside the hotel, in the crisp, fresh night air, Walt plunged into the crowd emptying from a theater, whose marquee, “Junkeroo”, flashed lonesomely above the sidewalk.

I’ll need a car to overtake her, he thought.

He remembered back to his first ride. I can operate one, he thought, if I can start it. It’s easy.

Julia lies in that direction. I’ll catch her in no time.

He heard a car door open behind him.

He spun on his heel and walked back to the car. The driver, settled behind the wheel, was just depressing the light stud when Walt cut in front of it and came abreast of the driver’s side.

“You’re the one I’m looking for,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Move over!”

The owner was a heavy, middle aged man; he snorted and narrowed his eyes. “What’s this baloney?”

“I’m taking this car.”

“The hell you say!”

Walt pulled the door open, grabbed the man by the shirt and twisted. He set his feet and the man came sprawling out into the street.

Holding him, Walt slapped his face.

The man flailed wildly. He tried to jerk loose. His shoulders twisted. He tried with a knee, and Walt threw him to the pavement. A few startled passers-by turned to watch.

Walt picked the man up and thrust him into the car. The man’s face was purple with rage. He tried to scream.

Walt displaced the air from his lungs. The man collapsed, gagging.

“Don’t make any loud noises,” Walt said.

The man choked and gasped with suddenly restored breath.

“ . . . what . . . what do you want?”

“How do you start this car?”

The man started to protest; the look on Walt’s face made him think better of it. He told Walt how to start the car.

Walt followed instructions. He listened to the purr of the motor.

“What is the power? What makes it run?”

The owner wiped blood from his face. Sullenly, through swelling lips, he said, “ . . . it’s a combustion engine . . . like all cars . . . .”

Cautiously maneuvering the car into traffic, Walt said, “Tell me what you know about combustion engines.”

Walt displaced air again. He put it back. “I asked you to tell me what you know about combustion engines.”

The man kept dabbing at his lips.

Gasping, the man began to explain. He did not seem too sure of himself. Every other sentence, he faltered, and Walt had to prompt him sharply.

“This fuel . . . this gas . . . . When the supply is used up, how does one obtain more?”

“From a . . . gas station . . . .”

I’ll have to watch the fuel supply, Walt thought.

“They’re . . . they’re on nearly every corner,” the man said.

Walt nodded. I’ve got all I can from him, he thought. “Do you have a small, heavy object?”

The man licked his cut lip. His eyes were wide with terror. “Y—ye—yes.”

“Produce it!”

The man brought out a cigarette lighter.

Teleporting, Walt jerked it from the man’s hand and hit him behind the ear with it. With a sigh, the owner collapsed unconscious.

I’m doing all right, Walt thought. Now, if I can just find the right road to follow.

He concentrated on Julia.

He began to drive very fast, slipping in and out of traffic recklessly.

Six blocks later, he picked up the police car.

And three blocks after that, the police car was abreast of him, forcing him to the curb.

Annoyed, Walt brought the car to a stop. The police car angled in ahead of him. Walt waited confidently.

“Okay,” the policeman said wearily, taking out his book of tickets and putting one foot on the running board. “Where’s the fire?”

Walt said, “Fire?”

“Yeah. The speed limit in this town is thirty miles an hour. Where’s the fire? Let’s see your license.”

Walt considered this information. He removed the air from this policeman’s lungs; from the lungs of the policeman in the car. When they were very unconscious, he let them have air again. He experimented with a few buttons until he found the reverse. He backed up a few yards, circled out around the police car, and continued. The policemen were still unconscious.

*

Mr. Green, the producer, stopped in front of the bank. With hurried thanks, Julia scrambled out.

Pathetically he called after her: “But we could—”

Inside the revolving doors, she pattered across the inlaid floor to the teller’s cage still open for business. If I can just get out of here alive! she thought. The high, vaulted ceiling—dim and shadowy above the cool lights—seemed to echo her thoughts: get out of here alive, get out alive, alive.

She gave her name crisply and fumbled in her handbag for identification.

“I want to withdraw my money.”

“Yes, Miss. Your account is with this branch?”

“Yes.” She handed her identification and her check book to him.

While she twisted nervously, he phoned to verify her account.

She could feel Walt creeping up on her. Her skin crawled. The revolving door was motionless.

That meant nothing. He could walk through it.

There was no easy way of telling how he would strike until the last moment. It would be so swift that she would never feel the blow at all.

She stared, fascinated, at the ink well across the room. She imagined it suddenly ripped out and hurled at her. She shivered. She tried to teleport it herself.

It did not move.

Cold sweat began to ooze from her pores. Brakes squealed in the street outside. She ran her hands along the carrying strap of her handbag. Her mouth was dry.

I’m too scared to spit! she thought. I’ve heard of that. I didn’t believe it. It’s true.

“For God’s sake, hurry!”

“Yes, Miss,” the teller said. He eyed her suspiciously.

How long can this go on? she thought despairingly. He’ll be here in another minute!

“I have the amount. It’s the same as your check stub shows,” the teller said. “You want it all?”

“Yes.”

“Just take this over to the table, there, and fill it in.”

Oh, God! she thought.

She crossed to the table. Her hand was shaking. The free pen blotted. She ripped out the check and crumpled it into a ball. Her breathing was shallow. She found her own pen. Shakily she filled in another check.

The teller looked at it. He waved it dry. He held it up. “Just a, moment, Miss. I’d like to verify the signature.”

Her nails dug into her palms. She moved her feet uneasily. She glanced toward the door.

She fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette. She found a stale pack, shook one out. She lit it with a safety match and extinguished the match with a nervous flick of her arm. She inhaled.

The invasion. For the first time since she’d left the hotel it reoccurred to her.

Oh, Lord! she thought. How much time before that! She dropped her cigarette and ground it out.

The clerk was bending over, comparing signatures.

I’ve got to do something about the invasion! I’ve got to tell somebody! But . . . but . . . how can I ever convince anyone?

They’d think I was crazy. They’d detain me for questioning. They’d lock me up. If they did, he could come upon me and I couldn’t even run!

Her face was bloodless. If I had my powers back . . . .

She began to pace. Two steps one way; two steps back; two steps the other way.

I could . . . I could show them how to operate on a human to make the bridge; I could talk to a surgeon . . . .

Could I?

Her mind was fuzzy. It was no longer easy to remember. So many compartments were no longer available.

Do I remember how? You . . . you . . . . She concentrated with every fiber of her being.

“Your signature is shakey,” the clerk said.

She whirled on him. Her lips trembled. She choked back hot words.

“I’m upset tonight,” she said weakly.

He grunted.

If he catches me, she thought, I’ll be dead. He’ll kill me! I’ll never be able to convince anyone then!

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

“How do you want the money?” the clerk asked.

“Any way! Any way!”

He began to count bills.

If I stand still, he’ll catch me! she moaned to herself. Even now . . . .

She glanced toward the door.

“There,” the clerk said.

Trembling, she stuffed bills into her handbag. She raced for the entrance.

*

She burst from the revolving doors. She cried out to the taxi idling across the street. The driver started the motor. She ran across the street to the car.

“Take me to a car lot that’s open!”

“Yes, Lady.”

She fumbled out a bill and threw it at him. She settled back in the seat. “Hurry!”

He looked at the bill. “Yes, indeed.” He started the car. “I sure will.”

The cab whirled away and U-turned toward Vermont.

She felt better to be moving.

And ten minutes later she was arguing with a salesman.

“This will do,” she insisted. “I don’t want a triple-guarantee, a road test, a service check, a—”

“I’ll have to make out a bill of sale.”

“All I want to know is: Is the gas tank full?”

Indignantly, the salesman said: “Of course.”

“Mail me the bill of sale! Tear it up! I don’t care! Here—Here’s my hotel.” After thrusting the card on him, she began to count money.

“The keys are in the ignition. I’ll get your extra set. The license—” He began to recount the money.

She got behind the wheel, snapped on the lights, pressed the ignition button. The motor coughed and roared.

She spun the car out of the lot. She was weak with relief.

Maybe I can outrun him!

I hope.

I’ve got to!

I’ll get as far away as I can. Then I’ll . . . I’ll have to take a chance waiting for an airplane. Then . . . then . . . when my money gives out . . . .

I can’t hope to run forever.

She shuddered.

*

Walt crawled out of the wreck. It seemed to be a miracle he was unhurt.

He had switched the car to automatic drive as he had seen the driver on the desert do; he had not known that there was no automatic-drive beam on that particular stretch of highway.

At the first curve—in a heart beat of time; too fast for him to avert it—the car had hurtled the road and plowed into the embankment.

Walt cursed and shook his head and closed his eyes tightly, gathering his thoughts.

A few minutes later a car with intensely bright headlights stopped to give assistance. Walt threw the driver out and slipped behind the wheel.

In a moment he knew that he had a powerful motor under him.