years ago and now they had forgotten him.
His later excursions to the upper level of the city had been made undercover of darkness--and he never ventured out unless his food supplydwindled. Water was provided by rain during the wet-months--and bybottled liquids during the dry.
He had built his one-room structure directly to the side of an overheadgrating--not close enough to risk their seeing it, but close enough forlight to seep in during the sunlight hours. He missed the warm feel ofopen sun on his body almost as much as he missed the companionship ofothers, but he could not think of risking himself above the drains byday.
Sometimes he got insane thoughts. Sometimes, when the loneliness closedin like an immense fist and he could no longer stand the sound of hisown voice, he would think of bringing one of them down with him, intothe drains. One at a time, they could be handled. Then he'd remembertheir sharp savage eyes, their animal ferocity, and he would realizethat the idea was impossible. If one of their kind disappeared, suddenlyand without trace, others would certainly become suspicious, begin tosearch for him--and it would all be over.
Lewis Stillman settled back into his pillow, pulling the blankets tightabout his body. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to thedistant screams, pipings and reedy cries filtering down from the streetabove his head.
Finally he slept.
* * * * *
He spent the afternoon with paper women. He lingered over the pages ofsome yellowed fashion magazines, looking at all the beautifullyphotographed models in their fine clothes. All slim and enchanting,these page-women, with their cool enticing eyes and perfect smiles, allgrace and softness and glitter and swirled cloth. He touched theirimages with gentle fingers, stroking the tawny paper hair, as though, bysome magic formula, he might imbue them with life. It was easy toimagine that these women had never really lived at all--that they weresimply painted, in microscopic detail, by sly artists to give theillusion of photos. He didn't like to think about these women and howthey died.
That evening Lewis Stillman watched the moon, round and high and yellowin the night sky, and he thought of his father, and of the long hikesthrough the moonlit Maine countryside, of hunting trips and warmcampfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought ofhis father's hopes for his future and the words of that tall,gray-haired figure came back to him.
"_You'll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you'llsucceed. I know you will._"
He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father's greatmahogany desk, pouring over medical books and journals, taking notes,sifting and re-sifting facts. He remembered one set of books inparticular--Erickson's monumental three-volume text on surgery, richlybound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books, above allothers.
What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow, the dream had faded, thebright goal vanished and was lost. After a year of pre-med at theUniversity of Southern Cal, he had given up medicine; he had becomediscouraged and quit college to take a laborer's job with a constructioncompany. How ironic that this move should have saved his life! He'dwanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labor with the muscles ofhis body. He'd wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then, laterperhaps, he would have returned to finish his courses. It all seemed sofar away now, his reason for quitting, for letting his father down.
Now, at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him, a desire topour over Erickson's pages once again, to re-create, even for a briefmoment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood.
He'd seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick's book storein Hollywood, in their used book department, and now he knew he must goafter them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was adangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it. Despite therisk of death, he would go after the books tonight. _Tonight._
* * * * *
One corner of Lewis Stillman's room was reserved for weapons. His prize,a Thompson submachine, had been procured from the Los Angeles policearsenal. Supplementing the Thompson were two semi-automatic rifles, aLuger, a Colt .45 and a .22-caliber Hornet pistol, equipped with asilencer. He always kept the smallest gun in a spring-clip holsterbeneath his armpit, but it was not his habit to carry any of the largerweapons with him into the city. On this night, however, things weredifferent.
The drains ended two miles short of Hollywood--which means he would beforced to cover a long and particularly hazardous stretch of ground inorder to reach the book store. He therefore decided to take alongthe .30-caliber Savage rifle in addition to the small hand weapon.
You're a fool, Lewis, he told himself, as he slid the oiled Savage fromits leather case. Are the books important enough to risk your life? Yes,another part of him replied, they _are_ that important. If you want athing badly enough and the thing is worthwhile, then you must go afterit. If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than acoward; you betray yourself and the civilization you represent. Go outand bring the books back.
Running in the chill night wind. Grass, now pavement, now grass, beneathhis feet. Ducking into shadows, moving stealthily past shops andtheatres, rushing under the cold moon. Santa Monica Boulevard, thenHighland, the Hollywood Boulevard, and finally--after an eternity ofheartbeats--the book store.
Pickwick's.
Lewis Stillman, his rifle over one shoulder, the small automaticgleaming in his hand, edged silently into the store.
A paper battleground met his eyes.
In the filtered moonlight, a white blanket of broken-backed volumesspilled across the entire lower floor. Stillman shuddered; he couldenvision them, shrieking, scrabbling at the shelves, throwing bookswildly across the room at one another. Screaming, ripping, destroying.
What of the other floors? _What of the medical section?_
He crossed to the stairs, spilled pages crackling like a fall of dryleaves under his step, and sprinted up the first short flight to themezzanine. Similar chaos!
He hurried up to the second floor, stumbling, terribly afraid of what hemight find. Reaching the top, his heart thudding, he squinted into thedimness.
The books were undisturbed. Apparently they had tired of their gamebefore reaching these.
He slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs.Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling, as he moveddown the narrow aisles; a damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, anodor of mold and neglect.
Lewis Stillman paused before a dim hand-lettered sign: MEDICAL SECTION.It was just as he had remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, hestruck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved italong the rows of faded titles. Carter ... Davidson ... Enright ..._Erickson_. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their goldstamping dust-dulled but readable, stood in tall and perfect order onthe shelf.
In the darkness, Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowingit free of dust. At last all three books were clean and solid in hishands.
Well, you've done it. You've reached the books and now they belong toyou.
He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down atthe table with his treasure, and linger again and again over thewonderous pages.
He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the booksinside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began hisdescent to the lower floor.
So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding.
But as Lewis Stillman's foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out.
The entire lower floor was alive with them!
Rustling like a mass of great insects, gliding toward him, eyes gleamingin the half-light, they converged upon the stairs. They had been waitingfor him.
Now, suddenly, the books no longer mattered. Now only his life matteredand nothing else. He moved back against the hard wood of the stair-rail,the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the footof the stair; they were sile
nt, looking up at him, the hate in theireyes.
If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you've stillgot half a chance. That means you've got to get through them to thedoor. All right then, _move_.
Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic and three shotsechoed through the silent store. Two of them fell under the bullets asStillman rushed into their midst.
He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt and trousers, heard the clothripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic intothem, and three more dropped under the hail of bullets, shrieking inpain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming, from the door.
The gun was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy Savage riflefree from his shoulder as he reached the street. The night air, crispand cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope.
I can still make it, thought Stillman, as he leaped the curb and plungedacross the pavement. If those shots weren't heard, then I've still gotthe edge. My legs are strong; I can outdistance
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