A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  AS I CAME to a halt, the reverberating echo of my last footstep was quickly smothered by the dead weight of silence. I was now fully aware of the monstrous power wielded by Murdoch, and grimly conscious of the necessity for reaching him at once, I gave myself but a short moment of rest before hastening on.

  My way led up a lonely, darkened street that wound deviously away from the main thoroughfare. Deeper and deeper I penetrated into the forbidding gloom, the silence seeming to grow thicker, if possible, after each ringing footfall on the damp flagging. The pavement ended suddenly, and I stopped, vaguely making out the dull bulk of a huge stone mansion that loomed against the sky directly ahead. Murdoch’s house!

  I groped my way onward, reaching an open gate that gave onto the roadway. More slowly, I continued up an unevenly surfaced drive, forcing back quick fear as I brushed between the thickly overgrown shubbery. I reached the huge stone portico that almost concealed the massive front entrance and stopped again in the shadows, a few feet from the door. Excitement overcame my previous uneasiness as I fumbled for my automatic. I was confident that if Murdoch were in the house I would have little difficulty in capturing him. I put my hand forward in the darkness, and tried the knob of the door. It gave with a slight pressure. Steadily I moved it open until there was just room to pass, then quickly slipped inside.

  No sound broke the stillness, and a rank smell swirled into my nostrils as I fumbled for a light, my hand finally striking a switch on the wall. Slowly, mysteriously, a single bulb began to glow in the ceiling, gradually increasing in brightness until the entire room was illuminated by its pale light. A cold chill ran up my spine; then I realized that to my accelerated perceptions the space of time between the turning of the switch and the actual passage of current into the bulb was greatly increased. My heart, which had given a quick leap, became normal and I stared curiously around what appeared to be a large reception room.

  Unbelievable confusion met my eye. Empty packing crates littered the room, piled deep along the walls. Cans—their contents half emptied—lay about on the floor. There were remnants of food of every description, fruit, meat, bread and pastries, all heaped and strewn in indescribable carelessness and disorder. Slowly, I picked my way through the litter, fresh confusion meeting my eye at every step.

  THE LENGTH of time he had had in which to ransack the city was coldly apparent as I passed through room after room, filled with the thickly piled evidence of what must have been thousands of meals. I was forced at last to the conclusion that he was nowhere in the house and a growing apprehension stole over me. What was he doing out there in the silent, helpless city?

  I returned to the reception room, feeling panic welling up within me. I knew that I could not wait indefinitely for Murdoch to return. Already I was conscious of hunger—I would be forced to go out to get food. I had seen nothing edible in the house.

  As I stood there in the dead silence, a new, paralyzing thought sprang suddenly to mind. What would happen if Murdoch became aware that I was following him? What if he already knew? He could escape me forever in the city!

  Perhaps he had seen me moving through the silent throngs, himself simulating immobility! If this was the case, what was to prevent him from stealing upon me unaware, perhaps murdering me in order that his criminal career would be unimpeded? Faced with this gruesome possibility, I became suddenly calm; I began to think furiously.

  I saw immediately that I would have to continue to act as though he were yet unaware of my presence; on this premise only could I follow through with any logical plan. I knew that I was powerless if he had already discovered me. I would have to be extremely cautious in my movements.

  My eye wandered over the room, lit on an empty plate and inspiration seized me. Food! He would have to eat! The same hunger that gnawed my vitals would force him into restaurants, stores, places where I might catch him if I were clever!

  I had a list of all the robberies that had been committed. I drew it from my pocket, studied it carefully. With a sense of exultation I saw that all of them, with the exception of a few remote forays, had occurred within an ever-widening circle, the center of which was Murdoch’s house!

  Assuming, then, that he had not yet seen me, I might logically reason that he would proceed as in the past, progressively working his way from store to store, restaurant to restaurant, in a constantly enlarging circle, going farther afield only as he exhausted the food supply in each place he visited. That he would require such tremendous quantities of food was hard to believe, but the proof of this surrounded me in the mute evidence of the many crates and empty food containers.

  It remained for me to select, then, several places where he might reasonably go in the natural course of events. This was a simple matter—I knew the city well; three restaurants immediately sprang into mind, restaurants which he had not to my knowledge visited, and which were located on the outer fringe of the circle.

  With a feeling of triumph, I replaced the paper in my pocket and stole softly out of the house, careful to see that I left no evidence of my passage.

  I HAD by this time become somewhat accustomed to the strange silence, but as I stepped out into the night it seemed to close about me thicker than ever, and the slight flush of exultation which I had felt in the house left me. Furtively, I gained the street, and carefully reconnoitered before making my way down to the main thoroughfare. If Murdoch had not yet seen me, certainly I must give him no opportunity now! The success of my plan depended upon his total lack of suspicion.

  As I reached the intersection, I peered both ways along the dimly lit, silent stretch of roadway. A few motionless figures caught my eye, and I studied them carefully for a moment before continuing out into the open. There had been no chance for them to see me, yet as I approached them, silently slipping through the shadows, a cold sweat broke out on me. I passed the first, a tall, dark figure in a slouch hat, then whirled quickly, half expecting to detect some betraying motion, perhaps a quick attack. Nothing happened. A shudder of relief dragged itself from my lips as I increased the distance between us.

  The motionless forms began to thicken; I was forced to wind my way through them, my heart rising in my throat each time I brushed by a solitary figure. Still, I went on, grimly aware that if one of them was Murdoch, all my planning was useless. By the time I reached the first restaurant I had marked as a possibility, I was in a cold sweat of physical fear. Pausing a moment to conquer my shuddering nerves, I slipped stealthily to the window and peered within.

  The dining room was partially filled with diners, all of them, save one, seated in groups of two or three at the tables. I felt sure that Murdoch would not be among these small groups and turned my attention to the lone diner. His back was toward me, and I was satisfied that he could not be simulating the utter immobility with which he held a fork to his lips. Crouching low as I passed the lighted window, I entered quickly and made my way behind a large counter piled high with food. I was ravenous by now, and filling several plates with a variety of food, I placed myself at a table partially concealed behind a pillar, and from which I commanded a view of the entire restaurant, without danger of being seen.

  FOR A PERIOD of time I forgot everything in the process of eating; the food was exceptionally delicious to my sharpened senses, and as I finished I uttered a sigh of satisfaction. I started to draw a napkin across my lips, but the act was never completed—just at that moment, from the corner of my eye, I detected a movement to the left of me and froze instantly into immobility, every nerve in my body shrieking a warning.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head to the left. It was he! It was Murdoch! His insane eyes were fixed on me unwinking, and in them I read certain knowledge. That haggard face, that stubbled beard—how long had he been watching me? I could stand it no longer.

  “Murdoch!” The high-ceilinged room echoed as I leaped to my feet with a wild shout and sprang toward him. Amazingly, he moved to meet me—I felt smooth glass beneath my clawing fingers. A mir
ror!

  Then, this wild creature with the burning eyes was myself! I ran a shaking hand over the heavy beard that covered my chin. Had it been that long? Time, I knew, was a creation of my own senses. My gaze fell on the hands of a clock high on the wall; then I knew it could tell me nothing. The error of the clock would be greater than my hundred-thousand-times speeded time elapsed since I had left Santley’s laboratory!

  How many crimes had been possible to Murdoch during this interval! Quickly, I decided to go back to the house. Perhaps he had returned by now. I ran to the rear entrance of the restaurant, and rushed through a maze of back streets to the forbidding district I had previously visited.

  Caution returned as I saw the cold reflection of moonlight from the darkened windows of the house. I entered soundlessly and crept through the noisome place. In a sudden access of panicky rage, I was faced with the knowledge that he had not returned.

  I calmed my raw nerves; a crafty plan presented itself, and securing a light, easy-broken string from a paper bag. I stretched it across the front door as I left, so that it would be broken by Murdoch’s passage. I would thus easily be able to ascertain if he had arrived during my absence.

  Again I made my way by back streets, this time to another eating place on the outer rim, so to speak, of the circle which Murdoch was rapidly enlarging. Again I carefully reconnoitered through the lighted window before entering, satisfying myself that none of the diners present could be Murdoch. As I entered the place, however, I was immediately struck with a new, a baffling atmosphere which I had noticed in none of the other restaurants.

  I PAUSED in the shadow of the foyer, my nerves tense, probing the faces of the diners for the second time. Nothing seemed out of place—still I hesitated, my gaze finally coming to rest on the face of a waiter. A slow drumming started in my head—the waiter’s face held an odd expression, a strange look of—yes, of bewildered horror. I followed his staring eyes to an unoccupied table and sudden illumination came to me.

  The table was piled high with empty dishes and bottles. Someone had eaten there, not one meal, but many; the expression on the waiter’s face convinced me that the diner had been Murdoch! With what amazed terror had the waiter slowly become aware of the uncanny phenomenon! Fascinated, I could not tear my eyes away from the heaped dishes. How long ago? How narrowly had I missed him? Grimly I turned and went out. Perhaps at the next restaurant—

  How long a time elapsed I did not know. The strange problem of Murdoch engrossed me; I was determined to bring my mission to a successful end, knowing that to admit my defeat was to abandon the entire city to a continuation of the terrifying crimes which had already partially paralyzed business activity.

  Restaurant after restaurant I visited, returning time and again to Murdoch’s house only to find the string unbroken. In a haze of fatigue I fell asleep once, after a meal in one of the last places on my list. Dazed with weariness and discouraged by my fruitless search, I must have slept much longer than I intended; when I awoke I was aware of faces turned in my direction, filled with bewilderment and fright. How uncanny it must have seemed to them!

  Instant realization of the time I had lost jerked me abruptly to my feet. I must find Murdoch. I started to leave, and it was then that the thing I had been waiting for happened! Somebody passed the window of the restaurant! The brief, startling impression of movement recorded itself indelibly on my mind! I knew that it could be no one but Murdoch!

  A flood of relief swept me. Obviously, he was unaware of my presence, and this certainty removed the shrinking fear that had haunted me. With renewed determination, I started toward the door, only to come to an exasperated halt.

  While I had slept, two diners had edged their way to the entrance, completely blocking passage. The knowledge that Murdoch was escaping farther away every second aroused a frenzy in my breast, yet I dreaded to lay hands on them. Finally, in desperation, I rushed to a window, flung it open, and leaped down to the pavement. There was no sign of life in the silent street. I did not dare attempt to follow—he might be lurking nearby, perhaps in the shadow of a shop door. For a few minutes I peered futilely in the direction he had taken, but it was useless; there was no movement as far as the eye could see. I had lost him!

  WITH A terrible feeling of despair, I decided that I could no longer continue the search. I would return once more to Murdoch’s house; this failing, I would go back to Santley’s laboratory and receive the injection antidote. In spite of my dogged unwillingness to admit defeat, I felt a warm glow of anticipation at the thought of the antidote. This terrible solitude—the dread silence—would give way to the pleasant, familiar sights and sounds of normal existence. Sudden longing for a quick return to my natural state hastened my steps, as I went toward Murdoch’s house for the last time.

  I reached the gloomy driveway, and approached the front door confidently. This last return trip was a formality—a concession to my conscience before returning to Santley’s laboratory. Then, as I halted in the gloom of the portico, I saw that the string had been broken!

  For the fraction of a second temptation swayed me. It would be so easy to steal silently away, back to the laboratory. No one would ever know. Then sudden sick revulsion seized me as I realized that, in my own mind, I would be directly responsible for every crime that followed! The muscles knotted in my jaw—opening the door softly, I slipped inside the house.

  Almost at once, before I could reach the light switch, a sound came to my ears, prickling the hair on the back of my neck with blind, unreasoning terror. As I stood paralyzed by the door, it came again, a long low moan that seemed to freeze the very blood in my veins. After a long moment, during which dreadful, pregnant silence reigned, I summoned strength to stiffened muscles and grimly forced myself to go forward. The gruesome sound, I knew, had emanated from the next room, which lay directly ahead of me. Through the darkness I crept to the open doorway, then, every nerve rasping, stepped through. My breath left me in a quick gasp.

  Over a low fire bent an old man. Dim light from the painted flames sent slow shadows across his wrinkled face, touched the white, unkempt hair that hung in long strands down his back. For what seemed an eternity I stood there, frozen, my throat constricted.

  “Murdoch!” I whispered hoarsely, at last.

  Filmed old eyes came around, regarded me blankly for a moment, then faint intelligence lit small fires in them. The withered lips cracked, and a sound broke the awful stillness. The voice was almost unrecognizable, creaking and plaintive.

  “Food . . . food—” The pitiful sound trailed off and the eyes stared at me beseechingly, wonderingly, like those of a child. Could this wretched creature be the super-criminal, the single man who had been able to perform crime after crime, robbery after robbery, defying the police of an entire city?

  WITH SHOCKED comprehension, I realized that the old man was unable to move, weak from lack of nourishment! I rushed back into the outer room and discovered, by some miracle, an unopened can of preserved fruit. A can opener lay at hand; I wrenched the top from the tin and hurried back, placing it before the withered figure by the fire. Before I could turn away to find a spoon, a wrinkled old hand came to sudden, vicious life, seized the can and raised it shakingly to toothless gums. With thirsty gulps and sighs, his throat working painfully, the pitiful wreck devoured the contents. The last drop gone, the empty tin rolled to the floor and I felt, with suddenly renewed fear, a strange burning gaze fixed on me. New strength was in the old man’s voice when he broke the silence.

  “You talk, you bring me food—you see me!” A wild hope sprang into his voice. “I’m free then; the cursed poison has left my blood at last!” A shaking hand reached out and clutched me by the arm. “Speak to me—tell me I’m free!”

  Bewildered, I stared at him blankly. Could he mean the injection? Slowly I shook my head and the skinny hand fell away. A sudden, low gabble broke from the bloodless lips. The old man was laughing, a ghastly, unnatural monotone of mirthless sound that turned m
y blood to ice.

  “Then you . . . you, too, are a victim of the strange injection!”

  I drew back in sick horror as the clawlike hand came forward. The horrible laughter ceased abruptly, and I felt the bony fingers digging into my wrist.

  “Ah, you draw away, you fear me!” The mirthless cackle welled up again, then died away. “Wait . . . wait till you become as old as I! Wait till your fine body fails, your teeth fall out, your eyes grow dim. No one to help you, to give you medicine, to feed your sick body. I waited—just as you will have to wait—helplessly. A week—two weeks—” A spasm of coughing interrupted his words.

  My heart was pounding. What could he mean? I licked dry lips. “Murdoch,” I whispered, “why didn’t you go back? Why didn’t you return to Santley’s laboratory? He has the antidote.”

  The old man stared at me in silence, and quick, unreasonable panic raced through me.

  “Damn you, tell me, why didn’t you go back?” I shouted insanely. I seized him by the shoulders and shook him until the dry gums rattled in his throat. Trembling, I released him finally, and he fell back against the wall, sacklike. The old eyes regarded me calmly, without anger or reproach.!

  “My son,” came the weak old voice, “my son”—and there was infinite pity and gentleness in the tones—“God help you, for no one else can.” He paused, and as I waited for him to continue, an icy hand seemed to grip my heart. “Many times I returned to the laboratory, each time hoping that in some way I would be enabled to receive the antidote, but it was always the same—I came and went unseen! The antidote is doubtless there, yes, but what doctor can make an injection into a person he does not see?”