by Jack Finney
For a moment longer he looked at me, then grinned again. As to how does it happen — come now, Dr. Bennell, think how little we know on this raw, new little planet; we're just. out or the trees! Three hundred years ago you doctors didn't even know blood circulated; you thought it was a motionless fluid like water in a sack. And brain waves are only a recent discovery. Brain waves, Doctor! Actual electrical emanations from the brain in specific identifiable patterns, penetrating the skull to the outside, to be picked up, amplified and charted! You can sit and watch your own pattern on a screen.
He sighed, and said, And not only the brain, but the entire body, every cell of it, emanates waves as individual as fingerprints, but you don't believe that, do you? He smiled. Do you believe, though, that equally invisible waves can emanate from a room, move silently through space, be picked up, and then reproduce every word, sound and tone to be heard in that original room? Your grandfather wouldn't have, Dr. Bennell. But you do; you believe in radio. You even believe in television.
Outside on the street a dog barked, and a child laughed, and Budlong said quietly, Yes, Dr. Bennell, your body contains its own pattern. All living matter does; it is the very foundation; of cellular life. For it is composed of the tiny electrical force lines that hold together the atoms that constitute your being. And therefore it is a pattern, infinitely detailed, of the precise atomic constitution of your body at any moment, altering with every breath you take, and with every second of time in which your body infinitesimally changes. And the pattern can be taken from you. During sleep, the body is at a low ebb, and then the pattern can be slowly transferred, absorbed like static electricity from one body to another.
He got to his feet and stood looking down at me. And since every kind of atom in the universe is identical — the building blocks of the universe — you are precisely duplicated, atom for atom, molecule for molecule, cell for cell, down to the tiniest scar or hair on your wrist. And what happens to the original? The atoms that formerly composed you — once the electrical force lines are gone — are static, nothing, a pile of formless gray fluff. It can happen, does happen and rather easily. And you know that it has happened — and will happen to you.
I was shaking my head no. Beside me, her shoulder touching mine, I could feel Becky trembling. I was stunned, I couldn't speak, but I kept shaking my head no.
Budlong sat down. Oh, yes, he said softly. You and all of Santa Mira. And then presently — he shrugged — the world. He smiled at the look on my face. You think not? He turned to the windows behind him and gestured with his head. It's not only men, you see, Budlong said quietly, but animals, trees, grass — everything that lives. Think of the moon; it's dead. There hasn't been a particle of change on its surface since man began studying it. But haven't you ever wondered why the moon should be a desert of nothingness — the moon so close to the earth, once even a part of it — why it should be dead?
Well, it wasn't always, Budlong said. Once it was alive. And what of the other planets revolving around the same life-giving sun as the earth — Mars, for example? His shoulder lifted in a little shrug. Traces of the beings that once lived there still survive on its deserts. Our kind can't live, you see; you might as well know that. The duplication isn't perfect, and can't be; something's missing — the soul perhaps, certainly the emotions. We're like the artificial compounds nuclear physicists fool with: unstable, unable to hold our form. The last of us will be dead — he flicked a hand casually — in five years at the most. And then the pods will move on, to search for more life. He was silent for a moment, and then said, But just now it's the earth's turn, the pods live again briefly; and when the life on earth is used up, the spores will move out into space once again, to drift for — it doesn't matter how long, or to where. Eventually, they'll arrive somewhere. They are the parasites of the universe, and they'll be the final survivors in it.
Becky and I got up and walked out of the house in a sort of daze, going down the steps toward the wooden gate in the high shrub along the front edge of the lawn. I was grateful to hear the door close behind us; I wasn't even alarmed by the fact that Budlong had let us go without protest.
I wasn't thinking; I was mentally still back in that study. I actually had my hand on the gate latch, fumbling with the mechanism, when I stopped. A few hundred yards off to our right, I heard a car, moving very fast, swing around the corner and into this street, the rubber squealing on the pavement. An instant later, through the latticework of the gate, I saw Jack Belicec's car flash past, Jack hunched over the wheel, eyes straight ahead, Theodora crouched beside him. Another set of tires squealed around the corner to the right, and a split second later, a shot sounded. We actually heard the faint high whistle of the bullet ripping the air of the street before us. A brown-and-tan, gold-starred Santa Mira police car shot past the gate. Then, in an incredibly few moments, the twin sounds of racing motors had diminished, faded, sounded once again very faintly, and were gone.
Behind us, the front door opened, and now I unlatched the gate. Holding Becky's elbow tightly, I walked with her — quickly, but not running — along the sidewalk. Two houses away we turned into a walk leading to a two-storied, white-clapboard house I'd played in as a boy. We walked along the side and through the back yard. Behind us, on the street we'd just left, I heard a voice call out, another voice answer, then the slam of a door. A moment later, Becky and I were again climbing the hill that rose behind the row of houses on Corte Madera Avenue; and then, once more, we were hurrying along a path, threading through underbrush.
I had had time to think; I knew what had happened, and I was astounded at the kind of nerve and clearheaded intelligence and thoughtfulness Jack Belicec had shown. There was no telling how long he'd been chased, though it couldn't have been long. But I knew he must have driven through the Santa Mira streets, a police car behind him and shooting, with one eye on his watch. Deliberately passing up whatever chances he'd had to escape, to drive out of this town and into the world of safety beyond it, Jack had driven, leading the chase closer and closer to the street and house where he knew we'd be waiting, until the minute hand of his watch told him we'd see — just what we had seen. It was the only way he could warn us, and, incredibly, he'd done so at a time when horror and panic must have been fighting for his mind.
All I could do for him now was hope that somehow he and his wife would escape, would be able to get out of Santa Mira to warn the world. But I was certain they could not; the roads he could drive out on would be blocked now, other police cars would be waiting and ready for them. And now I knew what a terrible mistake we had made in coming back to Santa Mira, how helpless we were against whatever was ruling this town. And I wondered how long it would be — at the next step, the next bend of the path perhaps — before we were caught, and what would happen to us then.
Fear — a stimulant at first, the adrenaline pumping into the blood stream — is finally exhausting. Becky was clinging to my arm, unaware of how much of her weight she was making me carry, and her face was bloodless, her lips parted, and she was sucking in air through her mouth. We couldn't continue to roam and climb these hills much longer. My leg movements, I noted, were no longer automatic, the muscles responding now only through an effort of will. And yet, the only way we were safe from the pods was to stay awake, to keep moving. Somewhere we had to find sanctuary, and there was none. There was not a home at which we dared to appear; there was not a person to whom we dared risk appealing for help.
Collier's, December 10, 1954, 134(12):114, 116-125
The Body Snatchers, Conclusion
Main Street in Santa Mira curves around the foot of a range of small hills, as do most of the town's streets. Becky and I were following a path down the side of one of the hills, a path that would end at the little alley in back of the Medical Building, in which I had my office.
My office was the only place I could think of to go. I was afraid to go even there, but more afraid of anyplace else. I thought we might be safe there for a litt
le time because it wasn't a place we would be expected to go to — at least not until time had passed and we weren't found anywhere else. And right now we simply had to get some rest, get to a place where we'd be free from the constant threat of the pods.
It was Saturday; the Medical Building would be nearly empty. We darted across the deserted little alley and in through the open sheet-steel back door. Then we climbed the back stairs to the sixth floor. I had my key out and ready, and a moment later we were inside my office, the door clicking shut behind us.
I dragged the waiting-room davenport to the windows overlooking Main Street, and we sat down. I slowly lifted one slat of the closed Venetian blind just enough to peer down at Main Street, and we could see quite a lot. The paved area is wider there because of a bend in Main Street and it is almost completely enclosed on three sides by stores. This area serves Santa Mira as a sort of town square; they used to set up a bandstand there and hold street dances and carnivals.
It looked so ordinary — the scene below us. There were green-and-white paper signs on the windows of the supermarket, advertising round steak, bananas and laundry soap. Vasey's Hardware, as always, had one window filled with kitchen equipment, and power tools in the other. The dime-store windows were loaded halfway to the ceiling with kids' toys and candy. Stretching across the street, near the Sequoia Theater, hung a faded red-and-white banner: Santa Mira Bargain Jubilee, an annual sale sponsored by the local merchants. This year it looked as though they hadn't bothered painting a new banner.
People strolled in and out of stores, cars backed out of white-ruled parking spaces, and others took their places. Minutes passed, and we sat and watched — and rested.
It isn't easy to say just when, or how, the change began. But I was aware, presently, that there were more people on the street and that, somehow, they were no longer acting quite like an ordinary Saturday shoppers crowd. Some people still went in and out of the stores, but now a great many simply sat in their cars or just stood at the curb. I recognized a lot of the faces.
Then Bill Bittner, a local contractor, a stout middle-aged man strolling along the sidewalk, casually pulled a button out of his pocket and pinned it to his coat lapel. I couldn't actually read the printing, but l recognized the design and knew what the lettering said: Santa Mira Bargain Jubilee; the local merchants passed them out each year. But all those I had ever seen before had been red with white printing. Bill Bittner's button was navy blue with yellow printing.
And now, here and there, all up and down the street, other people were taking out these yellow-and-blue buttons and pinning them to their coats. Not everyone did it at once, and within any half minute, all a stranger would have seen — if he'd even noticed at all — would have been two or three people pinning on these buttons. Yet within five or six minutes, nearly everyone down there had brought out and was now wearing a blue-and-yellow Santa Mira Bargain Jubilee button.
A minute or two passed; I had my arm around Becky's shoulder and felt her shivering. From the dime store, a salesman walked out to his car; the name of his company was lettered on the door. Jansek, the cop, strolled over and spoke to him; the salesman stopped on the walk and they stood talking. It occurred to me, staring down at them, that the salesman seemed to be the only person who was not wearing a blue-and-yellow button.
The man was frowning now, looking bewildered, and Jansek was firmly shaking his head no at whatever the salesman was saying. A moment or so later, they both got into the salesman's car, backed out and then turned left at the corner. I knew they were headed for the police station.
Four other strangers got the same treatment. And when they had been hauled off, there wasn't a soul I could see who wasn't wearing a yellow-and-blue jubilee button. The street was almost completely silent now, not a car moving or a person walking, every last soul standing on the sidewalks silently facing the street. Looking over the roof tops, I could see streets as far as half a mile away. Nothing moved on them, and on each of them I could see barricades across the road — the gray-painted wooden horses of the street department. And I suddenly knew that all over town every street was blocked off by men ostensibly making repairs. No one could get into Santa Mira, or move along its streets toward the business district; and the handful of strangers who had happened to be there were gathered up now and held at the police station, under what pretext it did not matter. Right now, Santa Mira was cut off from the world.
And then, cold with fear, I realized that no one could get out of Santa Mira either; and I said a silent prayer, hoping Jack and Theodora had got away to get help.
I heard the motor of a car, and a moment later a truck came into sight, a dark-green, battered old pickup. Behind it came four more trucks, three of them big farm trucks with slatted portable sides; the fourth was another pickup. They drove into the little square and parked at a curb, side by side. Each carried a tarpaulin-covered load; the drivers began untying the tarps. They were farmers, all from farms west of town, and I knew four of the five: Joe Grimaldi, Joe Pixley, Art Gessner and Bert Parnell.
Two men in business suits walked to the center of the street — Wally Eberhard, a local real-estate man, and another man. Wally had several sheets of paper in his hand, and the two men stood glancing at them. Then, presently, the other man looked up, drew a deep breath, and in almost a shout called, Sausalito! If you have Sausalito families, step forward, please! Sausalito is the first Marin County town you come to after crossing the Bay. Two people, a man and a woman, not together, had stepped from the curb into the street and were walking toward Wally; several others were pushing their way through the crowd.
Pixley had the tarp on his pickup untied and now he walked to the back of the truck, took hold at the bottom edge of the tarp, and tossed it back off the load. I'd long since known what was in those trucks. They were filled with huge puffballs — the seed pods I'd seen, now, so often before.
All right! the man with Wally called out. Sausalito! Sausalito only, please! and he motioned the five or six people in the street toward Joe Pixley's truck. Joe climbed up and lifted off the top pods one by one, handing them down into the waiting arms of the people clustered below him. As each pod was handed down, Wally Eberhard made a check mark on what was apparently a list. Then he nodded at his helper, who shouted, Marin City, please! All with Marin City families or contacts, next!
Seven people edged through the crowd, then stepped into the street; and as they stopped at his truck, Joe handed down a pod to each.
It seemed to me, as I heard the slight grate of a key sliding into the lock of my reception-room door, that I'd known all along what would happen. But when the door swung open, and I saw the first of the four people who walked into the room, I scrambled to my feet, weak with wild new hope and excitement. Mannie! I said, and grabbed his hand and shook it.
He responded, though with less vigor than I expected, his hand almost limp in mine, as though accepting but not fully returning my greeting. Then, staring at his face, I knew. It's hard to say how I knew — possibly his eyes lacked a little of their customary luster; maybe the muscles of his face had lost just a hint of their usual tension and alertness, and maybe not — but I knew.
Mannie nodded slowly, as though I'd spoken aloud, and said, Yes, Miles. And for a long time. One of the patients you sent me left a pod in my office. I walked back and put my arm around Becky's shoulders, and then we faced the men who had come in.
One was small, stout and bald; I'd never seen him before. Another was Chet Meeker, an accountant in town, a big, black-haired, pleasant-faced man in his middle thirties. The fourth was Professor Budlong, and now he sat down, smiling at us.
You know why we're here, Mannie said, and sat down in another chair.
From the street, through the closed window, I heard a voice call, Mill Valley! Mill Valley, next! Step forward, please! and I turned to Budlong.
He nodded. Santa Mira is virtually complete. Now we're making a systematic invasion of the county. When that's completed �
�� He shrugged.
I could only stare at him, it was hard to talk. Then my voice came out, an almost inaudible murmur: Santa Mira — I shook my head to clear it — the whole town? How? I said angrily; it seemed impossible.
A little blindly at first, Budlong said pleasantly. The hulls — the pods — drifted down in this area; it could have been anywhere, but it happened to be here. They came to rest on the Parnell farm, and before they became adapted, their first efforts were merely a blind duplication of whatever they encountered: an empty tin can still stained with the juice of once-living fruit, a broken ax handle of wood that had lived and grown. It's a natural waste — he shrugged — the waste of any kind of seed spore falling in the wrong places. Others, though — and it really would have taken only one success — fell, or drifted, or were blown or were carried by curious people, into the right places. And then those who were changed recruited others, usually their own families—
Belvedere! Tiburon! called the voice from the street. Budlong got up, strolled to the windows and raised the blind a few feet. In any event, as you can see — he nodded at the street below — it went quickly. Chance was no longer a factor from the moment the first effective change-over occurred. One man alone, the local gas-and-electric-meter reader, brought about over seventy change-overs; he enters basements freely. Delivery men, plumbers, carpenters effected others. It's an accelerating process, and once a changeover occurred in a household, the rest were usually rather easily and quickly made. You two are among the final few. We couldn't capture you because you'd caught on, you knew how to avoid being taken — by staying awake, by destroying the pod.
I don't know why I kept talking; I had no feeling that gaining time would help us. But I said, Where do they all come from, so many pods?