Complete Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by James H. Schmitz

  He departed hastily.

  VIII

  Gloge had become nervous.

  As Monday wore on, he kept thinking of his two specimens; and what bothered him was that he did not have them under observation on this last day.

  What a ridiculous situation, he told himself. The greatest experiment in human history—and no scientific person watching it through to a conclusion of the key second injection.

  There was another feeling, also. Fear!

  He couldn’t help but remember the young man. It seemed to Gloge that he had seen too many animals show in their fashion the symptoms he had observed in Vince. Failure to respond well to the serum, the signs of internal malaise, the sick appearance, the struggle of the cells visibly reflecting defeat in the efforts and chemistry at the surface of the skin.

  And there was—he had to admit it—a further anxiety. Many of the unsuccessful animal specimens had developed tough fight-back characteristics. It would be wise to be prepared for emergencies of that nature.

  He thought grimly: “No use fooling myself. I’d better drop everything and take another look at those two.”

  That was when he left his office. He took it for granted that Barbara was all right. So he drove to Vince’s apartment, and first checked with his audio pickups to make sure he was there and alone.

  He detected at once movements; the sound of labored breathing, an occasional squeak of the springs of the couch. These noises came screeching through the hyper-sensitive receiver, but Gloge had the volume on them turned down so that they were not actually painful in his ears.

  Gloge’s spirits had already dropped even more, for the sounds he was hearing confirmed his fears.

  Suddenly, all the justified scientific attitude that had motivated him until now came hard against the reality of the failure that was here.

  By his previous reasoning, he would now have to kill Vince.

  And that meant, of course, that he would also have to dispose of Barbara.

  His state of funk yielded after what must have been many minutes to a strictly scientific thought: Mere sounds were not enough data for so basic a decision, it seemed to him.

  He felt intense disappointment.

  Now, he must go and make his decision from an actual meeting with Vince. It would be improper to dispose of his two human subjects without a face to face interrogation.

  As Gloge climbed out of his car and headed for the apartment building, Vince had a dream.

  He dreamed that the man—what was his name?—Gloge, with whom he had quarreled a few days before in the corridor at Research Alpha, was coming here to his apartment, with the intention of killing him. At some deep of his being, anger began. But he did not awaken.

  The dream—product of his own disturbed, strange evolutionary development—continued.

  From some vantage point, he watched Gloge approach his back door. He felt no surprise when the small, bald-headed man produced a key. Tense with fear, Vince watched as Gloge stealthily inserted the key into the lock, slowly turned it and quietly opened the door.

  At that point, Vince’s body was impelled by his extreme anxiety to defensive action. Millions of tiny, shining, cream-colored energy bundles were emitted by his nervous system. They resembled very short straight lines. And they passed through the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, and they struck Gloge.

  Great masses of the energy units unerringly sought out nerve ends in Gloge’s body and darted in their scintillating fashion up to the man’s brain.

  The energy units were not the result of conscious analytical thought. They were brought into being solely by fright and carried pressor messages. They pushed at Gloge mentally, urging him to leave, to go back to where he had come from—

  Dr. Gloge came to his senses with a start. He was back in his van. He remembered running in precipitant flight. He had a vague recollection of complete panic.

  He sat now, trembling, breathing hard, trying to recover from the most disgraceful act of fear that he had ever experienced in his whole life.

  And he knew that he had to go back.

  Twice more, the sleeping Vince emitted enough energy bundles to compel Gloge to run. Each time the power available was less and Gloge retreated a shorter distance before stopping and forcing himself to go back again to the apartment.

  On Gloge’s fourth approach, the brain mechanism in Vince was able to manufacture only a small energy discharge. Gloge felt the fear rise in him, but he fought it—successfully.

  He moved silently across the kitchen floor toward the door of the living room.

  He still did not realize that the sleeping body and he had fought a battle—which he had now won.

  Moments later, Gloge looked down at the exhausted form of his male subject. The sleeping body had perspired excessively. It trembled and moaned, and, as Gloge watched, jerked fitfully.

  Unmistakably—Gloge decided—a failed experiment.

  He wasted no time. He had come prepared. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, carefully slipped one over Vince’s farthest away arm and softly clicked it shut. He lifted the arm as carefully toward the other wrist and clicked that handcuff on also.

  Gloge next successfully tied Vince’s legs together, and then lashed together the hands and feet.

  The victim continued his restless, feverish sleep.

  Gloge brought out a gag. As he had anticipated, forcing it into the closed mouth was more disturbing. Under him, the body grew rigid. Wild eyes flicked open and glared up at him.

  In a single, convulsive effort Vince tried to bring up his arms and simultaneously struggled to get to his feet.

  But Gloge had done his preliminary work well. The victim’s intense effort subsided. Dr. Gloge realized that his control of this situation was complete. He removed the gag and said: “What I want to know is, how do you feel?”

  The half-crazy, rage-filled eyes snapped with the impulse to violence. Vince cursed in a shrill voice. He kept this up for several minutes. Then he seemed to realize something.

  “Y-you did something to me last week.”

  Gloge nodded. “I injected you twice with a serum designed to accelerate cellular evolution, and I’ve come here to find out how you are.”

  His gray eyes were steady, his bald head gleamed in the reflection of the light he had turned on. His face was serious. “Why not tell me exactly how you feel?” he asked earnestly.

  This time Vince’s cursing subsided after about a minute. He lay, then, staring at his captor, and something about the pale, tense face of the scientist must have convinced him. “I feel—awful,” he said uneasily.

  “Exactly how?” Gloge persisted.

  Slowly, by dint of determined questioning, he drew from his reluctant victim the fact that he felt weak, exhausted and numb.

  It was the fateful combination that had so often shown in the animals; and Gloge knew that it was decisive.

  Without another word, he bent down and started to force the gag into Vince’s mouth. Vince twisted, wiggled, turned his head, and several times tried to bite. But inexorably Gloge pushed the gag all the way into the other’s mouth and knotted it firmly behind his head.

  He now went outside and drove the van into the driveway opposite the back door of Vince’s apartment. Wrapping the young man’s body in a blanket, he carried him boldly outside and into the van.

  A few minutes later he was heading for the home of one of his subordinates. The man was on loan to an eastern laboratory and his house and yard were unoccupied.

  If he had paused, if he had stopped moving, if he had even taken his foot off the accelerator, Gloge might have faltered in his grisly plan. But his only slowdown was when he finally brought the car to a stop at his destination. And that, in its real meaning, was a continuation of the plan.

  Its final moments.

  Laboriously, he dragged the gagged, handcuffed and bound Vince across the sidewalk, through a gate, and over to the deep end of the swimming pod. And
still without pausing he shoved the tense body over the edge and into the water.

  He straightened from his terrible act, stood there gasping for breath, exhausted, watching the trail of bubbles that roiled the dark surface. Abruptly terrified that he might be seen, he turned and staggered away.

  As he half-fell, half-crawled into his car, the first opposing thought came, as much a feeling of horror as an idea: “My God, what have I done?”

  But there was no opposing motion in that reaction. He did not go back. Instead, he sat there, bracing to the realization that a few feet away a man was still in process of drowning.

  When there was no longer any doubt; when the subject of his experiment was by all laws of life dead, Gloge sighed, and stirred. There was no turning back. One gone, one to go.

  Next—the girl!

  From a phone booth a few blocks away, Gloge dialed Barbara Ellington’s boarding house. The voice of an elderly woman answered and told him Barbara had gone out.

  The voice added, “She certainly is a popular girl today.”

  Gloge said uneasily, “How do you mean?”

  “Several men came by a little while ago and asked for her, but of course I had to tell them also that she wasn’t here.”

  A sharp fear struck through Gloge. “Did they give their names?” he asked.

  “A Mr. Hammond,” was the reply.

  Hammond! The chill of that froze Gloge. “Thank you,” he gulped, and hung up.

  He returned shakily to his car, torn between two impulses. He had intended to return after dark to the pool, fish Vince’s body out of it, take off all the bindings and dispose of it. He had a strong feeling now that he should do that at once. On the other hand, he had a desperate conviction that he must return to his office and remove the rest of the serum from the safe there.

  That last suddenly seemed the more important thing to do, and the safest at this hour. The sun had gone down below the western hills, but the sky was still bright blue. The dying day had too much light in it for the gruesome task of getting rid of a dead body.

  IX

  At ten minutes past seven, Dr. Gloge unlocked the door that led directly from the corridor to his office in the biology section of Research Alpha. He went in, closed the door behind him, walked quickly around the big, bare desk in the center of the room, and stooped down to unlock the desk drawer where he kept a key to one of the safes.

  “Good evening, Dr. Gloge,” a woman’s voice said behind him.

  For an instant Dr. Gloge seemed unable to move. The words, the tone, sent an electrifying hope through him He could scarcely believe his luck: that the second person he had to dispose of had come to where he could best deal with her.

  He straightened slowly, turned around.

  Barbara Ellington stood in the open door to the adjoining library, watching him, face serious and alert.

  At no time in what followed did Gloge have any other conscious awareness than that this was Barbara Ellington.

  But the very instant that he saw the girl, at some depth of his being neural readjustments took place. Millions of them. And from that instant, subconsciously, she was his dead sister. But she was not dead any more. She was reassuringly alive in the person of Barbara.

  A look passed between them. It was one of complete understanding. It occurred to Gloge that it was scientifically wrong to kill this successful experimental victim. He even had a feeling that she was on his side and would cooperate with him. He suppressed a fleeting impulse to pretend not to know why she was here.

  He said, matter-of-factly, “How did you get in?”

  “Through the specimen room.”

  “Did any of the night workers see you?”

  “No.” Barbara smiled slightly.

  Gloge was examining her with quick evaluative looks. He noted the way she stood, almost motionless but lightly and strongly balanced—a pose of contained, absolutely prepared energy. He saw in her eyes bright, quick intelligence.

  The thought came to him: Nothing quite like this was ever on Earth before!

  Barbara said suddenly, “You took a long chance on us, didn’t you?”

  The words that burst from Dr.

  Gloge surprised him: “I had to do it.”

  “Yes, I know.” Again she spoke matter-of-factly, moved forward into the room. Dr. Gloge felt a surge of alarm, a sharp, cold prickling of the skin. But she turned from him to the left, and he watched silently as she sat down in a chair against the wall and placed the brown purse she carried on the armrest of the chair. She spoke first.

  “You must give me the third injection of the serum immediately,” she told him. “I’ll watch you do it. Then I’ll take the instrument and a supply of the serum to Vince. He—”

  She paused; blue eyes kindling with abrupt comprehension, as she studied Dr. Gloge’s expression. “So you’ve drowned him!” she said. She sat there, thoughtful, then: “He’s not dead. I sense him to be still alive. Now, what is the instrument you use? You must still have it with you.”

  “I do,” Dr. Gloge admitted hoarsely. “But,” he went on quickly, “it is advisable to wait till morning before administering the third shot. The chances of a further favorable development would be increased by doing it. And you must stay here! Nobody should see you as you are. There should be tests . . . you will tell me . . .”

  He halted, realizing he was stammering. Barbara’s eyes hadn’t turned from his face. And in the same way that her knowledge of Vince’s fate had not disturbed him—somehow, he took it for granted that she realized and appreciated why and what he had done—so now her expression reassured him.

  She said quietly, “Dr. Gloge, there are several things you don’t understand. I know I can assimilate the serum. So give me the shot—and the serum—at once.”

  Barbara Ellington arose and started over toward him. She said nothing, and her face revealed no emotion, but his next awareness was of holding the jet gun out to her on his open palm as she came up. “There’s only one charge left.”

  She took the gun from his palm without touching him, turned it over, studied it, laid it back in his hand. “Where is your supply of the serum?” Dr. Gloge nodded at the entrance to the library behind her. “The larger of the two safes in there.”

  Her head had turned in the direction he indicated. Now she remained still for a moment, gaze remote, lips parted, in an attitude of intent listening; then she looked back at him.

  “Give me the injection,” she told him. “Some men are coming.”

  Dr. Gloge lifted the gun, put the point against her shoulder, pulled the trigger. Barbara drew her breath in sharply, took the gun from him, opened her purse, dropped the gun inside and snapped the purse shut. Her eyes shifted to the office door. “Listen!” she said.

  After a moment, Dr. Gloge heard footsteps coming along the narrow corridor from the main laboratory. “Who is it?” he asked anxiously. “Hammond,” she said. “Three other men.”

  Dr. Gloge made a stifled sound of despair. “Wove got to get away. He mustn’t find either of us here. Quick—through there.” He waved toward the library.

  Barbara shook her head. “This place is surrounded. All passages are guarded.” She frowned. “Hammond must think he has all the evidence he needs against you—but don’t help him in any way! Admit nothing! Let’s see what I can do with my—”

  As she spoke she moved back to the chair on which she had been sitting. She settled into it, her face composed. “Maybe I can handle him,” she said confidently.

  The footsteps had reached the door. There came a knock.

  Gloge glanced at Barbara. His thoughts were whirling. She nodded, smiled.

  “Come in!” Dr. Gloge said harshly, too loudly.

  Hammond entered the room. “Why, Mr. Hammond!” Barbara exclaimed. Her face was flushed, she looked embarrassed and confused.

  Hammond had stopped, as he caught sight of her. He sensed a mental probing. His brain put up a barrier, and the probing ceased.

  The
ir eyes met; and there was a flicker of consternation in hers. Hammond smiled ironically. Then he said in a steely voice:

  “Stay where you are, Barbara. I’ll talk to you later.” His voice went up. “Come on in, Ames!” he called.

  There was threat in his tone; and Dr. Gloge sent a quick, desperate, appealing glance at Barbara. She gave him an uncertain smile. The look of earnest, fumbling innocence with which she had greeted Hammond had left her face, leaving it resigned but alert.

  Hammond gave no sign of being aware of the change.

  “Ames,” he said to the first of the three men who came in through the library from the specimen room—Dr. Gloge recognized Wesley Ames, the chief of Research Alpha’s security staff—“this is Barbara Ellington. Take charge of that handbag she’s holding. Allow no one to enter this office. Miss Ellington is not to leave and is not to be permitted to touch any object in this room. She is to stay in that chair until I return with Dr. Gloge.” Wesley Ames nodded. “Understood, Mr. Hammond!” He glanced at his men, one of whom went to the office door and locked it while Ames turned to Barbara. She handed him her purse without comment “Doctor, come with me,” Hammond said curtly.

  Dr. Gloge followed him into the library. Hammond closed the door behind them.

  “Where’s Vince?” he said in an inexorable voice.

  “Really, Mr. Hammond,” Gloge protested. “I don’t—”

  Hammond stepped toward him abruptly. The movement seemed a threat. Dr. Gloge cringed, expecting to be manhandled. Instead, the bigger man firmly caught his arm and pressed a tiny metal object against his bare wrist.

  “Tell me where Vince is!” Hammond commanded.

  Gloge parted his lips to deny any knowledge of Barbara’s boy friend. Instead, the confession of what he had done poured forth from him. As he realized what he was admitting, Gloge tried desperately to stop himself from talking. He had already divined that the metal touching his skin was some kind of a hypnotic device, and so he tried to pull his arm from Hammond’s grasp.