by Keith Laumer
The thin wooden var snapped, and a vivid image of the spikes below flashed through David’s mind as he felt himself drop―until his hands, raking at the paint-scaled siding, caught the upper frame, held on. He found the sill under his feet. For a moment, he clung, waiting for his pulse to slow then he turned, gauging the distance below, tensing himself to jump clear.
Without warning, the casement window before him swung in; tattered curtains billowed as the night wind swirled them. A tall, leather-face figure stood there, yellow eyes gleaming straight at David’s.
“Come in, Mr. Vincent,” Dorn said. “There are matters of which you and I must talk.”
Chapter Five
David stood beside the window through which he had just stepped. The feeble light of the forty wall bulb in the chandelier gleamed dully on the strangely shaped weapon in Dorn’s left hand. His right, David saw, was thrust deep into the side pocket of his long coat.
“You are an elusive man, Vincent,” Dorn said. Under the hard, unaccented tone, David could hear the ragged, torn-metal rasp of the alien buzz that was this pseudo-man’s natural speech.
“Who wouldn’t be, with you on his trail?” David said. Spar for time, his instinct whispered. Wait for an opportunity . . .
“Not many would have succeeded so well as you,” Dorn said flatly. There was no flattery in his tone―or any emotion. It was a statement of fact, nothing more. “You are not like your fellow beings, Mr. Vincent. You are dangerous to me and all my kind. And yet―you might be useful, too.”
“I doubt that,” David said. He moved to the wall, leaned against the bookcase. His head felt fight, woozy; his knees weak. Bright spots danced before his eyes.
“You have lost a considerable amount of body fluid,” Dorn’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Your flesh is flimsy stuff, doomed to quick death.”
David fought to cling to consciousness, to hold his head up, to fight back the mist swimming before his eyes. Dimly, he was aware of the door opening, of the small, thin man who came through―or, he corrected himself, not a man: Dorn’s fellow alien, an imitation of a man . . . .
Dorn’s voice bored on, fading in and out. And nearer, another voice, thin and small, seemed to mingle with it. Thrall’s voice.
“Vincent . . . can you hear me? Listen . . . I heard them . . . I know now . . . you must . . . “
David shook his head, fighting to clear it. Dora was staring at him, his hard features rigid.
“You’re sick, Vincent. I could cine you. Or I can kill you. Which is it to be?”
“You’re frightened,” David said, hearing his voice slur the words. “Or you wouldn’t be talking . . . “
“Keep him talking,” the tiny voice whispered, inches from his ear. “And watch the other one. Maneuver them beneath―”
“Stand away from the wall,” Dorn rapped the command. He came forward, swept books from the shelves where David had been standing.
“Perhaps I am overly cautious,” he said. “I thought perhaps you had a weapon concealed there. But you would not be so foolish.”
“You want me to make a deal with you, is that it?” David said. Keep him talking, Thrall’s voice had said. Well, it was as good a gambit as any for now. Stall him, look for a chance . . . any chance . . . .”
“I offer you life―vigor such as you have never known,” Dorn said. “In return―you will perform certain small services for the Great Race.”
“What services?”
“There are . . . certain areas . . . into which only a native of this small world can penetrate; certain tests we cannot pass. You will pass them for us, Mr. Vincent. You will place certain devices in specified locations, all in perfect safety. And afterwards―your reward will be commensurate with your usefulness.”
“I sell out my world, is that it?” David replied. “What reward do you think you could offer me that would make that sound attractive?”
“We are skilled in the protoplasmic sciences,” Dorn said. “You have seen some of our work. This body I wear is an example. I can lift a weight of one ton with a single hand, crush a steel bar in my fist, run at a speed of forty miles per hour for one hundred hours, swim miles underwater. Fire cannot harm me, nor your feeble weapons. All this―I can give to you, David Vincent! You will be a superman among your puny fellows! No walls can stand against you! You will have the power to take whatever you wish, money, females―”
“And if I took you up on this―how do I know I could trust you?”
“The Great Race does not he.”
“So you say.”
The second alien had come forward, stood beside Dorn now.
“Kill it,” he said, emotionlessly. “It will never surrender.”
“I tell you this one is not like the others,” Dorn rasped. “It is not a weakling, a fool! It ferreted us out, alone, alone it destroyed Station Nine, killed three of my units! It has courage, ingenuity! These are the qualities the Great Race admires! This is a man we can use!”
“Kill it,” the other creature repeated.
“You see, Mr. Vincent, the pressures to which I am subjected,” Dorn said tonelessly. “But if you will enter my service, voluntarily undergo the small adjustment necessary to insure your correct function―then I will sponsor you before the Survival Master himself! You will be my slave, Vincent, my property. As such, you will be safe―and all the riches of this planet will be yours to share, along with us!”
“I asked you before―how do I know I can trust you?” David temporized. Maneuver them, Thrall had been saying, just before Dorn had interrupted. Maneuver them beneath . . .
Beneath what? David’s eyes scanned the room as Dorn talked on, pointing out the illogic of troubling to trick him, when it would be so easy to enslave him against this will. “ . . . it is a willing slave I require, Vincent!” he declaimed. “A slave in full possession of his faculties―and of the powers, far beyond his normal capacities―that I can give him―to carry out my commands! Why should I betray you? I can kill you at any time I wish. Why should I bother to deceive you?”
‘You tell me,” David came back, hardly hearing the other’s words. Beneath . . . beneath . . . His eye fell on the chandelier, a five foot diameter construction of wrought iron, weighing perhaps a quarter of a ton. And suddenly a recollection flashed across his mind: the heavy electrical cable, running across the space above. The spot where it had ended was at about the position of the chandelier. The lone-dim-glowing bulb there gave an impression of feebleness―but that cable had been heavy enough to carry a massive voltage
“I think you’re lying,” David said, and moved sideways, along the wall, his face registering fear, close to panic.
“Come, Vincent―I have reasoned with you, made matters clear,” Dorn stated in his penetrating monotone. “You are too clever a man to throw away such an opportunity―”
“You’ll turn me into a zombie, make me do your dirty work, then kill me,” David blurted, and darted sideways. The creature behind Dorn leaped at him, and David spun aside, darted to the center of the room, halted facing the aliens.
“You’ll have to prove you’re telling the truth, prove you have the powers you claim,” he said quickly, holding the aliens with his eyes. “If you do it, then I’ll believe you.” He backed a step; Dorn followed him, waving his companion back as he started past.
“You doubt that I can mould your body as I say, give you the strength of a lion, the steady nerves of a striking cobra? Then look!” Dorn drew his right hand from his pocket, held it up . . . .
David stared in horror at the charred stump that protruded from the cuff―the ends of the radius and ulna, burned off above the wrist, projected like sticks in a campfire, projected from the blackened, ragged flesh. And from the center of the hideous wound, like a rosebud springing from scorched earth, a tiny baby fist grew, the miniature, pink fingers stirring aimlessly.
“You see! I lost my hand―seared away by the defective Emptor as it misfunctioned; but a new hand takes
its place! In six months, there will be not even a scar to remind me of the ineptitude of your human industry in attempting to manufacture our weapons!”
“Why didn’t you make them yourself?” David demanded, backing another step. “Why take the risk of farming them out to our factories?”
“It was a mistake,” Dorn stated. “A failure. But one failure is nothing. In the end the Great Race―”
“Great Race?” David taunted, backing again as Dorn followed, the other alien close beside him. “How many of your Great Race are there? How long do you think you can go on, hiding, killing, plotting―”
“Enough!” Dorn blared. “There are few of us, and widely scattered, true! But we fight for our lives―and for more than our fives! We fight for a nesting place for our race, that it may yet rise from destruction and live again in the glory it knew a million years ago―!
“Stop!” the second alien barked. “You say too much―” Then he broke into the buzzing speech, his pale eyes fixed on David. Dorn listened, then faced David.
“He is right,” he said. “Choose!”
“I’ve already chosen,” David said. “You can go back to the Hell you came from!”
“Kill him,” Dorn said simply. “He might have helped us―but in the end it will not matter. He took a step forward. In three months―!”
With a creak and groan, the chandelier shifted, dropped a foot―and caught, jammed. The alien’s eyes flashed upward―and as they did, David leaped, caught the rim of the massive assembly, dragged down with all his weight, threw himself aside as, with a rending of wood, the heavy frame came crashing down, squarely across the shoulders of Dorn and his fellow Invader, smashing both of them to their knees.
As David came to his feet, Dorn rose up, lifting the great mass of metal and glass as easily as if it had been made of paper. The second alien, entangled in the dangling pendants, snarled, ripped away a handful of welded ironwork as if it were half-cooked spaghetti.
And at that moment, with a crash like thunder, blue lightning flashed around the rim of the fallen chandelier, crackled in luminous haloes about the ghastly faces of the aliens. The metal glowed red as shock after shock smashed through the metal, through the flesh and bones of the trapped beings, scorching the floor under their feet, lighting the dim room with brilliant arcs of white and blue and yellow. Now the glass was melting, flowing down, spattering in bright droplets. Dorn emitted a tortured shriek, tore at the confining bands, howled anew as the current flickered above his head, smouldered under his coat, bursting into flames. Again, the alien shrieked, and with a final surge, lifted the sparking, crackling mass of sagging, white-hot metal, hurled it from him―
The second alien, rising from the charred floor, emitted a piercing yelp as the spitting, arcing mass slammed against him, pinned him on his back, infolding him in a corruscating corona of blue fire. Dorn whirled, staggered away, struck the wall, smashed half through it; trapped, he hung there, knocking great pieces from the ruined partition in his struggle.
“Vincent . . . did it . . . work?” Thrall’s faint voice crackled. “Are you all right . . . ?”
David stumbled to the bookcase where the microphone was hidden.
“Thrall―it worked. You’ve got to get out now, fasti The house is on fire!”
“I . . . can’t move. My legs . . . Too late. Save yourself . . . .”
“I’ll come for you!” David dashed for the door, jumped Dorn’s hideously branded body, sprinted for the stairs . . .
“Vincent―go back!” Thrall’s voice sounded from the wall. “I mustn’t . . . let them escape . . . I mean to
. . . blast the house . . . 1 have explosives placed . . . ready . . . “ Thrall! Wait!”
Thirty seconds,” Thrall’s voice was a weak gasp. “No longer . . . run . . . Vincent . . . 1 must die . . . But you . . . must live . . . to carry on . . . the fight . . . .”
David halted, looked up the black stairwell. Thrall was up there, alone, crippled. And he would do what he threatened; of that David was certain. There was no time left. And Thrall was right. He himself must not die; he had to five, to fight, and one day win . . .
He whirled, leaped back down, across the great hall, out past the crumbling columns, along the weed-grown drive . . .
“ . . . twenty-eight . . . twenty-nine . . . “ he counted, then dived, rolled behind the shelter of a great oak.
A giant clapped his hands. White light outlined the trees and ragged shrubs in stark brilliance. Under David, the ground trembled, leaped up. A shuddering boom roared out, echoed, echoed, as bits of wood, metal, shattered limbs, a fragment of a polished railing clattered down around him. Rising, David looked toward the house―or toward the spot where the house had been. Now only a smoking pit yawned among out-tilted trees, surrounded by a ring of raw earth, stripped of turf by the mighty blast, scattered with binning timbers.
In the distance, a siren started up, a mournful wail. In a minute or two, there would be people here―police, firemen, curious townsfolk. People who would stand and gape at the ruin that was all that remained of Thrall House. They would cluck and shake their heads―and behind their hands snicker knowingly at this final catastrophe which had overwhelmed their pathetic townsmen.
They’ll remember you as the crazy man who blew himself up with his insane experiments, Thrall,” David said softly. “They’ll never know that you died to save them―and millions more―from something they don’t even believe in. But I know. Thanks, Thrall. You were a bigger man than any of them . . . .”
Silently, David Vincent moved off across the dark, weed-choked lawn. Half an hour later, from a wooded ridge above the town, he watched as the last of the flames were extinguished―the flames that had wiped out Thrall and with him the aliens.
“Three months, Dorn had said. In three months―what? There had been certainty in the alien’s voice as he had started to blurt his secret―a certainty which boded no good for the planet Earth. Now the chance was gone to learn what he might have said.
But there were others of his kind still alive, still working. Three months. What was the plot which would come to fruition then? And what could one man do to stop it?
He didn’t know. But he could search on, observe, listen, wait―and perhaps, with luck, before it was too late, he could find the key to the deadly mystery.
David Vincent turned away along the dark path through the woods, silent and alone, to resume the battle against the enemy.
PART THREE―THE COUNTERATTACK
Chapter One
A cold autumn wind swept along the street, whirling dry leaves into David Vincent’s face. He turned up the collar of his coat, plodded on, head down, his legs numb from the hours of walking . . . tramping on and on, with no destination, no end in sight.
He had no idea what time it was, what part of the small midwestern town he was in. It was a faded residential street where small, carelessly maintained houses crouched in ragged yards; houses where children had romped and shouted once, long ago; but now they were silent, dim-windowed, cheerless-caves where the old had crept to die.
David pushed the morbid thoughts from his mind. Vague hunger pangs reminded him that he had not eaten in . . . how long? He didn’t remember. He had lost the habit of regular meals these last months, and of regular sleep, regular hours. Day had become a time to wait behind drawn blinds, dozing upright in a chair, listening for the footstep that would mean that they had found him―
Again he thrust the thought away angrily. It was the other way around, he reminded himself. But sometimes, as now, late at night, wandering aimlessly along some strange, cold street, it was hard to remember who was the hunter and who the hunted. The waiting was the worst―waiting for the next move of the enemy. If only there were some way for him to take the iniative, strike at them by surprise. But it was a vain hope. His only course was to go on, watching―and waiting.
A light gleamed ahead through the stark limbs of the gnarled trees lining the cracked sidewalk. He pass
ed the end of a high hedge, saw lighted windows in a tidy brick front set well back from the street. Above the white painted door were the words CENTERTON PUBLIC LIBRARY. It looked like an island of warmth and coziness against the backdrop of the indifferent night. On impulse, David tinned, went up the brick path.
Inside, an elderly woman in styleless black eyed him over rimless spectacles, taking in his weather-burned face, his chapped knuckles, the battered trench-coat, which hung loose now on his wide-shouldered frame. Her mouth tightened in its nest of wrinkles.
“Was there something you wanted?” she piped, her tone indicating that the library was not a haven in which hoboes were welcome to warm themselves.
“Why, yes,” David favored her with a smile. “I’m just in from a field trip; two weeks in the hill country, doing a whooping crane count. Deadly dull work. Just thought I’d drop in and catch up on the scientific journals while awaiting my plane.”
“Oh―you’re a naturalist?” Her tone changed instantly. “Goodness, I’ve always been fascinated by bird-watching myself. The whooping crane, you say. Goodness, I had no idea they were to be found in this part of the country!”
“Quite right, they weren’t. Still, it was an exhilarating experience.” David glanced toward the long table, the comfortable chairs.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit down, Mr. . . . .. or is it professor . . . ?” The librarian gushed, won over by the combination of the scholarly approach coupled with David’s lean good looks. ‘Til bring you the issues you wanted. Which ones . . . ?”
“Ah . . . the Science Digest will do for a start,” David said. “Just to give me the big picture.”