Duel: Terror Stories

by Richard Matheson

  He passed a building that had died in the last war. There were scurrying men and robots pulling off the rubble to build again. Over their heads hung the control ship and he saw men looking down to see that work was done properly.

  He slipped in and out among the crowd. No fear of being seen. Only inside of him was there a difference. Eyes would never know it. Visio-poles set at every corner could not glean the change. In form and visage he was just like all the rest.

  He looked at the sky. He was the only one. The others didn’t know about the sky. It was only when you broke away that you could see. He saw a rocket ship flashing across the sun and control ships hovering in a sky rich with blue and fluffy clouds.

  The dull-eyed people glanced at him suspiciously and hurried on. The blank-faced robots made no sign. They clanked on past, holding their envelopes and their packages in long metal arms.

  He lowered his eyes and kept walking. A man cannot look at the sky, he thought. It is suspect to look at the sky.

  “Would you help a buddy?”

  He paused and his eyes flicked down to the card on the man’s chest.

  Ex-Space Pilot. Blind. Legalized Beggar.

  Signed by the stamp of the Control Commissioner. He put his hand on the blind man’s shoulder. The man did not speak but passed by and moved on, his cane clacking on the sidewalk until he had disappeared. It was not allowed to beg in this district. They would find him soon.

  He turned from watching and strode on. The visio-poles had seen him pause and touch the blind man. It was not permitted to pause on business streets, to touch another.

  He passed a metal news dispenser and, brushing by, pulled out a sheet. He continued on and held it up before his eyes.

  Income Taxes Raised. Military Draft Raised. Prices Raised.

  Those were the story heads. He turned it over. On the back was an editorial that told why Earth forces had been compelled to destroy all the Martians.

  Something clicked in his mind and his fingers closed slowly in a tight fist.

  He passed his people, men and robots both. What distinction now? he asked himself. The common classes did the same work as the robots. Together they walked or drove through the streets, carrying and delivering.

  To be a man, he thought. No longer is it a blessing, a pride, a gift. To be brother to the machine, used and broken by invisible men who kept their eyes on poles and their fists bunched in ships that hung over all their heads, waiting to strike at opposition.

  When it came to you one day that this was so, you saw there was no reason to go on with it.

  He stopped in the shade and his eyes blinked. He looked in the shop window. There were tiny baby creatures in a cage.

  Buy a Venus Baby For Your Child, said the card.

  He looked into the eyes of the small tentacled things and saw there intelligence and pleading misery. And he passed on, ashamed of what one people can do to another people.

  Something stirred within his body. He lurched a little and pressed his hand against his head. His shoulders twitched. When a man is sick, he thought, he cannot work. And when a man cannot work, he is not wanted.

  He stepped into the street and a huge Control truck ground to a stop inches before him.

  He walked away jerkily, leaped upon the sidewalk. Someone shouted and he ran. Now the photo-cells would follow him. He tried to lose himself in the moving crowds. People whirled by, an endless blur of faces and bodies.

  They would be searching now. When a man stepped in front of a vehicle he was suspect. To wish death was not allowed. He had to escape before they caught him and took him to the Adjustment Center. He couldn’t bear that.

  People and robots rushed past him, messengers, delivery boys, the bottom level of an era. All going somewhere. In all these scurrying thousands, only he had no place to go, no bundle to deliver, no slavish duty to perform. He was adrift.

  Street after street, block on block. He felt his body weaving. He was going to collapse soon, he felt. He was weak. He wanted to stop. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. If he paused—sat down to rest—they would come for him and take him to the Adjustment Center. He didn’t want to be adjusted. He didn’t want to be made once more into a stupid shuffling machine. It was better to be in anguish and to understand.

  He stumbled on. Bleating horns tore at his brain. Neon eyes blinked down at him as he walked.

  He tried to walk straight, but his system was giving way. Were they following? He would have to be careful. He kept his face blank and he walked as steadily as he could.

  His knee joint stiffened and, as he bent to rub it in his hands, a wave of darkness leaped from the ground and clawed at him. He staggered against a plate-glass window.

  He shook his head and saw a man staring from inside. He pushed away. The man came out and stared at him in fear. The photo-cells picked him up and followed him. He had to hurry. He couldn’t be brought back to start all over again. He’d rather be dead.

  A sudden idea. Cold water. Only to drink?

  I’m going to die, he thought. But I will know why I am dying and that will be different. I have left the laboratory where, daily, I was sated with calculations for bombs and gasses and bacterial sprays.

  All through those long days and nights of plotting destruction, the truth was growing in my brain. Connections were weakening, indoctrinations faltering as effort fought with apathy.

  And, finally, something gave, and all that was left was weariness and truth and a great desire to be at peace.

  And now he had escaped and he would never go back. His brain had snapped forever and they would never adjust him again.

  He came to the citizen’s park, last outpost for the old, the crippled, the useless. Where they could hide away and rest and wait for death.

  He entered through the wide gate and looked at the high walls which stretched beyond sight. The walls that hid the ugliness from outside eyes. It was safe here. They did not care if a man died inside the citizen’s park.

  This is my island, he thought. I have found a silent place. There are no probing photo-cells here and no ears listening. A person can be free here.

  His legs felt suddenly weak and he leaned against a blackened dead tree and sank down into the moldy leaves lying deep on the ground.

  An old man came by and stared at him suspiciously. The old man walked on. He could not stop to talk for minds were still the same even when the shackles had been burst.

  Two old ladies passed him by. They looked at him and whispered to one another. He was not an old person. He was not allowed in the citizen’s park. The Control Police might follow him. There was danger and they hurried on, casting frightened glances over their lean shoulders. When he came near they scurried over the hill.

  He walked. Far off he heard a siren. The high, screeching siren of the Control Police cars. Were they after him? Did they know he was there? He hurried on, his body twitching as he loped up a sun-baked hill and down the other side. The lake, he thought, I am looking for the lake.

  He saw a fountain and stepped down the slope and stood by it. There was an old man bent over it. It was the man who had passed him. The old man’s lips enveloped the thin stream of water.

  He stood there quietly, shaking. The old man did not know he was there. He drank and drank. The water dashed and sparkled in the sun. His hands reached out for the old man. The old man felt his touch and jerked away, water running across his gray-bearded chin. He backed away, staring open-mouthed. He turned quickly and hobbled away.

  He saw the old man run. Then he bent over the fountain. The water gurgled in his mouth. It ran down and up into his mouth and poured out again, tastelessly.

  He straightened up suddenly, a sick burning in his chest. The sun faded to his eye, the sky became black. He stumbled about on the pavement, his mouth opening and closing. He tripped over the edge of the walk and fell to his knees on the dry ground.

  He crawled in on the dead grass and fell on his back, his stomach grinding, water running ov
er his chin.

  He lay there with the sun shining on his face and he looked at it without blinking. Then he raised his hands and put them over his eyes.

  An ant crawled across his wrist. He looked at it stupidly. Then he put the ant between two fingers and squashed it to a pulp.

  He sat up. He couldn’t stay where he was. Already they might be searching the park, their cold eyes scanning the hills, moving like a horrible tide through his last outpost where old people were allowed to think if they were able to.

  He got up and staggered around clumsily and started for the path, stiff-legged, looking for a lake.

  He turned a bend and walked in a weaving line. He heard whistles. He heard a distant shout. They were looking for him. Even here in the citizen’s park where he thought he could escape. And find the lake in peace.

  He passed an old shut-down merry-go-round. He saw the little wooden horses in gay poses, galloping high and motionless, caught fast in time. Green and orange with heavy tassels, all covered with thick dust.

  He reached a sunken walk and started down it. There were gray stone walls on both sides. Sirens were all around in the air. They knew he was loose and they were coming to get him now. A man could not escape. It was not done.

  He shuffled across the road and moved up the path. Turning, he saw, far off, men running. They wore black uniforms and they were waving at him. He hurried on, his feet thudding endlessly on the concrete walk.

  He ran off the path and up a hill and tumbled in the grass. He crawled into scarlet-leaved bushes and watched through waves of dizziness as the men of the Control Police dashed by.

  Then he got up and started off, limping, his eyes staring ahead.

  At last, the shifting, dull glitter of the lake. He hurried on now, stumbling and tripping. Only a little way. He lurched across a field. The air was thick with the smell of rotting grass. He crashed through the bushes and there were shouts and someone fired a gun. He looked back stiffly to see the men running after him.

  He plunged into the water, flopping on his chest with a great splash. He struggled forward, walking on the bottom until the water had flooded over his chest, his shoulders, his head. Still walking while it washed into his mouth and filled his throat and weighted his body, dragging him down.

  His eyes were wide and staring as he slid gently forward onto his face on the bottom. His fingers closed in the silt and he made no move.

  Later, the Control Police dragged him out and threw him in the black truck and drove off.

  And, inside, the technician tore off the sheeting and shook his head at the sight of tangled coils and water-soaked machinery.

  “They go bad,” he muttered as he probed with pliers and picks. “They crack up and think they are men and go wandering. Too bad they don’t work as good as people.”

  F—

  GROUND CARS SHRIEKED TO A HALT. MUFFLED curses assailed windshields. Pedestrians jumped back, eyes widened, mouths spread into incredulous O’s.

  A great metal sphere had appeared out of thin air right in the middle of the intersection.

  “What? What?” bumbled a traffic controller, leaving the fastness of his concrete island.

  “Good heavens!” cried a secretary, gaping from her third story window. “What can this be?”

  “Popped outta nowhere!” ejaculated an old man. “Outta nowhere, I’ll be bound.”

  Gasps. Everyone leaned forward with pounding hearts.

  The sphere’s circular door was being pushed open.

  Out jumped a man. He looked around interestedly. He stared at the people. The people stared at him.

  “What’s the meaning?” ranted the traffic controller, pulling out his report book. “Looking for trouble, eh?”

  The man smiled. People close by heard him say, “My name is Professor Robert Wade. I’ve come from the year 1954.”

  “Likely, likely,” grumbled the officer. “First of all get this contraption out of here.”

  “But that’s impossible,” said the man. “Right now anyway.”

  The officer stuck out his lower lip.

  “Impossible, eh?” he challenged and stepped over to the metal globe. He pushed it. It didn’t budge. He kicked it. He howled, “Ow!”

  “Please,” said the stranger. “It won’t do any good.”

  Angrily, the officer pushed aside the door. He peered into the interior.

  He backed away, a gasp of horror torn from paled lips.

  “What? What?” he cried in fabulous disbelief.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the professor.

  The officer’s face was grim and shocked. His teeth chattered. He was unnerved.

  “If you’d …” began the man.

  “Silence, filthy dog!” the officer roared. The professor stepped back in alarm, his face a twist of surprise.

  The officer reached into the interior of the sphere and plucked out objects.

  Pandemonium.

  Women averted their faces with shrieks of revulsion. Strong men gasped and stared in frank paralysis. Little children glanced about furtively. Maidens swooned.

  The officer hid the objects beneath his coat quickly. He held the lump of them with one trembling hand. Then he clapped violently on the professor’s shoulder.

  “Vermin!” he raved. “Pig!”

  “Hang him, hang him!” chanted a group of outraged ladies, beating time on the sidewalk with their canes.

  “The shame of it,” muttered a churchman, flushing a fast vermilion.

  The professor was dragged down the street. He tugged and complained. The shouting of the crowd drowned him out. They struck at him with umbrellas, canes, crutches and rolled-up magazines.

  “Villain!” they accused, waving vindictive fingers. “Unblushing libertine!”

  “Disgusting!”

  But in alleys, in vein bars, in pool rooms, behind leering faces everywhere, squirmed wild fancies. Word got around. Chuckles, deeply and formidably obscene, quivered through the city streets.

  They took the professor to jail.

  Two men of the Control Police were stationed by the metal globe. They kept away all curious passersby. They kept looking inside with glittering eyes.

  “Right in there!” said one of the officers again and again, licking his lips excitedly. “Wow!”

  High Commissioner Castlemould was looking at licentious postcards when the televiewer buzzed.

  His scrawny shoulders twitched violently, his false teeth clicked together in shock. Quickly, he scooped up the pile of cards and threw them in his desk drawer.

  Casting one more inhaling glance at the illustrations, he slammed the drawer shut, forced a mask of official dignity over his bony face and threw the control switch.

  On the telecom screen appeared Captain Ranker of the Control Police, fat neck edges oozing over his tight collar.

  “Commissioner,” crooned the captain, his features dripping obeisance. “Sorry to disturb you during your hour of meditation.”

  “Well, well, what is it?” Castlemould asked sharply, beating an impatient palm on the glossy surface of the desk.

  “We have a prisoner,” said the captain. “Claims to be a time traveler from 1954.”

  The captain looked around guiltily.

  “What are you looking for?” crackled the Commissioner.

  Captain Ranker held up a mollifying hand. Then, reaching under the desk, he picked up the three objects and set them on his blotter where Castlemould could see.

  Castlemould’s eyes made an effort to pop from their sockets. His Adam’s apple took a nose dive.

  “Aaaah!” he croaked. “Where did you get those?”

  “The prisoner had them with him,” said Ranker uneasily.

  The old Commissioner drank in the sight of the objects. Neither of the men spoke for gaping. Castlemould felt a sensuous dizziness creep over him. He snorted through pinched nostrils.

  “Hold on!” he gasped, in a high cracking voice, “I’ll be right down.”

&
nbsp; He threw off the switch, thought a second, threw it on again. Captain Ranker jerked his hand back from the desk.

  “You better not touch those things,” warned Castlemould, eyes slitted. “Don’t touch ’em. Understand?”

  Captain Ranker swallowed his heart.

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, a deep blush splashing up his fleshy neck.

  Castlemould sneered, threw off the switch again. Then he jumped up from his desk with a lusty cackle.

  “Haah haah!” he cried. “Haah haah!”

  He hobbled across the floor, rubbing his lean hands together. He scuffed the thick rug delightedly with his thin black shoes.

  “Haah haah! Aha haah haah haah!”

  He called for his private car.

  Footsteps. The burly guard unlocked the door, slid it open.

  “Get up, you,” he snarled, lips a curleycue of contempt.

  Professor Wade got up and, glaring at his jailer, walked past the doorway into the hall.

  “Turn right,” ordered the guard.

  Wade turned right. They started down the hall.

  “I should have stayed home,” Wade muttered.

  “Silence, lewd dog!”

  “Oh, shut up!” said Wade. “You must all be crazy around here. You find a little …”

  “Silence!” roared the guard, looking around hurriedly. He shuddered. “Don’t even say that word in my clean jail.”

  Wade threw up imploring eyes.

  “This is too much,” he announced, “anyway you look at it.”

  He was ushered into a room which spread out behind the door reading: Captain Ranker—Chief of Control Police.

  The chief got up hastily as Wade came in. On the desk were the three objects discreetly hidden by a white cloth.

  A wizened old man in funereal garb looked at Wade, a shrewd deductive look on his face.

  Two hands waved simultaneously at a chair.

  “Sit down,” said the chief.

  “Sit down,” said the Commissioner.

  The chief apologized. The Commissioner sneered.