Thankfully, it shuddered and toppled.
I groped for more shells, fed them into the gun, slammed the breach shut, and blasted the third alien out of the window and back onto the front porch.
The room was full of thunder. My ears ached.
Connie's rifle had been cracking repeatedly while I tended to the attackers on my side of the room, but she still had not been able to destroy the fourth alien. It seemed able to absorb the rifle bullets without damage-which meant that the shotgun was effective only because it packed considerably more wallop and spread it granulated charge over a broader area. As I reloaded my weapon, Connie dropped the rifle and ran to the fireplace, poked in the burning wood, and found a fairly long, slender piece of wood that was burning only at one end. She picked this up, turned, and ran back toward the beast.
"Connie, no!"
The thing was halfway across the room when she came upon it, and it backtracked the instant it saw the flames. Its mandibles made a snicking noise.
Suddenly one of the three slender legs on its right side reached up to a bandolier slung across its back; fingerlike claws grasped a tubular device clipped to the bandolier.
"Connie, it's reaching for a weapon!"
She threw the burning branch.
When the flames touched it, the alien shrieked, an ungodly sound that made me shiver. It stumbled backwards, eight legs akimbo, and fell heavily to the floor. It burnt like a gasoline-soaked torch. It rolled and heaved and kicked, trying to get to the window. The insufferable stench-ammonia, carbon, decay- was so intense that it made me feel ill.
I emptied my shotgun into the thing in order to put it out of its misery-then whirled around to see if any new beasts had come through the porch windows.
None had.
Everything was still, quiet.
Deafeningly quiet.
"Is it over?" Connie asked.
"Not that easily."
"There are more?"
"I'd bet on it."
"We can't hold out forever."
"We've done-"
We were both overcome with the same realization at the same instant, but she said it first: "My God, where's Toby?"
"He was here-"
"He isn't now!"
I ran out into the kitchen.
He wasn't there.
I heard her in the living room, shouting up the stairs.
The sun porch door was open. I hurried to it.
She rushed into the kitchen behind me.
I glanced back at her.
"Don, he doesn't answer me."
I went out onto the sun porch and found that the outer door was standing open. Snow was sweeping inside on the wind-and the snow just beyond the door was marked by a child's footprints and the eight-holed tracks I knew all too well.
Death is real.
Death is final.
"They've got him," she said.
The world is a madhouse.
"Their attack was only meant to distract us," she said dazedly. "While we were distracted, they took control of Toby's mind and marched him right out of the house."
I turned and went back into the kitchen.
She came after me. "But four of them died! Would they sacrifice four of their own to get one of us?"
Real, final, real, final
"Looks that way," I said, opening the box of shotgun shells that stood on the kitchen table. I began to fill my pockets.
She moaned softly.
"We've got to move fast," I told her. "Get your rifle and the box of ammunition. Hurry."
"We're going after them?"
"What else?"
She hesitated.
"Connie, hurry! We've got to catch the bastards before they
We've got to get Toby back from them!"
Leadenly: "What if he's already dead?"
"And what if he isn't?"
"Oh, God!"
"Exactly."
She ran to get the rifle.
SATURDAY
The End
24
It was an eerie pursuit upon which we engaged in that stark winter night: down the open hillside where the trail was only very slightly softened by the wind and the falling snow (which meant that they could not be far ahead of us, else their tracks would have been erased entirely), then along the perimeter of the trees for more than a hundred yards, and finally into the primeval northern forest. Under the pines, in the bleak wilderness, our flashlights were of more use to us than they had been out on the open land, for the snow did not blow and sheet before us, cutting our range of vision; and the yellow beams opened the night for twelve or fourteen feet ahead, like a scalpel slicing through skin. Connie went first along the narrow woodland trails, for I felt that if we were to be attacked, the enemy would surely try to surprise us from behind. After all, the flashlight revealed the way ahead and protected us from stumbling blindly into alien arms; therefore, the beasts might circle around us. She carried the rifle, and I carried the shotgun. Occasionally, spooked by the weird shadows caused by the dancing flashlight beams, one of us would bring up a gun and whirl and nearly open fire. And as we walked we kept glancing behind us: I did it to see if we were still alone, and Connie did it to see if the footsteps she heard behind her were still mine.
"We've come so far," she said at one point. "Why would they bring him so far?"
"I don't know."
But then a short while later I did know. Twenty minutes after we entered the forest,
I realized that we were heading in the general direction from which that brilliant purple light had flashed at me two days ago, just after I had come out of the woods from finding Blueberry's skeleton. The light must have been some manifestation of their space craft: it marked the spot of their landing, their invasion base. And now they were taking Toby to their space ship
For what?
Examination?
Tests?
Dissection?
Were they taking him as a specimen, taking him away into the stars?
We picked up our pace, walked as fast as we could manage, with less regard than before to the possibility of a surprise attack.
Time was running out-fast.
I sensed that we were closing on them, that they might be no more than a few hundred yards along the trail. Once, I thought that mental fingers pressed lightly, so very lightly, against my skull, but I could not be certain. Nothing tried to force its way into me; but I knew that it was there and waiting.
We followed the trail up a hillock, down into a shallow ravine, around an outcropping of limestone.
And the ship lay before us.
Connie stopped.
I moved beside her and put one hand on her shoulder.
The ship stood in a clearing. It was a sphere at least one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, absolutely enormous, stunning. It towered over us, as high as a fourteen- or fifteen-story office building. There were no windows or doors or hatches, no marks of any kind upon it. The perfectly seamless pearl gray material from which it was made gave off a cold, cold light.
There was no noise at all. We could not even hear the wind moaning above us. And although we were in the open once more, well beyond the shelter of the trees, the wind did not touch us, and the snow did not fall here. Apparently, the sphere was enveloped in a subtle but effective shield, one which did not exclude its crew members or us, but which protected the vessel from earth's weather.
I felt like a savage as I stared up at the vast sphere, like a savage peering up through the jungle and catching his first glimpse of a passing jet airliner.
"Toby's in there," Connie said.
I didn't want to think about that.
"What are we going to do, Don?"
"Get him out."
"How?"
Before I could answer, I was struck from behind: hard. I was quite literally bowled from my feet, and I rolled end over end. I lost the shotgun; it went spinning off into the brush.
Connie cried out.
I heard
a rifle boom.
Dazed,
I got to my knees and looked up in time to see four aliens crowding in on her.
She fired again.
One of the beasts reached for the rifle with the claws at the end of its multi-jointed foreleg.
She backed up and fired.
In a rage one of the creatures rushed her, reared up on its four hindmost legs, and revealed a wicked yard-long stinger which had folded out of the forward part of its belly.
The chitinous saber was bright green and dripped what could only be venom.
"Connie-"
The thing was on her in an instant, clutching her with its forelegs, plunging the stinger into her stomach. The razored tip of it came out of her back, streaming blood and yellow ichor.
There was no doubt that she was dead. The effect of the venom was really academic. The stab wound, gouged through vital organs, would have finished her in the blink of an eye.
I lost control. Madness swept over me. I began to scream and could not stop.
(It was not merely grief that had driven me over the edge. Oh God, I loved that woman, yes, loved her more than I loved myself. And what more can I say? What greater love could there be? When I lost her I knew that I had lost my reason for getting up in the morning. And yet there were other components of my madness. At the same time I suddenly realized that, just as in Vietnam, here were two cultures, two alien societies, clashing senselessly. Instead of trying to communicate, they had killed. And instead of trying to think of some way to reach them and make them understand, I had killed. Murder is always easier than judicious, reasoned action. Violence is not the resource of last resort for mankind (and for superior races such as these aliens) but it is the primary resource, the first reaction. And that is why there is no hope for a peaceful future, regardless of our scientific and technological advancements. We are flawed because the universe is flawed. The universe is a madhouse-and we are all madmen, whether humans or intelligent insects. And it was seeing this so clearly, as well as the grief, that sent me gibbering.)
I got to my feet, screaming and babbling unintelligibly, overwhelmed with hatred, self-hatred, and grief. I raised my fists and swung at the air and ran toward the nearest alien.
I saw his stinger coming out of his belly, but I didn't care. In fact I wanted him to use it. I ran straight for him, screaming, screaming — and felt a pressure around my skull, then in my skull, then overwhelming me, pushing me down, taking full control, pushing me to the back of my own brain, pushing me into darkness
25
When I regained consciousness hours later I was in the farmhouse again.
I was sitting behind the desk in the den. Through the window on my right I could see the crown of our hill and the barn bright red in the snow. Saturday must be well along, I thought, for the sky was light. The snow was falling, although not so fast and thick as it had been coming for days now.
I was not alone. One of the aliens was standing just outside the door of the den, watching me. Its mandibles clacked together, opened, clacked shut, opened Another alien was in the room-and Toby stood at its side.
The boy's face was pale, his eyes blank.
"Do you know where you are?" he asked me.
My mouth was dry. I nodded.
"Do you feel all right?"
I understood that I was not talking to Toby at all but to the alien beside him who was using Toby's brain and tongue and lips to communicate with me. I said, "I feel rotten."
"Physically or emotionally."
"Emotionally."
"That's all right," Toby-alien said.
"Maybe to you it is."
"We have found that we cannot control an adult mind or learn much from it. That is why I am not inside your head, speaking to you from within. You wouldn't permit it. You would be overwhelmed with fear and disgust. Therefore we will use your son to converse with you. Is that satisfactory?"
I said nothing.
"You are a writer," Toby-alien said.
I was surprised by this approach.
I don't know what I had been expecting, but I certainly hadn't anticipated this.
"No."
"You've written a book."
"One book. That doesn't make me a writer."
"Nevertheless, you can write. You can put these curious little symbols down on paper, order your ideas, convey your impressions and emotions to others of your kind."
Reluctantly, I said, "Yes."
"And perhaps to us."
"You killed my wife."
"That is beside the point."
"It is the point."
The alien's mandibles worked furiously, and its amber eyes regarded me with unknowable intent. Through
Toby he said: "We cannot know what you are thinking by stepping into your mind.
Your fear is so intense it blocks out your thoughts. But we want to know what you perceive of your existence and of the universe. We want to understand what evolutionary level you represent. Therefore, we wish you. to put your thoughts into writing. We will read the writing through the eyes of your son and interpret your worthiness from the content thereof."
"My worthiness?" I said.
"You will write another book."
"About what?"
"You will write about us, about all that has happened here at Timberlake Farm during the last several days," Toby-alien said. "Then we will learn how you perceive us, and we will be able to put this affair in the proper perspective."
"No."
"No?"
"I won't write a book."
"You will write a book."
"You killed my wife."
"What does that matter?"
"Are you crazy?"
"We do not understand the concept of mental instability."
"Because you're all crazy and you have nothing sane to compare yourselves to," I said.
"You will write a book," Toby-alien said, and as he spoke he began to twitch. Spittle bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
"What are you doing to him?" I demanded.
"Nothing," the alien said through the boy. "But we find it difficult to use even a child. Such a strange species. He resists my thought control, and from time to time he throws fits much like those people you call epileptics."
"If I write the book, will you let Toby and me live? Will you go away from this world?"
"You will write a book."
"I need that promise."
"You will write a book."
As Toby began to twitch even more violently, I surrendered.
"Okay. I'll write the book. I'll put it all down in print. Just don't torture the boy."
"I am not torturing him. This spasm is simply an uncontrollable psychological reaction to my presence in his mind."
"You say you're using him as a tool for communication-but you're not speaking with his vocabulary."
"For the brief moments we were in your mind, your wife's mind, and the minds of the
Johnsons, we absorbed all of your language. The boy is not a dictionary, just a translator and loud speaker."
"You killed the Johnsons."
"That does not matter."
"For God's sake!"
"Death does not matter."
"It's all that matters."
"Curious."
"I'll write the book," I said, slumping back in the chair.
"In three earth days."
"I can do it," I said. "I won't worry about style or grammar or punctuation. I'll just get the raw emotion down, the emotion and the fact."
"You will write a book."
"My typewriter is an electric model," I said. And then I realized that the lights were on. Not the heat, of course, for they couldn't tolerate it. But that would be turned on after they left.
"We have repaired the generator. Now we will leave you to your work."
They took Toby with them when they left. I watched them until they disappeared into the woods. Would
I ever see him again?
On my way back to the den, I passed a photograph of
Connie. It was in a silver frame on top of the piano. She played the piano well;
I could almost hear her music. And the sight of her face was like a punch in the stomach. I doubled over and went to my knees and wept loudly.
Death is not mutable.
Death is not beatable.
Death is not cheatable.
Death is not a joke.
Death is real and final.
But the world is a madhouse.
Remember that. Don't take it seriously.
I don't know how long I remained on my knees, my head on the floor, weeping. A long time. Perhaps hours. When I finally got up, my chest ached and my throat was sore and my eyes burned.
But when I did get up I went into the den and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. I would write the book. Somehow, I would hold myself together long enough to write the book.
Connie was gone forever. But Toby was still alive. There was not much chance that they would let me have him or that they would let us live, but I had to hold onto even the frailest thread of hope. And so I kept telling myself: If you write the book, maybe you'll save yourself and Toby. And so I began to type.
26
It's finished.
In three days I have written one hundred and eighty manuscript pages, and I am burnt out. I slept only one night out of three and took perhaps four or five one-hour naps. I have gotten through this ordeal with the aid of a fifth of Wild Turkey bourbon, a box of No-Doz caffeine tablets, and several bennies (prescribed for me in the days when I suffered bouts of lethargy and depression, just after I got out of the sanitarium). Bourbon, caffeine, and speed: that is not a good combination, not good at all. I stagger when I walk, and I can't think clearly any more.
But it's finished.
I will get up from this desk in a few minutes and go into the living room and sit down to wait for them.
Somehow they will know that the book is written. What they expect to learn from it, I do not understand. It is obvious to me that our races are so terribly different-physiologically and psychologically- that no one book, no one man's explanations can ever bridge the gulf between us. They will study the text I have prepared, will be puzzled by it-and then, will they kill us?
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