The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “That was a funny hallway,” said Lewis. “Door at each end, none along the sides. Only things in it were those tanks.”

  “Well, those tanks might already be gone,” said Welch. “You didn’t get on this end until about ten-thirty, you said, and Keeler wasn’t on the front until about eleven. They could’ve been taken out then if they’re so all-fired important.”

  “I’ve had the same thought,” said Lewis. “But I don’t think they have. I’m going out to grab a bite to eat now, then I’m going down in the alley for a closer look.”

  “You won’t get very close with all them lights on the yard,” said Welch.

  Lewis pointed to the garage. “If you look close you can see a space along the other side; in the shadow there. The light’s on in the back hall. I’ll try to get close enough for a look through the window in that rear door. They’re tall tanks. I should be able to see them.”

  “And if they’ve been moved someplace else in the building?” asked Welch.

  “Then I’ll have to go in and brace Johnson for a showdown,” said Lewis. “Maybe I should’ve done that in the first place, but this is a screwy situation. I just don’t like a mystery in a mortuary.”

  “Sounds like the title of a detective story,” said Welch. “‘Mystery in a Mortuary.’”

  Welch sniffed. “There’s already death inside there,” he said. “This could be something mighty unpleasant.”

  Welch lighted a new cigarette from the coal of the one he had been smoking, stubbed out the discard in a dish Lewis had been using for an ash tray. “You may be right,” said Welch. “The only thing impresses me about this she-bang, Welby, is like Sheriff John said—I’ve seen you pull too many rabbits out of the hat.”

  “That’s what he told you?” asked Lewis.

  “Yeah, but he thinks maybe you’re gonna pull a blank this time.” Welch stared down at the mortuary. “If you go inside, do you want me to round up a few of my men and smother the place if you don’t come out by some set time?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said Lewis. “Don’t take any action unless you see something suspicious.”

  Welch nodded his head. “Okay,” he said. He looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette, glanced down at the yard they were watching. “Mortuaries give me the creeps anyway,” he said.

  Lewis bolted down a hot beef sandwich at a cafe two blocks from the mortuary, returned along a back street. It was cold and wet in the alley. A perverse wind kept tangling the skirts of his raincoat. He hugged the shadows near the mortuary garage, found the row of boards which had been nailed across the area he was going to use. Lewis clambered over the boards, dropped to soft earth which was out of the wind but under a steady dripping from unguttered eaves. He moved quietly to the end of the shadow area and, as he had expected, could see inside the window on the rear door of the mortuary. The tanks were not visible. Lewis cursed under his breath, shrugged, stepped out of the shadows and crossed the lighted backyard. The door was locked, but he could see through the window that the hallway was empty. He went around to the front door, rang the night bell.

  A man in a rumpled black suit which looked as though he had slept in it answered the door. Lewis brushed past him into the warm flower smell of the foyer. “Is Johnson here?” he asked.

  “Mr. Johnson is asleep,” said the man. “May I be of service?”

  “Ask Mr. Johnson to come down, please,” said Lewis. “This is official business.” He showed his badge.

  “Of course,” said the man. “If you’ll go into the office there and have a seat, I’ll tell Mr. Johnson you’re here. He sleeps in the quarters upstairs.”

  “Thanks,” said Lewis. He went into the office, looked at the colored photograph of Mount Lassen until the night attendant had disappeared up the stairs at the other end of the foyer. Then Lewis came out of the office, went to the doorway leading into the hall. The door was locked. He tried forcing it, but it wouldn’t budge. He moved to the hinge side, found a thin crack which gave a view of the other end of the hall. What he saw made him draw a quick breath. The three metal tanks were right where he had expected them to be. He went back to the office, found a directory and looked up the number of the doctor’s office where Welch was waiting, dialed the number. After a long wait Welch’s voice came on the line, tones guarded. “Yes?”

  “This is Welby,” said Lewis. “Anything come in the back?”

  “No,” said Welch. “You all right?”

  “I’m begining to wonder,” said Lewis. “Keep your eyes peeled.” He hung up, turned to find Johnson’s tall figure filling the office doorway.

  “Mr. Lewis,” said Johnson. “Is something wrong?” He came into the office.

  “I want to have a look at those metal tanks,” said Lewis.

  Johnson stopped. “What metal tanks?”

  “The ones in your back hall,” said Lewis.

  “Oh, the embalming fluid,” said Johnson. “What’s the interest in embalming fluid?”

  “Let’s just have a look at it,” said Lewis.

  “Do you have a warrant?” asked Johnson.

  Lewis’s chin jerked up and he stared at the man. “I wouldn’t have a bit of trouble getting one,” he said.

  “On what grounds?”

  “I could think of something that’d stick,” said Lewis. “Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

  Johnson shrugged. “As you wish.” He led the way out of the office, unlocked the hall door, preceded Lewis down the hallway to the three tanks.

  “I thought embalming fluid came in sixteen-ounce glass bottles,” said Lewis.

  “This is something new,” said Johnson. “These tanks have glass inner liners. The fluid is kept under pressure.” He turned a valve and an acrid spray emerged from a fitting at the top.

  Lewis took a shot in the dark, said, “That doesn’t smell like embalming fluid.”

  Johnson said, “It’s a new type. We add the masking perfumes later.”

  “You just get these filled?” asked Lewis.

  “No, these were delivered last week,” said Johnson. “We’ve left them here because we don’t have a better place to store them.” He smiled at Lewis, but the eyes remained cold, watchful. “Why this interest?”

  “Call it professional curiosity,” said Lewis. He went to the rear door, unlatched it and locked the latch in the open position, stepped outside, closed the door. He could see the tanks plainly through the window. He came back into the hallway.

  He’s still lying to me, thought Lewis. But it’s all so very plausible. He said, “I’m going to give your place a thorough search.”

  “But why?” protested Johnson.

  “For no good reason at all,” said Lewis. “If you want, I’ll go out and get a warrant.” He started to brush past Johnson, was stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder, something hard pressing into his side. He looked down, saw a flat automatic menacing him.

  “I regret this,” said Johnson. “Believe me, I do.”

  “You’re going to regret it more,” said Lewis. “I have your place watched front and back and the office knows where I am.”

  For the first time he saw a look of indecision on Johnson’s face. “You’re lying,” said the mortician.

  “Come here,” said Lewis. He stepped to the back door, looked up to the black window where Welch stood. The glow of the deputy’s cigarette was plainly visible, an orange wash against the blackness. Johnson saw it. “Now let’s go check the front,” said Lewis.

  “No need,” said Johnson. “I thought you were playing a lone hand.” He paused. “You came in the backyard again and had a look in the window, didn’t you?”

  “What do you think?” asked Lewis.

  “I should’ve anticipated that,” said Johnson. “Perhaps I was too anxious to have things appear just as they were. You startled me coming in here at night like this.”

  “You saw me come in the front?” asked Lewis.

  “Let us s
ay that I was aware you were downstairs before the attendant told me,” said Johnson. He gestured with his gun. “Let’s go back to the office.”

  Lewis led the way down the hall. At the foyer door he glanced back.

  “Turn around!” barked Johnson.

  But the one glance had been enough. The tanks were gone. “What was that humming sound?” asked Lewis.

  “Just keep moving,” said Johnson.

  In the front office the mortician motioned Lewis to a chair. “What were you looking for?” asked Johnson. He slid into the chair behind his desk, rested his gun hand on the desk top.

  “I found what I was looking for,” said Lewis.

  “And that is?”

  “Evidence to confirm my belief that this place should be taken apart brick by brick.”

  Johnson smiled, hooked the telephone to him with his left hand, took off the receiver and rested it on the desk. “What’s your office number?”

  Lewis told him.

  Johnson dialed, picked up the phone, said, “Hello, this is Lewis.”

  Lewis came half out of the chair. His own voice was issuing from Johnson’s mouth. The gun in the mortician’s hand waved him back to the chair.

  “You got the dope on what I’m doing?” asked Johnson. He waited. “No. Nothing important. I’m just looking.” Again he paused. “I’ll tell you if I find anything,” he said. He replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Well?” said Lewis.

  Johnson’s lips thinned. “This is incredible,” he said. “A mere human—” He broke off, stared at Lewis, said, “My mistake was in telling you a plausible lie after that door was left open. I should have—” He shrugged.

  “You couldn’t hope to fool us forever,” said Lewis.

  “I suppose not,” said Johnson, “but reasoning tells me that there is still a chance.” The gun suddenly came up, its muzzle pointing at Lewis. “It’s a chance I have to take,” said the mortician. The gun belched flame and Lewis was slammed back in his chair. Through a dimming haze, he saw Johnson put the gun to his own head, pull the trigger, slump across the desk. Then the haze around Lewis thickened, became the black nothing of unconsciousness.

  From a somewhere he could not identify Lewis became aware of himself. He was running through a black cave, chased by a monster with blazing eyes and arms like an octopus. The monster kept shouting, “A mere human! A mere human! A mere human!” with a voice that echoed as though projected into a rain barrel. Then, above the voice of the monster, Lewis heard water dripping in a quick even cadence. At the same time he saw the mouth of the cave, a round bright area. The bright area grew larger, larger, became the white wall of a hospital room and a window with sunshine outside. Lewis turned his head, saw a metal tank like the ones in the mortuary.

  A voice said, “That brought him around.”

  Vertigo swept over Lewis and for a moment he fought it. A white-clad figure swam into his field of vision, resolved itself into a county hospital intern whom Lewis recognized. The intern held a black oxygen mask.

  The sound of the dripping water was louder now and then he realized that it was a wristwatch. He turned toward the sound, saw Sheriff Czernak straighten from a position close to his head. Czernak’s Slavic face broke into a grin. “Boy, you gave us a scare,” he said.

  Lewis swallowed, found his voice. “What—”

  “You know, you are lucky you’re a freak,” said Czernak. “Your heart being on the right side’s the only thing saved you. That and the fact that Joe heard the shots.”

  The intern came around beside the sheriff. “The bullet nicked an edge of your lung and took a little piece out of a rib at the back,” said the intern. “You must’ve been born lucky.”

  “Johnson?” said Lewis.

  “Deader’n a mackerel,” said Czernak. “You feel strong enough to tell us what happened? Joe’s story don’t make sense. What’s with these tanks of embalming fluid?”

  Lewis thought about his encounter with the mortician. Nothing about it made sense. He said, “Embalming fluid comes in sixteen-ounce bottles.”

  “We got those three tanks from the hallway,” said Czernak, “but I don’t know what we’re doing with them.”

  “From the hall?” Lewis remembered his last look at the empty hall before Johnson had ordered him to turn around. He tried to push himself up, felt pain knife through his chest. The intern pushed him gently back to the pillow. “Here now, none of that,” he said. “You just stay flat on your back.”

  “What was in the tanks?” whispered Lewis.

  “The lab here says it’s embalming fluid,” said the sheriff. “What’s so special about it?”

  Lewis remembered the acrid odor of the spray Johnson had released from the tank valve. “Does the lab still have some of that fluid?” he asked. “I’d like to smell it.”

  “I’ll get it,” said the intern. “Don’t let him sit up. It could start a hemorrhage.” He went out the door.

  “Where were the tanks when you found them?” asked Lewis.

  “Down by the back door,” said Czernak. “Where you said they were. Why?”

  “I don’t really know yet,” said Lewis. “But I’ve something I wish you’d do. Take a—”

  The door opened and the intern entered, a test tube in his hand. “This is the stuff,” he said. He passed the tube under Lewis’s nose. It gave off a musklike sweet aroma. It was not what he had smelled at the tanks. That explains why the tanks disappeared, he thought. Somebody switched them. But what was in the others? He looked up at the intern, said, “Thanks.”

  “You were sayin’ something,” said the sheriff.

  “Yes,” said Lewis. “Take a crew over to that mortuary, John, and rip out the wall behind where you found those tanks and take up the floor under that spot.”

  “What’re we supposed to find?” asked Czernak.

  “Damned if I know,” said Lewis, “but it sure should be interesting. Those tanks kept disappearing and reappearing every time I turned my back. I want to know why.”

  “Look, Welby, we’ve got to have something solid to go on,” said the sheriff. “People are running around that mortuary like crazy, saying it’s bad business an’ what all.”

  “I’d say this was good for business,” said Lewis, a brief smile forming on his lips. His face sobered. “Don’t you think it’s enough that somebody tried to kill one of your men and then committed suicide?”

  The sheriff scratched his head. “I guess so, Welby. You sure you can’t give me anything more’n just your hunch?”

  “You know as much about this as I do,” said Lewis. “By the way, where’s Johnson’s body?”

  “They’re fixin’ it up for burial,” said Czernak. “Welby, I really should have more’n just your say so. The D.A. will scream if I get too heavy-handed.”

  “You’re still the sheriff,” said Lewis.

  “Well, can’t you even tell me why Johnson killed himself?”

  “Say he was mentally unbalanced,” said Lewis. “And John, here’s something else. Get Doc Bellarmine to do the autopsy on Johnson and tell him to go over that body with a magnifying glass.”

  “Why?”

  “It was something he said about mere humans,” said Lewis.

  “Askin’ me to stick my neck out like this,” said Czernak.

  “Will you do it?” asked Lewis.

  “Sure I’ll do it!” exploded Czernak. “But I don’t like it!” He jammed his hat onto his head, strode out of the room.

  The intern turned to follow.

  Lewis said, “What time is it?”

  The intern stopped, glanced at his wristwatch. “Almost five.” He looked at Lewis. “We’ve had you under sedatives since you came out of the operating room.”

  “Five A.M. or five P.M.?” asked Lewis.

  “Five P.M.,” said the intern.

  “Was I a tough job?” asked Lewis.

  “It was a clean wound,” said the intern. “You take it easy now. It’s almost chow t
ime. I’ll see that you’re served in the first round and then I’ll have the nurse bring you a sedative. You need your rest.”

  “How long am I going to be chained to this bed?” asked Lewis.

  “We’ll discuss that later,” said the intern. “You really shouldn’t be talking.” He turned away, went out the door.

  Lewis turned his head away, saw that someone had left a stack of magazines on his bed stand. The top magazine had slipped down, exposing the cover. It was done in garish colors—a bug-eyed monster chasing a scantily clad female. Lewis was reminded of his nightmare. A mere human … A mere human. The words kept turning over in his mind. What was it about Johnson that brought up the idea of a freak? he wondered.

  A student nurse brought in his tray, cranked up his bed and helped him eat. Presently, a nurse came in with a hypo, shot him in the arm. He drifted off to sleep with the mind full of questions still unanswered.

  “He’s awake now,” said a female voice. Lewis heard a door open, looked up to see Czernak followed by Joe Welch. It was daylight outside, raining. The two men wore damp raincoats, which they took off and draped over chairs.

  Lewis smiled at Welch. “Thanks for having good ears, Joe,” he said.

  Welch grinned. “I opened the window when I saw you come out the back door,” he said. “I thought maybe you was going to holler something up to me. Then when you went right back inside, I thought that was funny; so I left the window partly open or I’d never’ve heard a thing.”

  Czernak pulled a chair up beside Lewis’s bed, sat down. Welch took a chair at the foot.

  Lewis turned his head toward the sheriff. “Is the D.A. screaming yet?”

  “No,” said Czernak. “He got caught out in that rainstorm the other day and he’s home with the flu. Besides, I’m still sheriff of this county.” He patted the bed. “How you feeling, boy?”

  “I’m afraid I’m gonna live,” said Lewis.

  “You better,” said Welch. “We got a new relief radio gal who saw your picture in the files an’ says she wants to meet you. She’s a wow.”

  “Tell her to wait for me,” said Lewis. He looked at the sheriff. “What’d you find?”

  “I don’t get it, Welby,” said Czernak. “Right behind where them tanks was there was this brick wall covered with plaster. We took away the plaster and there’s all these wires, see.”