by Philip Wylie
Baxter was on the point of asking why they had not gone to Daryl’s assistance when he realized how infinitely unimportant her life was in comparison to what he had seen that afternoon and what he had seen on the days which preceded it. He took Quail’s hand.
“Good work, Howie.”
“All right, boy. I had to get something going. The men are all drilled. They move forward shoulder to shoulder at my command. Otherwise—they lie still. Bayonets fixed. They spear anything that moves. And there are five cordons of them.”
“That ought to work.”
“It’s the best we can do. If we get the signal—a detail will cover every door and window. We aim to put five belts of steel and human flesh around this house.”
“Let’s have a look.”
They crept through the underbrush with the utmost care. At its edge, they sank to the ground. The house emerged from the gloom and Baxter dimly made out the silhouette of its many gables. Through Quail’s night glasses he could see better its contours. They lay side by side. Minutes passed.
And then a light shot out of the house. Baxter, who held the glasses, clapped them to his eyes. He could see into a room. A girl inside it ran across with what he judged to be a hanging she had torn from the window. He did not recognize Daryl—but he knew it was she. The room seemed to be brightly lighted. A murmur rose from the men, followed by a long-drawn slushing. Smoke rose from the chimney—barely visible in the night glasses. And then Daryl’s voice came.
“Come on!”
Quail sprang into the situation with a command. “Stand! Form the circle. Let nothing through!”
Baxter was on his feet.
“Keep that circle tight, Howie. I’m going in.”
On the sea side of the cordon the Commissioner was rounding the inner edge of the standing men. That quintuple human ring was the first barrier that had been deliberately set up between Carpenter and the world. He was inside it.
There were shouts, commands, exhortations. The rings were forged. Details inside it went into action. Some of them battered the front door. Others discharged Very lights, turning the yard into noonday. The door broke as Baxter reached it. He ran through into the dark behind a number of men. In the hall he heard the man in charge of them commanding the search which was to begin in the cellar. He raced up the stairs. Light poured into the hall from the living room.
Daryl had just looked back from the burned hole. Her face was transfigured—she had seen the men rise all around the house. Baxter leaped into sight before she could address Carpenter.
“Where is he, Daryl?”
“In this room.”
“Don’t be so hectic, Baxter.” The deep voice of Carpenter spun the young man around. He drew his revolver from his pocket and fired three times at the place where the voice had been.
It came from a different spot. “That’s really silly of you, Baxter.”
Again he fired. He threw himself forward. His hands encountered nothing. Daryl was raking the carpet with her eyes. “Over there. In the corner.”
Baxter leaped again. Nothing. The sound from the cellar and the rooms down stairs multiplied rapidly. Some one rushed up the stairs. The door was closed in his face and the key turned. Then the key flung itself across the room and through the hole Daryl had made.
“That’ll give us a few minutes, Baxter. The door is strong. Sit down.”
Baxter plunged again.
“Well—lie there—if you must.” Carpenter’s toe was kicked lightly against his head. “All this—all this business of a mob outside is silly, Baxter. I shall most certainly avoid them unless they shoot promiscuously—which I hardly think they will do. It is dangerous to their army. You know—I could climb a tree and get over them.”
Baxter made a stealthy swing in space.
“Why persist? I’m glad I waited—since you are the first caller.” He lifted his voice to carry above the hammering on the door. “I want to commend Daryl to your loving arms. She is a good girl—with a little guile. I think she loves you, Baxter. And—with your permission—I’ll make that my last geste.” He stood at the end of the room. Silently and unseeably he crossed to the other end where Daryl stood beside the desk. Once again she felt the touch of his lips on her forehead. This time, however, she made a strange response.
She had been standing beside the desk. Her fingers had rested upon a bottle of ink. As Carpenter kissed her, she lifted the bottle and brought it down violently on his skull. It pressed his head against hers. The force of the blow was not sufficient to stun him, but the bottle broke and the ink deluged him. It covered the back of his head, poured over his shoulders, ran down his back and streaked his legs to the floor.
The effect was devastating. Suddenly, from empty space, this partial man of ink emerged. He stepped back from Daryl without realizing that his back had been dyed.
“And now—good-bye,” he said dramatically. “I’ll forgive you for that last and stupid blow.” He moved through the room and Baxter moved to intercept him. He dodged—and Baxter altered his position to meet him. He halted. The inky head bent down. He saw what had happened—through his own invisible body he saw the ink that dyed his back and his legs.
Carpenter knew instantly that he was lost. There was no time in which to free himself of the stains—even if the two people in the room would not prevent him. The door was giving under a heavy assault. He stood still. He looked through the hole in the wall and glimpsed, perhaps for the first time, the cordon that had sprung up like Jason’s army around the house.
He put the table between Baxter and himself. Daryl tried to get behind him. The faces of his antagonists already wore the expression of victory. The door broke.
Armed men entered the room. Baxter pointed at the thing beside the table. A long streak of ink was lifted up in the air. It might have been an arm raised in final salutation. The revolvers fired at the blot simultaneously. It crumpled.
The greatest mind that civilization had ever produced was destroyed in that volley. Baxter looked at the horizontal stain of ink.
Then he looked at Daryl.
About the Author
Philip Wylie (1902–1971) was a prolific writer whose work spanned a range of genres from men’s adventure and detective stories to science fiction and social criticism. Several of his novels, including When Worlds Collide, Night Unto Night, and Los Angeles: A.D. 2017, as well as the Crunch & Des stories, were adapted as movies and television shows, and his novel Gladiator is considered one of the inspirations for the iconic character Superman.
Wylie was also a commentator on American society. In 1942 he published Generation of Vipers, a bestselling book of essays that attacked the complacencies of the American way of life. His novel The Disappearance presents a dystopia in which men and women vanish from the perception of the opposite sex, allowing Wylie to explore the issues of women’s rights and homosexuality. Wylie recognized early the potentially catastrophic effects of pollution and climate change and wrote both fiction and nonfiction on those topics.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author᾿s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1931, 1959 by Philip Wylie
Cover design by Jesse Hayes
ISBN: 978-1-4532-4840-9
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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