7 Steps to Midnight

by Richard Matheson

  Chris smiled. “No.”

  Modi was silent for almost a minute before he said, “In India, as you have sensed, we are more intimate with concepts of reality and unreality. We know full well that the tissues of what we say is real are thin indeed. That they can be torn asunder with more ease than people realize. And if your work—your mathematics—seeks to deal with elements beyond the senses, well…” He gestured vaguely. “Perhaps you have—how shall I put it?—trespassed.”

  Chris felt a chill across his body and knew it wasn’t the coldness of the wind. It was a kind of fear he’d never known before. “Have you… ever run across anything like this?” he asked.

  “This aggravated, no,” Modi answered. “Small things. Nothing this… grievously perplexing.” He sighed. “I can only say, it could well be an aspect of your work. One would have to know its precise nature to analyze it. And I realize that this is not feasible.”

  Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Well,” he said, “at any rate, it certainly is food for thought. How fortunate you have the sort of mind accustomed to analysis. It could make things easier for you. Analyze by all means. Use every skill you possess.”

  Chris started slightly. That was almost exactly what his mother had said to him.

  “Well, this has been most interesting,” the Indian said. “And you are now within a block or two of your hotel.” He removed a pocket watch from his coat and looked at it. “I have a brief appointment I must attend to. However, it appears to me that we have merely scratched the surface of what you have most aptly described as an enigma. If you would do me the honor of allowing me to take you to supper later—perhaps about nine o’clock—we could pursue it further.”

  Chris almost accepted, then remembered Crown above H (whatever that was). Tonight. Should he drop it in favor of a further talk with Modi? No. He’d better not.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have something on tonight.”

  “Ah.” Modi nodded. “Well, perhaps tomorrow. I will telephone you at your hotel before noon. Perhaps we can lunch together.”

  “That would be nice,” Chris replied.

  “Well, here I leave you,” Modi said. “You go down this block, turn right and there you are.”

  “Thank you so much,” Chris said, shaking his hand. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “No, no, my pleasure,” the Indian said. “And, now, goodbye.”

  “Before you go,” Chris said quickly.

  Mr. Modi turned back, an inquiring look on his face.

  “Do you have any idea what Crown above H means?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed; it means the Theatre Royal, Haymarket.”

  “Ah-ha.” Chris nodded. “Thank you again.”

  “Most welcome,” Modi said. “Perhaps we will rejoin tomorrow.”

  Chris watched him walking away, then turned down the block. Jesus, what an afternoon, he thought.

  And there was still tonight.

  4

  When he entered the hotel lobby, he noticed a table near the entrance to a small shop. A man was sitting at it, theater posters on the wall behind him. Impulsively, Chris walked over to him and asked if there was a ticket for him for tonight’s performance at the Theatre Royal Haymarket.

  The blank look on the man’s face was his answer. “I believe they’re all sold out,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Chris said. He started to turn toward the shop to buy a newspaper, then realized that a story about the man in The Blue Swan couldn’t have been printed so quickly and turned away again. He glanced at the lobby clock as he started for the elevators. 6:12. Adds up to eighteen, eighteen (1 + 8) totals nine, that goddamn number strikes again.

  He unlocked the door to his room with trepidation. What was he going to find inside now? An elephant? A corpse? Another cassette?

  There was nothing extra in his room, he saw as he turned on the light. Thank God for small favors, he thought. He wondered briefly if he should have gone to supper with Modi. At least it would have been predictable. God knows what would happen if he went to the bloody Crown above H. tonight.

  He realized that he didn’t know what time the play started; he had to assume that there would be a ticket waiting for him at the box office. He called down to the lobby and found out that curtain time was seven-thirty.

  Removing his jacket, he sat on the bed, a wave of depression settling over him. Should he really go on with this? he thought. He could end it simply enough. No matter who or what was behind this, he could terminate all efforts with a simple visit to the nearest police station. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. What could they—?

  “Oh, sure,” he said. He’d been innocent from the start. That hadn’t stopped that man in his house from holding a gun on him. Hadn’t stopped Meehan from roughing him up or Nelson from trying to kill him. His “innocence” had prevented nothing from occurring. Jesus God, only three days and there were probably four corpses already. It was James Bond out of Kafka sure as hell.

  He lay on his side and drew up his legs, assuming a fetal position. I’m regressing, he thought. Dread is infantilizing me. Use his skills? “Bullshit,” he muttered. He’d be lucky if he could stand up again and go to the bathroom. His work on the project seemed somewhere in another dimension. What had that man said in the pub?

  “You’ve got a way to go before it’s home-sweet-home again.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, he sat up with a tired groan. Well, what the hell, he thought. What was he going to do, just lie around like a vegetable? That man had died to transmit the message about the play tonight. The least he could do was check it out.

  Standing, he walked into the bathroom and washed off his face, almost afraid to look at his reflection in the mirror for fear it would be someone else’s face; things seemed to be going in that direction.

  Drying his face, he went into the room, picked up the jacket and put it on. Suddenly, it struck him that he hadn’t taken his hypertension medicine that day. He got one of each—the white oblong tablet, the little white pill—and washed them down with tap water, making a face at the taste of it.

  Then he went downstairs and left the hotel, shivering at the outside air. The jacket was heavy but he still felt a little cold. He asked the doorman to get him a cab and waited inside the lobby until it came. Then he exited quickly, tipped the doorman and got into the taxi.

  “Theatre Royal, Haymarket,” he told the driver.

  “Right you are,” the driver said, steering back onto the street. Now he’ll tell me that the play’s sold out; I’d better eat with Modi after all.

  Chris made a face. Everything isn’t a mystery, he lectured himself. Some things are what they seem.

  I hope, he thought.

  He closed his eyes and tried to blank his mind. It almost worked until he heard Nelson’s words in recollection: “It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

  The memory made him feel stranger than ever, giving him an image of scientists and mathematicians all over the world immersed in similar enigmas.

  Why?

  The project, of course. Basy had been clear enough about that. “Bottom line? Of course.” And then, “you’re a very important part of it.”

  That he wasn’t sure about. He knew that what he’d been doing was important, yes, but very important? That made it sound vital. He’d never considered that before. He had taken it for granted that there were multiple mathematicians everywhere noodling with the turbulence problem, some of them better than he was. The idea that he was so important to the project that he’d become a victim of some international cabal seemed just too farfetched, a lot harder to believe than any plot he’d ever skimmed through, seeking sleep.

  One option he’d discard though: giving himself up. Why should he? He hadn’t done anything wrong. Let them find me, he thought resentfully. I’m going to see it through. He smiled to himself. It must be a second wind, he thought, or the dazedness of jet lag, because he felt a kind of pleasure once again at the impending eve
ning. The possibilities were infinite.

  At least one more corpse. His mind was a wet blanket on his sense of enjoyment.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. “Nice of you to suggest it.” However, he’d better buy an evening newspaper if he could; see if the man in the pub was mentioned in it.

  He drifted back into thought.

  Did seven steps to midnight really mean anything? he wondered.

  Seven, the magic number, the lucky number. Age seven—childhood. Double seven—puberty. Triple seven—physical maturity. Quadruple seven—mental maturity.

  Anything there?

  More likely the connection was to seven years’ bad luck and the seven-year itch.

  Seventh heaven. Seven seas. The Seven Hills of Rome. Seven Wonders of the World. Seven days in the week. Seven colors in the spectrum. The seven virtues. The seven deadly sins. Seven come eleven.

  Chris stirred and opened his eyes. His mind was a runaway again. Put on the brakes, he told himself.

  He closed his eyes and tried to nap to still the thoughts. But his mind commenced a search of his work in the previous week to see if he could find a special seven in it…. Seven steps leading to a twelve?

  ***

  “Here we are, sir.”

  Chris started and opened his eyes. He had drifted off. How long? he wondered. Surely not more than ten or fifteen minutes. “You have the time?” he asked.

  “Five minutes to seven,” the driver said.

  “Thank you.” Chris paid him through the opening to the driver’s seat, tipping him fifteen percent.

  He shivered as he got out of the cab and closed the door. Moving quickly to a theater door, he pulled it open and went inside. People were gathered in groups, conversing; some stood at the ticket windows.

  Chris got into one of the lines and when he reached the window, gave his name.

  “Tonight, sir?” asked the woman in the cage.

  “Yes.” He was sure now that there’d be nothing. Well, at least the lobby was warm. He’d sit there for a while before moving on.

  “Here we are, sir,” the woman said.

  Chris looked down in surprise at the small envelope with the ticket protruding from it. My God, it is here, he thought. “Thank you,” he murmured and picked it up.

  What was the purpose of this? he wondered as he moved toward the door an usher had pointed out. Something in the play? He didn’t even know what play it was. Was someone going to sit behind him, jab a hypodermic in his neck and ask about the project?

  “Shit, I need a drink,” he told himself. He saw people going down some stairs and followed them. There was no bar in the lobby.

  In the lower lobby, he saw a bar and crossed to it. A man was being served ahead of him and he waited until the man had left with a pair of drinks, then ordered a screwdriver.

  When the drink was made, he paid for it. On impulse, he bought a chocolate bar as well. Odd combination that, his mind observed. None of your business, he answered it.

  He carried the drink and chocolate bar to a small chair across the lower lobby and sat on it. He took a sip of the drink—not cold, not a single ice cube—then unwrapped the chocolate bar and took a bite.

  He stared ahead blankly, wondering if it made any sense to try and analyze further. After all, it seemed as though he didn’t really have to do a thing but react. The major steps were being taken for him. Step by step, he was being led somewhere. Were there, in fact, seven steps he had to take to “midnight,” to fruition, the beginning of a new mental day?

  That had a kind of satisfying logic to it. He’d accept it for now.

  He finished the drink and chocolate bar in ten minutes, returned the empty glass to the bar, threw the paper wrapper into a waste can and went upstairs.

  The usher led him to his seat and handed him a program. The seat was on the main floor, halfway to the stage, one in from the aisle seat. Not bad, he thought. He grunted. Assuming he was here to see the play, that is.

  He looked around the theater after sitting down. Beautiful, he thought. How old was it? It could have been built in the eighteenth century. History in its wood. Sheridan and Congreve sitting for rehearsals. Addison and Fielding watching performances of their plays. Remarkable, he thought.

  He checked the program inside its illustrated cardboard folder. The Little Minister, he read, smiling. Barrie might have sat in this very seat, watching his beloved Maude Adams perform on the stage. Chris smiled. The theater had an atmosphere that was almost tangible.

  Thank God the title of the play hadn’t turned out to be Reality vs. Unreality or Veering’s Wager. He wouldn’t really have been surprised but he preferred it as it was. Everything is not a mystery, he told himself again.

  Well, now what? he wondered. He sighed and closed his eyes. Whatever happens happens, he decided.

  He heard the rustle of a woman’s dress as she sat down beside him.

  He wondered if he should open his eyes and look at her. He felt an aversion to the thought. So long as he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine anything. It was Grace Kelly, Eva Marie Saint, Tippi Hedren. It was Hitchcock’s penultimate blonde heroine sitting beside him, waiting to make contact and add a touch of spice to what had so far been more redoubtable than romantic. Was it his next contact? What if she were built like a weight lifter? That would end the stimulation for him posthaste.

  The more he thought about it, the harder it was to open his eyes. He could visualize Jacqueline Bisset or Jane Seymour sitting there. He could also visualize Hermione Gingold.

  “Oh, well,” he mumbled and, opening his eyes, looked to his right…

  …into the eyes of the most exquisite female he had ever seen in his life—in personal experience, in films, in magazines, in paintings, anywhere. This was a face beyond belief. He actually felt his mouth falling open and quickly, embarrassedly, shut it, turning to the front again. This had to be a cruel coincidence, he thought. It was impossible that—

  “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” she said.

  Even her voice was perfect.

  Oh, my God, he thought. He felt himself go limp. My God. This was part of it? This Venus? His heartbeat quickened as he turned back to her. “Hello,” he said. He could scarcely hear the sound of his voice.

  She was smiling now. She held out an ivory hand—It does, it looks like ivory, he thought, incredulous—and he took hold of it. Ivory was not this warm, however. He felt a shiver coming on and fought to contain it, releasing her hand.

  “My name is Alexsandra with an s,” she said.

  He stared at her, genuinely speechless. Alexsandra? Finally, he mumbled, “That’s—”

  “Early Roman,” she said. “Not so common anymore.”

  “No,” he said. He couldn’t help drawing in a shuddering breath. Not too common, he thought. Dear God.

  She wasn’t a Hitchcock blonde. Her hair was a dark chestnut, her eyes green, her skin the shade of alabaster, her red lips—Jesus God. Now the story was complete; the Mysterious Beauty had arrived.

  “Am I… supposed to—” He couldn’t speak. “I mean… are you my—?” Spit it out! he shouted at his tongue. “Was I sent here to meet you?” he blurted.

  Her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, absolutely captivated him. “That’s right,” she said.

  He was about to ask more about her when his spoilsport Cotton Mather-like mind demanded that he ask, “The man in The Blue Swan…”

  Her expression was suddenly grave. “Yes,” she said.

  He drew in a quivering breath. “He’s dead?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Badly drugged, in hospital; but not dead.”

  “Thank God,” he said, realizing how the incident had been weighing on him. He stared at her for several moments, then added, “Did he—say anything?”

  “He regained consciousness for only a few moments,” she answered. “Long enough to say he didn’t know what had happened to you.”

  “My God, he’d just been drugged, maybe poisoned, and he was thinkin
g of me?” Chris looked astounded.

  “You were his assignment,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure it was enough of an explanation for him but clearly it was for her, she said it so matter-of-factly.

  “What did happen to you?” she asked.

  “I panicked and ran,” he said. “Lost track of where I was and got lost.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “But you managed to get back to the hotel.”

  “With help,” he said.

  “Help?”

  He told her about Mr. Modi’s assistance. She only nodded, adding briefly, “Well, if he does call you tomorrow, best say you’re busy. I’m sure he’s a very nice man but you really can’t afford to discuss your situation any further with a stranger.”

  “What is my situation?” he asked, regretting the slightly belligerent tone in his voice but unable to restrain it.

  “Haven’t you been told anything?” she asked in surprise.

  “I was told by a CIA man that what’s happening to me is not unique.”

  “That’s right. You’re not the only scientist or mathematician to be rescued.”

  “From what?” he demanded.

  “Probable death,” she answered. “They can’t afford to have your replacement revealed by you.”

  “But…” Chris looked confused and aggravated. “How can he be my replacement? He doesn’t even look like me.”

  “That’s true in your case,” she said. “And we don’t know why. In every other case, the replacement was identical.”

  Chris groaned. “This makes no sense,” he said. “They could have killed me first and then replaced me if that’s what they wanted to do.”

  She nodded. “We know that. But they did what they did so they must have had a reason.”

  “Why me?” he asked.

  “You’re being modest,” she said. “You’re fully aware of how important you are to the project.”

  He opened his mouth to ask her something, then closed it as another question superseded it. “Is there some kind of—reciprocal cooperation between our countries?”

  “Of course,” she said.