Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  He nodded his head at the truth of this. I’m on my own, he thought. Well, by God, it’s time to face that! I’ll stop her some way.

  Forential is depending on me!

  At last it occurred to him to try to locate Julia. He concentrated. He formed Julia’s pattern in his mind. He sought to equate it with reality. For a moment of bleak despair, he felt nothing. Then the pattern and reality overlapped. He fixed her in space. He had her. She was fleeing in an automobile.

  And—she had changed! She was now—as she had been once before—as impotent as an earthling.

  He sprang to his feet. Elation filled him. A rising tide of confidence swept over him.

  Damn, damn, damn! he thought in excited delight. She’s mine now!

  Julia, oh Julia, can you hear me?

  She couldn’t.

  He could feel her fleeing.

  I’ll show her now, he thought with savage satisfaction.

  Wait’ll I catch you!

  There’ll be no nonsense about privacy this time! he promised himself. I’ll kill her where ever I find her. Forential may not like it as well as—to hell with Forential!

  OUTSIDE the hotel, in the crisp, fresh night air, Walt plunged into the crowd emptying from a theater, whose marquee, “Junkeroo”, flashed lonesomely above the sidewalk.

  I’ll need a car to overtake her, he thought.

  He remembered back to his first ride. I can operate one, he thought, if I can start it. It’s easy.

  Julia lies in that direction. I’ll catch her in no time.

  He heard a car door open behind him.

  He spun on his heel and walked back to the car. The driver, settled behind the wheel, was just depressing the light stud when Walt cut in front of it and came abreast of the driver’s side.

  “You’re the one I’m looking for,” he said.

  “Eh?”

  “Move over!”

  The owner was a heavy, middle aged man; he snorted and narrowed his eyes. “What’s this baloney?”

  “I’m taking this car.”

  “The hell you say!”

  Walt pulled the door open, grabbed the man by the shirt and twisted. He set his feet and the man came sprawling out into the street.

  Holding him, Walt slapped his face.

  The man flailed wildly. He tried to jerk loose. His shoulders twisted. He tried with a knee, and Walt threw him to the pavement. A few startled passers-by turned to watch.

  Walt picked the man up and thrust him into the car. The man’s face was purple with rage. He tried to scream.

  Walt displaced the air from his lungs. The man collapsed, gagging.

  “Don’t make any loud noises,” Walt said.

  The man choked and gasped with suddenly restored breath.

  “. . . what . . . what do you want?”

  “How do you start this car?”

  The man started to protest; the look on Walt’s face made him think better of it. He told Walt how to start the car.

  Walt followed instructions. He listened to the purr of the motor.

  “What is the power? What makes it run?”

  The owner wiped blood from his face. Sullenly, through swelling lips, he said, “. . . it’s a combustion engine . . . like all cars . . .”

  Cautiously maneuvering the car into traffic, Walt said, “Tell me what you know about combustion engines.”

  Walt displaced air again. He put it back. “I asked you to tell me what you know about combustion engines.”

  The man kept dabbing at his lips.

  Gasping, the man began to explain. He did not seem too sure of himself. Every other sentence, he faltered, and Walt had to prompt him sharply.

  “This fuel . . . this gas . . . When the supply is used up, how does one obtain more?”

  “From a . . . gas station . . .”

  I’ll have to watch the fuel supply, Walt thought.

  “They’re . . . they’re on nearly every corner,” the man said.

  Walt nodded. I’ve got all I can from him, he thought. “Do you have a small, heavy object?”

  The man licked his cut lip. His eyes were wide with terror. “Y—ye—yes.”

  “Produce it!”

  The man brought out a cigarette lighter.

  Teleporting, Walt jerked it from the man’s hand and hit him behind the ear with it. With a sigh, the owner collapsed unconscious.

  I’m doing all right, Walt thought. Now, if I can just find the right road to follow.

  He concentrated on Julia.

  He began to drive very fast, slipping in and out of traffic recklessly.

  Six blocks later, he picked up the police car.

  And three blocks after that, the police car was abreast of him, forcing him to the curb.

  Annoyed, Walt brought the car to a stop. The police car angled in ahead of him. Walt waited confidently.

  “Okay,” the policeman said wearily, taking out his book of tickets and putting one foot on the running board. “Where’s the fire?”

  Walt said, “Fire?”

  “Yeah. The speed limit in this town is thirty miles an hour. Where’s the fire? Let’s see your license.”

  Walt considered this information. He removed the air from this policeman’s lungs; from the lungs of the policeman in the car. When they were very unconscious, he let them have air again. He experimented with a few buttons until he found the reverse. He backed up a few yards, circled out around the police car, and continued. The policemen were still unconscious.

  MR. Green, the producer, stopped in front of the bank. With hurried thanks, Julia scrambled out.

  Pathetically he called after her: “But we could—”

  Inside the revolving doors, she pattered across the inlaid floor to the teller’s cage still open for business. If I can just get out of here alive! she thought. The high, vaulted ceiling—dim and shadowy above the cool lights—seemed to echo her thoughts: get out of here alive, get out alive, alive.

  She gave her name crisply and fumbled in her handbag for identification.

  “I want to withdraw my money.”

  “Yes, Miss. Your account is with this branch?”

  “Yes.” She handed her identification and her check book to him.

  While she twisted nervously, he phoned to verify her account.

  She could feel Walt creeping up on her. Her skin crawled. The revolving door was motionless.

  That meant nothing. He could walk through it.

  There was no easy way of telling how he would strike until the last moment. It would be so swift that she would never feel the blow at all.

  She stared, fascinated, at the ink well across the room. She imagined it suddenly ripped out and hurled at her. She shivered. She tried to teleport it herself.

  It did not move.

  Cold sweat began to ooze from her pores. Brakes squealed in the street outside. She ran her hands along the carrying strap of her handbag. Her mouth was dry.

  I’m too scared to spit! she thought. I’ve heard of that. I didn’t believe it. It’s true.

  “For God’s sake, hurry!”

  “Yes, Miss,” the teller said. He eyed her suspiciously.

  How long can this go on? she thought despairingly. He’ll be here in another minute!

  “I have the amount. It’s the same as your check stub shows,” the teller said. “You want it all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just take this over to the table, there, and fill it in.”

  Oh, God! she thought.

  She crossed to the table. Her hand was shaking. The free pen blotted. She ripped out the check and crumpled it into a ball. Her breathing was shallow. She found her own pen. Shakily she filled in another check.

  The teller looked at it. He waved it dry. He held it up. “Just a, moment, Miss. I’d like to verify the signature.”

  Her nails dug into her palms. She moved her feet uneasily. She glanced toward the door.

  She fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette. She found a stale
pack, shook one out. She lit it with a safety match and extinguished the match with a nervous flick of her arm. She inhaled.

  The invasion. For the first time since she’d left the hotel it reoccurred to her.

  Oh, Lord! she thought. How much time before that! She dropped her cigarette and ground it out.

  The clerk was bending over, comparing signatures.

  I’ve got to do something about the invasion! I’ve got to tell somebody! But . . . but . . . how can I ever convince anyone?

  They’d think I was crazy. They’d detain me for questioning. They’d lock me up. If they did, he could come upon me and I couldn’t even run!

  Her face was bloodless. If I had my powers back . . .

  She began to pace. Two steps one way; two steps back; two steps the other way.

  I could . . . I could show them how to operate on a human to make the bridge; I could talk to a surgeon . . .

  Could I?

  Her mind was fuzzy. It was no longer easy to remember. So many compartments were no longer available.

  Do I remember how? You . . . you . . . She concentrated with every fiber of her being.

  “Your signature is shakey,” the clerk said.

  She whirled on him. Her lips trembled. She choked back hot words.

  “I’m upset tonight,” she said weakly.

  He grunted.

  If he catches me, she thought, I’ll be dead. He’ll kill me! I’ll never be able to convince anyone then!

  Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  “How do you want the money?” the clerk asked.

  “Any way! Any way!”

  He began to count bills.

  If I stand still, he’ll catch me! she moaned to herself. Even now . . .

  She glanced toward the door.

  “There,” the clerk said.

  Trembling, she stuffed bills into her handbag. She raced for the entrance.

  SHE burst from the revolving doors. She cried out to the taxi idling across the street. The driver started the motor. She ran across the street to the car.

  “Take me to a car lot that’s open!”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  She fumbled out a bill and threw it at him. She settled back in the seat. “Hurry!”

  He looked at the bill. “Yes, indeed.” He started the car. “I sure will.”

  The cab whirled away and U-turned toward Vermont.

  She felt better to be moving.

  And ten minutes later she was arguing with a salesman.

  “This will do,” she insisted. “I don’t want a triple-guarantee, a road test, a service check, a—”

  “I’ll have to make out a bill of sale.”

  “All I want to know is: Is the gas tank full?”

  Indignantly, the salesman said: “Of course.”

  “Mail me the bill of sale! Tear it up! I don’t care! Here—Here’s my hotel.” After thrusting the card on him, she began to count money.

  “The keys are in the ignition. I’ll get your extra set. The license—” He began to recount the money.

  She got behind the wheel, snapped on the lights, pressed the ignition button. The motor coughed and roared.

  She spun the car out of the lot. She was weak with relief.

  Maybe I can outrun him!

  I hope.

  I’ve got to!

  I’ll get as far away as I can. Then I’ll . . . I’ll have to take a chance waiting for an airplane. Then . . . then . . . when my money gives out . . .

  I can’t hope to run forever.

  She shuddered.

  WALT crawled out of the wreck. It seemed to be a miracle he was unhurt.

  He had switched the car to automatic drive as he had seen the driver on the desert do; he had not known that there was no automatic-drive beam on that particular stretch of highway.

  At the first curve—in a heart beat of time; too fast for him to avert it—the car had hurtled the road and plowed into the embankment.

  Walt cursed and shook his head and closed his eyes tightly, gathering his thoughts.

  A few minutes later a car with intensely bright headlights stopped to give assistance. Walt threw the driver out and slipped behind the wheel.

  In a moment he knew that he had a powerful motor under him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AN hour later (two of the twelve hours were gone) Julia was still free. She had weaved and twisted across the city. She had crossed and recrossed the super-highways and the local speedways. She had fled up ramps and through under passes.

  She had no way of telling how near Walt was; or what moment and from what direction death might strike. She did not believe that he could reach out through space to snatch her life; if he tried teleportation, she was steeled to resist. The lifeless, glittering windows, the dull glare of overhead and curb lights, the shuttle movement of traffic, the heavy, motionless air—all these combined into bristling menace. Her foot strained against the accelerator; her muscles ached over the wheel.

  She hoped she had confused him. Now she streamed for the open highway. She settled the car into a traffic slot on the north-bound coast super-highway. She switched the car on automatic and tried to relax.

  The road curved gently toward the west to pick up the coast line. Soon the moonlit breakers hissed on white sand beaches. The ocean lay dark and mysterious toward the far horizon.

  She prayed that Walt would not guess for long minutes that she had left the city; that he would lose more precious minutes locating the super-highway.

  San Francisco was six hours ahead of her.

  WALT was continually losing himself in a maze of Los Angeles streets. Ones that seemed to promise to deliver him cross-town to interrupt Julia in her erratic course twined away in improper directions. Occasionally he neared her. But she darted away each time: as if with the primeval instinct of a hunted animal.

  At last he stopped the car and cried to a pedestrian across the street: “Is there any place I can get a map of the city?”

  “Ask inna filling station.”

  Walt snarled. And five minutes later he found the map. He memorized it carefully; it required scarcely more than a minute. During that time, he let his body rest and relax. He threw the map onto the driveway. He grew increasingly more confident of catching her as the information settled into his brain. He visualized the map.

  He was ready for her now.

  She was already on the super-highway. He left the filling station. He was in no hurry. He was waiting for her to return.

  It soon became apparent that she would not.

  He grunted and spun his car in her direction.

  He lost several minutes in a traffic jam downtown. He got on the wrong lane in a clover leaf beyond the city limits. He had now passed beyond the boundaries of the map he had memorized. He took the ridge super-highway instead of the one Julia had taken. After twenty miles, he realized his mistake and had to cut over. He bounced along an east-west road that was so rough-surfaced he had to reduce his speed.

  When he finally arrived on the proper highway he was almost an hour behind Julia.

  He concentrated on understanding the physical assembly of the engine in front of him. He could teleport parts from it; he could hold other parts more tightly together by using the same power. But the engine was so very complex. There was (he could tell) something there—in the engine itself—that kept the power from being utilized. He could not locate the block.

  He increased the speed by tightening the valves. But the required concentration was too great to be long maintained. It exhausted him and forced him to rest for a few miles. Then he tightened the valves again. The car moved forward in a sudden burst of speed.

  IN San Francisco Julia stopped long enough for a sandwich—long enough to gulp hot coffee—long enough to buy a box of “Wide-awakes.” She checked airline schedules by phone.

  The eastern flights were held up by weather over the Rockies. The next strato-jet to Hawaii was due to leave in thirty minutes; but she would have to wait
to see if any reservations were canceled before she could be assured of a seat. There would not be another plane south for an hour and a half. One was leaving just then.

  She told herself that the airport would become a cul-de-sac unless she could time it perfectly; she could not risk it.

  She cruised the city until she had been there over an hour. She was loggy and exhausted.

  She was afraid to remain any longer. He might head her off; he might trap her in a dead end street. Once on the straight of way, there was—at least—no danger of that. She left the city and headed north again.

  WALT arrived ten minutes before she left. He came to a stop at an all night lunch. Invisible, he slipped through walls into the kitchen. He stole food, returned to his car with it, ate it. He drove to a gas station, keeping her position sharply in mind.

  “Gas,” he ordered the attendant.

  The attendant began filling the tank.

  “All the way full,” Walt said. “I want a map of the city when you finish.”

  The attendant brought the map. Walt unfolded it.

  Julia had left the city. Walt was not going to be fooled this time. But he wanted to memorize the city just in case she did double back.

  “Is there . . . a larger map? Of this whole area?”

  The attendant brought him a California map. He memorized that one. He picked out Julia’s route. He verified it.

  “Pay up, now,” the attendant said. “I gotta car waitin’. It’s five sixty-seven altogether.”

  Walt reached through the rolled down window and seized the man. He jerked him forward and down; and, with the same motion, slammed his own weight against the inside of the unlocked door. The steel top of the opening door cracked the attendant across the forehead; he went limp. Walt let go of him, closed the door, and drove off.

  By the time he sighted her car ahead of him on the highway, in the mist and fog of dawn, nearly eleven hours had elapsed since he had begun the pursuit. It had been only a half an hour before that he had located the governor and teleported it out of the engine.

  CHAPTER IX

  JULIA saw the bright lights behind her. They blinded her in the rear-view mirror until she knocked the mirror out of focus. She glanced at the speedometer. She was going as fast as the engine would permit.