Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “Herb, you’re being silly.” She stood up. “You make it sound like I’ve got something to be afraid of from my own brother.”

  Herb bit his lips in anguish and ran from the room.

  Norma heard his feet on the carpet, running, running.

  The empty room became a thing of terror. She was entangled in something beyond her understanding, and the world seemed less secure than at any time since her parents had died. Should she go after Herb, or . . .?

  She started toward the telephone, stopped, turned away—and then turned back.

  She got the switchboard.

  “Get me Senator Council’s office . . . Hello, oh, hello, John. Norma. Is Bud in yet? Oh, still. Have him call me as soon as he—oh. All right. I’ll be over in an hour then. And John: have you heard anything from Frank? I’m beginning to get worried about him. He isn’t in yet . . .”

  She hung up slowly, wondering if she had done the proper thing.

  SHE was early for the appointment with Bud, and she was waiting in the outer office when he came in. His two guards nodded recognition and Bud said, “What is it, Norma?” His tone was irritable, and she wanted to cry.

  “Please, may I talk to you a minute?”

  Bud shifted his weight nervously.

  “Please, Bud!”

  “Come on. I haven’t got all day.” Letting her enter the main office before him, he said. “What’s it about this time?”

  He drew the door to his private office closed after them, and went to his desk where he picked up a letter and pretended to read it. “Well? Well?”

  “I’ve talked to Herb.”

  Bud’s face sagged. The letter began to tremble ever so slightly. Norma did not notice. He did not look up. How much did Herb know? About Frank? Did he know? “Yes?”

  He felt weakness dissolve his arm muscles and dissolve the muscles of his thighs and calves. He was afraid that he was about to suffer a heart attack. He had difficulty breathing. “What—what did he have to say?”

  “He wanted me to buy a gun for him.”

  “What for? What for? What did he want a gun for?”

  Norma twisted her hands nervously. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He’s in trouble. I thought maybe we could help him.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?” Bud demanded sharply, feeling the fear fade. “He didn’t tell you, he didn’t say anything else?”

  “No, just that he needed a gun—”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You don’t know? He’s trying to get a gun, and you don’t know where he is?”

  “I—I—”

  “No telling what kind of a crazy fool idea he’s got. No telling what kind of lies he’d tell about me!”

  “He’s in trouble, Bud. We ought to—”

  “You listen to me! You do what I say! Don’t pay any attention to anything he says. If you see him again, you call me!”

  “I think I’d better talk to Frank about it, Bud. Have you seen him?”

  Bud was on his feet and around the desk. He grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her. Her face drained of color. His nostrils flared white.

  “Bud! Bud! What’s got into you?”

  “Frank’s all right!” Bud cried. “Now, get out, get out, GET OUT!” He shoved her away from him. “Get out,” he sobbed.

  Half dazed, she backed away, opened the door, and disappeared.

  Trembling, Bud sank into his chair. It was a long time before his breathing returned to normal. He counted his pulse with intent concentration, feeling it flutter like a wounded bird beneath his finger tips.

  CHAPTER XI

  HERB had no real hope of eluding capture. After he fled from Norma, he pulled his hat low over his face and hurried down the street. At the first hotel, he entered and registered and was shown his room.

  He fell on the bed; the room was fuzzy and dull. He wanted nothing more than to sleep. His mind was such a searing agony of doubt that he had to escape from it. He curled up warmly and nestled against the softness of the mattress and closed his eyes, trying to drive all thought from him, and he slept.

  When he awoke, the room was heavy with darkness and silence, and he lay still, trying to feel the vibration of the ship’s motors. The memory of a formless dream clung to his mind, and he tried to clarify it for the dream form.

  Awareness of his location came. He relaxed, wanted to sleep again, thought: no more dream forms, no more . . . Other memories stirred and returned, and he was uneasily awake. He opened his eyes, growing tense.

  He held his breath. The dark around him concealed unknown dangers. He was still fully clothed, and he stood up. He found the light switch.

  With the bright flame of electricity he became aware of how heavy his head was; how incoherent his thoughts were; and there was a sour taste in his mouth. He blinked his eyes. The room was reassuringly normal.

  He went back to bed and lay down. His thoughts whirled. Beyond thought there was a great, tugging emptiness in his stomach, a sense of despair that seemed to dwell in every tiny muscle and radiate outward from every tiny blood vessel. The light made him naked, and he could not face his own nakedness.

  He turned out the light and returned to the bed. The dark was protective and reassuring now, and he closed his eyes.

  Bit by bit the sense of unreality fled.

  Dawn came.

  THE TV set sat squatly on the table across the room. Morning sunshine fell brightly through the Venetian blinds. Herb turned on the set to discover the latest news of his pursuit.

  The screen lighted and on its surface formed the deadly trinity of the starships. It was a long shot from a sound truck, and the camera panned an expanse of desert beyond to focus briefly on the Arizona sunrise.

  An announcer was commenting on the riot of color that was quite obvious to the viewer: the flame of dawn in the sky and the blood red of the prairie flowers that covered the desert.

  Herb watched and listened.

  The starships were in place.

  Their cutting beams lanced out, there were puffs of destruction, and the tubings struck into the ground.

  The camera near one of the ships observed the operation intently. A scientist was commenting on the technology of the starmen. “The information inherent in one of these ships alone,” he said (characteristically underestimating the pace of advancement), “would be enough to thrust Earth a hundred years—terms of scientific knowledge—into the future.”

  A shudder spun through Herb’s body. He paced the room restlessly. Somewhere at a distance a clock struck the hour. Outside the open window, English sparrows chattered shrill, imperative commands.

  Herb was hungry. He phoned the desk and ordered breakfast. He was in the bath room when the bellboy arrived; he called, “The money’s on the dresser.” For fear of being recognized, he remained hidden until the bellboy left.

  He came out. The tray was on the night table. Eating, he continued to watch the progress of the starships.

  The voice of the Oligarch now came from the TV. He fabricated plausible details about what they were discovering of Earth’s early physical history.

  Sweaty faces advanced and receded from the cameras. The three tubes continued into the Earth, going deeper by the minute.

  A sense of urgency and desperation filled Herb. He must hurry to kill Bud. By noon the desert operation would be completed. Earth would be a mined planet. Destruction could then be accomplished by the flick of a switch.

  He looked at his face in the mirror. Black stubble pricked his skin in a thousand places, and he ran his hand across his cheek. He shrugged and found his hat.

  Until sunset, he told himself, he would have until sunset to accomplish his self-imposed assignment.

  Bud, he thought (and revulsion mounted in him), is her brother, and she, his sister; and Frank, Frank is dead and forgotten and hidden somewhere, as soon will be now the Earth and all its beauty.

  He was i
n the street. The sunshine was bright. He walked.

  A gun, he thought, for a hand that is hungry for—and he thought: To cup the hand behind Norma’s head, and stroke her hair, and look deeply into her eyes. He looked at his hands; strange, hungry hands, he thought. He felt them tighten against the metallic iciness of a gun . . .

  “You can’t,” the man behind the counter said, “buy a pistol without a permit. You’ll have to get a police permit before I can sell you a gun.” His eyes shifted uneasily from Herb’s face, and Herb thanked the man and started back toward the sunshine.

  “Wait a minute!” the man said.

  The harsh command froze Herb.

  He turned. He found himself looking into reward-hungry eyes. The hand below them held an automatic. The hand was trembling with greed.

  “You’re that starman,” the proprietor said.

  Herb caught his breath. He jerked to his left and spun around. He ran.

  The harsh roar of the automatic burst behind him. The proprietor had taken flight for an admission of identity; but perhaps latent uncertainty had carried the bullet high. It smashed into the window pane above Herb’s head, and glass fragments erupted upon the pavement.

  “Stop him! Stop him!” cried the proprietor as Herb fled.

  The sunlight was bright. Herb bolted across an intersection, narrowly missed being run down by a car, dodged around a heavy truck and ran to the left.

  There was no more shooting. There was a hub-hub behind him. A policeman’s whistle sounded.

  Herb jerked around another corner. There was the sound of pursuit.

  He ran a block, doubled back, entered a department store, lost himself in the crowd, took the elevator up to the third floor.

  He tried to look interested in the merchandise. Each second cost him an extra heart beat. He left a counter and went to the stairs. He became inconspicuously preoccupied with distant thoughts. He was once more on the ground floor. He left the building by the opposite entrance.

  He hailed a taxi. His heart beat desperately.

  Once settled in the rear seat, he felt almost secure. The worst was over. He told the driver, “Down town.”

  After a dozen blocks, he got out. When the cab was gone, he walked back the way he had come. He found a hotel, registered, and was shown his room.

  He stood at the window. A police car cruised by. For a moment, he was afraid it would stop.

  I must get a gun, he thought. Time seemed to be falling swiftly in the bright air.

  I must, I must.

  He went to the television set and switched it on.

  The starships were still occupying the screen. The sun was slanting its rays across the desert.

  An announcer spoke in a dryly excited voice.

  Herb sat down, and when at length one starship lumbered into the center of the triangle and its beam struck out, weariness and futility possessed him. They were planting the atomic seed. Within an hour there would be no hope of reprieve. There was none now; and yet it seemed, doom was not irreversible until this last act was accomplished and the seed in place.

  Herb spun the selector. He did not want to witness the climactic moment.

  What was the name of Norma’s hotel?

  He remembered.

  He went to the telephone . . .

  When Norma arrived in answer to the call, she found an unshaven Herb nervously pacing the floor.

  “Where have you been?” she asked breathlessly.

  He seated himself on the bed and wrinkled the coverlet in his hands, working with it furiously.

  “They’re going to blow up the world,” he said.

  “Who—What?”

  “I helped them. It’s my fault. I was a fool. I couldn’t know, you see that? I couldn’t know . . .”

  Norma was ashen.

  Herb stood up and crossed to her side and looked down at her. “Out in the desert, they have just finished planting the charge. That’s what they came here for. They’re going to blow up the world.”

  “The starmen?”

  “Yes.”

  Norma was on her feet. She was too terrified to ask why. She did not question . . . It was true!

  “We’ve got to stop them!”

  “We can’t, it’s too late,” Herb said.

  “Why not, why is it?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “We’ve got to stop them.”

  Tt’s too late. There’s nothing we can do. Listen. Get me a gun. I want to—”

  He loomed wild-eyed above her. She didn’t understand what he intended to do: only that some impossible fury was driving him. “You’ve got to help me stop them. There must be some way.”

  “Get me a gun! Get me a gun!” Every atom of his being cried out to her: he had to have the gun. His thoughts were warped and twisted. With the gun everything would be clear in his mind. Everything would follow step by step. The gun could spout a great, purifying flame.

  He was alone in the room. He looked down. She had dropped her purse, and it had spilled open. He walked to the gun that had fallen from it.

  * * *

  Norma ran, wild and terrified. To whom could she turn?

  Frank! Where was he?

  Frank . . .

  Bud?

  No. No, not Bud. He—

  There was no one else. Bud. Her breath was fire. He would have to do something. Bud.

  She hailed a cab.

  “Bud!” she called as she opened the car door. “The Senate Office Building! Hurry!” Bud, she sobbed under her breath. He can do something to stop it.

  * * *

  Herb examined the gun carefully. He weighed it in his hand. It would do nicely. He pocketed it.

  He would need only an instant. A taxi from here to the Senator’s office. A trip in the elevator. Perhaps a slight wait: and then Senator Council framed in the doorway. He had—how long? Several hours, he told himself.

  He touched the gun again. No hurry. No real hurry.

  Several hours.

  Norma was hysterical when she burst into Bud’s office. One of Bud’s hands darted for the drawer where he had taken to keeping an automatic. The hand stopped.

  Norma’s lips were trembling uncontrollably. “Bud!” she gasped. “Bud, they’re planning to blow up the world!”

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded angrily. “What do you mean?”

  “The starmen! I saw Herb. He told me. I had to come to you, Bud. You’ve got to make them stop it!”

  “Nonsense,” Bud said. “You’re out of your mind. You’re crazy.” He surged to his feet. “Where is Herb? I told you to come see me if you found him. Where is he?”

  “It’s true!” Norma cried. “I know it’s true! They’ve been lying to us. They spy on each other. They have hidden microphones everywhere. They want to destroy the world, Bud! Oh, please, please, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

  Bud came toward her. She was insane, of course. It was astonishing how many people were insane. Sometimes Bud thought he was the only sane person left. “Now, now, you just tell me where Herb is, and I’ll go have a nice long talk with him.” He pocketed the automatic.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Oh, I do. Dear, I do, of course, I do. They’re going to blow up the world . . . I’d like to see Herb and talk it over with him.” He made soothing motions with his hands.

  Bud’s face, round and smiling and vacant, peered down. She wanted to throw something at it. She wanted to launch herself upon him and shake him and make him listen to her. He was a monolithic caricature of stupidity. She had to force herself into his mind and make him see.

  Bud came no closer to her. “Now, now, everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “Now, now, brother’s little sister is . . .” He took a half step backward.

  She was able to see him for the first time as Frank saw him. A little sense of horror was born and began to grow. She stared at him with slowly vanishing disbelief. How could someone like this be her brother? He was
some cold, unfeeling, insensitive thing, wrapped up in a world that embraced no one but himself.

  “What have you done to Frank?” she demanded. “Bud, what have you done to my brother?”

  Bud half snarled.

  And the Oligarch stepped out of the little room to the left. “I think it’s about time I take over.”

  Norma felt her heart pulse and stop cold. Ice filled the air.

  Bud said, staring at her with fascination, “She’s going crazy, George.”

  Norma turned to the Oligarch. “What did you make him do to Frank?”

  “Not here,” Bud said softly. “Don’t kill her yet. She knows where Herb is.”

  Norma wanted to scream. She only half opened her mouth when the Oligarch’s hand slapped sharply against her neck. Her knees buckled and she dropped unconscious to the heavy carpet.

  “She knows where Herb is,” Bud said again. “We’ve got to find him before he tells someone—tells someone else about Frank.”

  “She was telling the truth,” the Oligarch said. “We are going to blow up the world. That’s what I came back to Washington to tell you.”

  HERB arrived at the new Senate Office Building. He paid his fare and dismissed the cab. No one noticed him as he entered the lobby. He took the elevator to Senator Council’s office. He was taking his time; he had several hours.

  The secretary, John, was behind his desk. The reception room was empty. Herb felt his stomach muscles tighten, and his hands clenched the pocketed gun tightly and grew damp.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to see the Senator.”

  “What is the nature of your business.”

  “I want to talk about, about some private matters. I can wait until he can see me.” Herb felt the gun, heavy and reassuring.

  “The Senator isn’t in right now. Perhaps I can help you?”

  “No,” Herb said sharply. “My business is with him. It’s just between the two of us.”

  “He just left with his sister and George, the starman.”

  Herb bent forward intently. Time telescoped. An hour was no longer a practical infinity. “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  To the spider ship, Herb thought. They came back to Washington. They came back—to give Bud his reward for betrayal . . .