The taste of the food inflamed Filly. His hunger was suddenly wild and frantic. He tore at the chicken and wolfed down large pieces of the succulent meat. Papa poured wine for him which he gulped with desperate haste. Finally, sated and groggy, he slumped back in the chair, feeling his strength returning slowly. . .
Mama and Papa watched him approvingly.
“Now you must sleep,” Mama said in a firm maternal voice.
“Yes, I must sleep,” Filly said; but his brain was plotting warily.
He got to his feet and went up the stairs to his bedroom. Inside he closed the door and hurried to. the closet where he kept his gun. It was still there, hanging on a peg. He jerked it from the holster and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers. And then, as he was starting to close the door, he saw the black bag in which they had kept their money.
He sank to his knees and opened it with trembling fingers. The money was still there, in sheafs of neat banknotes.
Filly knew then that Barny hadn’t gone away. He wouldn’t have left without the money.
FILLY GOT slowly to his feet and backed away from the bag of money as if it were an object of horror. He thought someone was in the room with him, heard someone hammering a blunt object against the walls; but then he knew that it was only his own heartbeat he was hearing.
He turned the knob of the door slowly and stepped out into the dark corridor. From below a wavering flash of firelight touched the stairs; and he could hear Mama and Papa talking.
“You are always so greedy, Mama.” Papa’s voice was fond, almost endearing.
“Oh, let’s hurry,” Mama said. Her voice was excited as a schoolgirl’s. “He must be asleep by now.”
“Now, now, we must be patient. You shouldn’t have gone to the other one this afternoon. He was too weak. Now he is gone forever. All because my little girl is too greedy.”
“He was about all done anyway. Come, Papa, let us go up for the other one. It has been so long since we’ve had visitors.”
“Very well,” Papa said indulgently.
Filly backed into his room, closing the door with clammy twitching fingers.
“God, God,” he moaned, but the words stuck in his throat and he nearly vomited.
He heard light footsteps on the stairs.
He hurled himself on the bed, pulled the gun from his waist.
The footsteps approached his room, and then the door swung inward with a gentle protesting creak.
He saw them framed in the flickering shadowy firelight, saw their silvery heads, their placid contented features, their dumpy peasant’s bodies. And he knew what they were.
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely.
They paid no attention to his words. They came into the room and moved slowly toward the bed.
Filly fired six shots at them, as fast as finger could work trigger. The butt of the gun slammed into the heel of his palm, and the shots echoed bangingly in the tiny room. Cordite soured the air.
Filly blinked and then screamed.
Mama and Papa were still walking toward him, and they were smiling eagerly now. The moonlight touched their glistening red lips and sharp white teeth.
Filly tried again to scream but the muscles of his throat were paralyzed. And then they were on him; and in the brief moments left to him he learned that the reality was incredibly more monstrous than he had feared it would be.
CONDITIONED REFLEX
First published in the June 1951 issue of Fantastic Adventures.
The first rule of advertising is: Be sure your slogan can be seen. So, if Honest John can use the sky to sell cars, why can’t God use it to give us a message?
ONE MORNING the face of God appeared in the sky. People on their way to work in Philadelphia, Chicago, New York, Detroit, Butte, and San Francisco, stared at the phenomenon in surprise.
They observed the noble forehead, the strong firm features, the gentle yet arresting eyes, and they said to one another, “Why that looks just like the pictures of God you used to see in Bibles and prayer books.”
The face gazed down upon Earth with what one perceptive witness described as a somewhat puzzled expression.
Newspapermen realized that this thing was the biggest news story in years, and they went after it with considerable enthusiasm . . .
Stanley Reeves, managing editor of the largest paper in New York, sent for his best men. He told them: “Jones, you’ll do the running story; Nelson, you dig up a feature angle; and Smith, I want you to take care of the Man In The Street.”
Reeves then sent for his religion editor and told him to arrange interviews with a cardinal and several rabbis.
“This sort of business is their specialty, after all,” he said, and then personally got to work blocking out the headlines to use on the main story.
Nelson, the feature writer, came back to the office two hours later, dead drunk. He sat at his desk and put his head down on his folded arms;
Reeves hurried from his office and shook Nelson by the shoulder. “Come on, man, we need copy,” he said.
Nelson straightened up slowly, and although he was obviously in the midst of a Homeric drunk, there was a thoughtful little smile on his lips.
“No, I can’t do it,” he said. “I looked at the face for an hour, trying to get an idea. And then I got to thinking, what the hell kind of lead could I put on a story. What can I say? ‘Early-risers were surprised this morning when God—’ ” He stopped, shaking his head. “Can’t do it, you see. We should all go out into the streets and listen—”
“Good God, he’s not talking, is he?”
“No, but we should wait until he does.”
“Wait?” Reeves said. “We’re on deadline, Nelson.”
“Supposing we missed the edition,” Nelson said in a gentle inquiring voice. “Supposing we all stopped running around and went out in the streets and waited there. We should stop everything, I tell you, until we find out what this is all about.”
Reeves regarded Nelson for a moment; then he patted him on the shoulder. “Knock off, get some sleep,” he said. He glanced at the clock that faced the bank of rewrite men and then hurried on to the city desk with a few instructions for the big story.
WITHIN a few hours, wire copy was clattering in on teletype and cable from all parts of the world, and it became apparent from the first leads that there was a new twist to the story.
People weren’t agreeing on the physical description of the face, it was discovered. In China, for instance, the masses thought it looked like Buddha, and in India the face was considered to be that of Brahma or Allah, depending on whether the observer was a Hindu or Moslem.
Three days went by, and nothing new happened. The face remained in the sky, staring solemnly and with a barely discernible touch of bewilderment at the people of the earth.
Everyone grew accustomed to it after a while and went about their work pretty much as before. Preparations for the war no one wanted went on steadily after the slight interruption caused by the face of God in the sky.
Psychiatrists explained the face as being an example of mass hysteria. They said that in these times, people needed reassurance from some exterior source, and were unconsciously creating a mirage that would give them a sense of security. God, they said, was a classic security symbol.
The United States Senate disposed of the matter very quickly in a special session.
“I know an enemy trick when I see one,” declared the senior senator from a great Midwestern state, as flash bulbs popped and the galleries cheered.
Scientists took over after most religious leaders had branded the apparition a fake. The scientists made a series of tremendously delicate tests, which proved conclusively that the face had no actual substance at all.
They tried to weigh it, to analyze its coloring, and locate it in space. They failed to pin down any physical facts whatsoever, and this was considered a great triumph for science.
Meanwhile, the war came closer. A great block of countries issued
a biting statement to the effect that the face was created by capitalistic nations to undermine the real authority of the Supreme State.
Both sides called each other Godless!
However, the scientists weren’t done with the face of God yet. They announced plans for shooting a rocket at it. This caused a good deal of discussion. Some people wanted to know what good that would do. Others said it wasn’t the business of science to do good, but to do something and then measure the results.
ON THE fifth day, a man ran through the streets of New York screaming at everyone to listen to him. He shouted: “Stop what you’re doing. Stop everything! Listen to what He can tell us.”
The man’s manner was so frightening and his words so patently senseless that a crowd quickly gathered and chased him through the streets. He was caught by several hundred sane citizens and beaten to death.
Newspapermen were saddened to learn that it was their colleague Nelson who was thus killed.
The work of the scientists went on apace. Congress had voted a million dollars with which to build the rockets, and launching sites for the great missiles were quickly erected.
On the seventh day amid general excitement the first of the rockets was launched.
People crowded the streets and cheered as the fish-shaped objects whizzed off into space, trailing a spray of sparks in their wake.
A bewildered child said, “Why are they doing it?” but his mother shook him and warned him about asking foolish questions.
The face of God, seemingly more puzzled than ever, began to fade from the sky.
The people cheered.
Within a matter of seconds, only the eyes of God were visible in the sky. The gentle arresting eyes were still puzzled and compassionate; but they were also somewhat stern.
And eventually they faded away into the blue sky and disappeared forever.
That night, diplomatic relations were severed between the two important blocks of nations; and still later that night, planes winged their way across the Atlantic carrying hydrogen bombs suspended from special racks. Other planes going in the opposite direction set out about the same time, carrying similar racks and similar bombs.
The planes passed each other in the blackness without being aware of each other, and droned on toward their distant targets.
THERE’S NO WAY OUT!
First published in the July 1951 issue of Fantastic Adventures.
“Going up?” said the elevator operator. This question was to haunt Leland Gray for eternity, for in this building, you either went up, or . . .
SOMETIMES THE abnormal takes the most commonplace of forms, Sidney Wells thought, as he stared with annoyance at the skyscrapers on the opposite side of the busy, crowded street. He looked again at the card in his hand which listed, innocently enough, a man’s name and a business address: Frank Ellsworth, 10 East Fifth Avenue.
The trouble was there was no 10 East Fifth Avenue. Sidney had been up and down the block several times looking for it, but to no avail. Ten minutes ago he had called his secretary and asked her to check Frank Ellsworth’s address in their files. It was 10 East Fifth Avenue.
Really, it was ridiculous, he thought. Ellsworth was an insurance prospect, a good one. He had called Sidney to make this appointment and, in the insurance business, that much interest was usually a sign that the sale would be made without much trouble. And now, because of this irritating confusion about the address, he was already late for the appointment. Maybe the delay would give Ellsworth time to change his mind. Or he might go out to lunch or a meeting and then, as those things happened, not be available again for weeks.
Sidney turned and, with an air of determination, walked back to the nearest intersection where a policeman was directing traffic. On the way, he planned how he could explain his tardiness to Ellsworth. Make a joke of it, perhaps. Or tell the plain silly truth. That might be better. But who would buy insurance from a man who couldn’t find an address? Then he took comfort from the thought that it was Ellsworth’s own card which had given him all the trouble. There was the angle. No criticism of Ellsworth, of course, but pointing out that you couldn’t be sure of anything in this world. Except death and taxes, of course. That’s why an adequate insurance program was essential to every forward-looking, progressive executive. Then . . .
HE WAS beside the policeman.
“Pardon me, Officer, but I’m looking for 10 East Fifth Avenue.” He smiled, good-humoredly, and with just enough self-deprecation to make the patrolman feel expansive. “Without much luck, I might admit.” Sidney had been a salesman for so long that unconsciously, as he breathed and slept and tied his shoes, he made friends of people. Not friends really, in the sense that they liked him or would do anything for him, but at least he got a pleasant reaction from people most of the time.
“Well, no wonder,” the patrolman said. “Somebody gave you a bum steer. There’s no 10 East Fifth Avenue. Who’re you looking for?”
“A man named Ellsworth.”
“Afraid I don’t know him. I know lots of businessmen in this block. Been on this beat for sixteen years.”
Sidney went away feeling more and more nettled. This was the sort of thing that just didn’t happen to him. His motto was, “Take care of the little problems, and you won’t have any big ones.” His filing system, and check-up system, were models of order and efficiency. On top of that, Sidney cross-indexed all his clients and prospects by occupation, religion, hobbies, clubs, and so forth. Then when he met a checker-playing enthusiast, he could go back to his files, find other checker-players there, and toss their names into his next interview with the new prospect. He never missed appointments, or forgot first names, or left his rate book at home. Even if he was going to a movie he took the rate book along, because you never could tell, you might get talking to the person sitting next to you, or to someone in the lobby, or even the ticket taker. They were all prospects. That was why this present impasse was so frustrating. If he were a careless person, it might be expected, or at least tolerated.
He walked back down the block, frowning at the numbers, and then, abruptly, there it was: Number 10 East Fifth Avenue.
IT WAS a tall white building, with revolving doors, conventional in all respects, Sidney’s relief was tempered by a sense of confusion. Surely he must have passed this entrance ten times looking for it.
And how about the cop? No such number, he’d said. Sidney made a mental note to drop a line to the commissioner about that. With a last glance at his watch, he hurried through the revolving doors.
The directory surprised him, and added to his confusion. There were names on it, plenty of them, but not
Ellsworth’s; and there were no floor numbers opposite the names. Also, the names weren’t in alphabetical order. Sidney walked through the expensive looking lobby to the bank of elevators. There he talked with the starter, a dumpy balding man in a blue uniform.
“I’m looking for a man named Ellsworth,” he said. “He’s in the trucking business. Could you tell me his floor and office number, please?”
“You’ll have to check the directory,” the starter said, pleasantly enough: “I can’t remember all our tenant’s names and offices. It’s just back there near the revolving doors.”
“But it’s no help,” Sidney said.
“No help? What do you mean?”
“Well, there aren’t any floor numbers or office numbers on it. Also, Ellsworth’s name isn’t there. It’s the damndest directory I’ve ever seen.”
“Hmmn, that’s odd. Of course, things change around here pretty fast. Maybe the building manager had the directory changed. He’s like that. But I haven’t had any other complaints. Tell you what: Take any car and go up to the tenth floor. There’s an information booth there, and they can probably straighten you out.”
“Thanks very much,” Sidney said in a relieved voice, and hurried into the nearest elevator. Now he was on the right track at last. Sidney had a positive affection for information counters. Occa
sionally, as he walked through a department store or railroad station, he would stop at the information counter and ask a few questions for the fun of it. He appreciated the quick alert answers, and the feeling that here was Knowledge, confined and indexed, waiting to serve him.
HE TOLD the elevator operator he wanted to get off at the tenth floor, and the man said, “Yes, sir!” and closed the doors with a sharp click. They shot up silently, swiftly, and then the doors slid open.
“Thank you very much,” Sidney said. He stepped out into a corridor that was empty except for a worried looking little man who was standing by a hand truck.
“Pardon me,” Sidney said. “Could you tell me where the information booth is?”
“Information booth?” The little man shook his head with a thoughtful frown. “I never heard of one on this floor.”
Sidney felt his blood pressure rising. “Now see here, this is ridiculous. The starter told me there was an information counter up here.”
“Well, you can’t pay too much attention to what he says,” the little man said. “At least I don’t.” He laughed and rubbed his head with a gesture of humorous resignation. “An information counter is what I need, to tell the truth. Look here now.” Nodding at the hand truck which was loaded with eight cardboard boxes, he said, “I’m supposed to deliver these to a man named Smith. Now, you tell me how I’m going to do it.”
Sidney had the sort of mind that was sympathetic to any sort of trouble—particularly if it were someone else’s. “Well, what’s so difficult about that?” he asked. “What’s Smith’s office number?”
“That’s just it,” the little man said triumphantly. “I don’t have his number. And neither does my boss. He just sent me out to find Smith.”
“Perhaps the nature of the merchandise will be a clue,” Sidney said, in the jocular tone he used with menials. He opened one of the boxes and blinked when he found it empty. “There’s nothing in these boxes,” he said, shaking his head.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 277