But I couldn't reach the stairs. It got me. It pinned me over the
elevator shaft. I bent back further and further so those tentacles
couldn't rake my face. Those criss-cross insect eyes were cold as ice,
emotionless. The barbs made ready to tear me to rags.
I shrieked and let myself fall. First I didn't think to save myself.
Better a clean jolting death than those hundreds of needle-like cilea.
But my hands grabbed involuntarily for something. They caught the
cable, clung to it.
It was greasy. I went down fast. I wrapped my legs around it, which
helped a little, straining to hold back. When I hit bottom I think
every tooth in my head jarred loose. My legs collapsed under me like
rubber. For a minute I blacked out.
* * * * *
The buzzing over my head snapped me up. I was a goner if I didn't move,
but fast. Sobbing, I wrenched my legs to a crouching position, and
leaped down off the elevator. I dove for the front door. Then I was
outside, gulping air, running like billy-hell for the Lexington subway.
I didn't know what else to do, so having put half of Manhattan between
me and It, I telephoned Alice. I needed the sound of her voice. I
needed her to stop me from shuddering. My tic was slowly jerking my jaw
out of alignment.
She listened patiently while I dumped in dimes.
"Max," she asked when I had finished. "Are you _sure_ you haven't been
eating benzedrine tablets?"
"No! And I'm not drunk!"
"Where are you now?"
"Some joint in Harlem."
"How long have you been in there?" She sounded suspicious.
"Alice!" I groaned. "If you could only see me! My suit's ripped in a
dozen places. I'm all greasy where I slid down the cable and my hands
are burned raw. I hurt."
"Poor boy," she soothed. She was silent for a moment, then became her
briskest self. "Listen, Max. We have to consider every possibility.
This might be a self-hypnotic illusion brought on by overwork.
Remember, you've seen these things on many covers and interiors, too.
You've lived fictionally with the Kiriki for a year. Consider that--"
"Nuts!" I yelled. "I'm going to the police!"
"And spend the night in the drunk tank?" Alice queried severely. "Just
who do you think will believe your story?"
"I can take them to this loft."
"Think, Max! What will they find? Nothing! Even if it is true, do
you imagine this--this Kiriki is going to be caught like a fish in a
barrel? He has been spotted. Obviously, he will leave the loft at once."
She was so right, and I knew it. I groaned.
"Who or what is this Thing?" Alice asked, but it was plain she only
half-believed my story.
"That's easy," I said bitterly. "I should have caught on months ago.
It's Wallace Starr. Starr is a Kiriki."
* * * * *
Having better sense than to go home, I rented a cheap room on 125th
Street. I didn't sleep much. I paced and ate cigarettes. Very early
next morning I woke up a cleaner on Third Avenue and bought a cheap
uncalled-for suit out of his window. It was the most uncalled-for suit
I ever did see, but it fit pretty well and made me decent.
A quick coffee and I went up to the office. I had given Alice strict
orders not to come to work until I phoned her. I didn't want her mixed
up in this. Starr hadn't liked her from the first. Maybe he figured
she might catch on to him better than me.
I picked up a manuscript from the slush pile, called _Challenge of the
Slime People_. The phone made me jump.
"Morning, Maxie. This is Ric Planter."
"Ric," I found myself blurting. "The most terrifying thing has
happened!"
"Invasion of Kiriki, no doubt."
Planter had that way. You wanted to wring his neck. Somehow, the way he
said it, made me backtrack. I didn't want to get the horse laugh from
him and all fandom. For the first time I asked myself, _could Alice be
right?_ Could it have been an illusion?
"Listen, Ric, how does this sound for a plot? Suppose an alien, but
alien, culture from the stars decides it wants to take over our system.
They don't want to just drop in on us. They dislike physical warfare
because it isn't orderly. Also they don't want to kill any of their
numbers, or their potential slaves. Also a sudden alien invasion might
drive humans completely off their rocker.
"So here's what they do. They send down a secret fifth columnist. His
job is to spread propaganda over the planet, to prepare humans for
their advent, make them amenable to this alien culture. Of course he's
to build them up in human minds, make them think their cosmic crusade
is beneficent and noble. How would he start?"
"Buy a newspaper. Buy ten."
"Under ordinary circumstances, sure. But wouldn't it be hard to slyly
mention what great guys the Whoziz are in a daily newspaper? Any
comment about his home folks would stick out like a sore thumb. No. It
would have to be something less obvious. How about him buying a science
fic--"
A long thin shadow blotted the opaque glass door in front of me. The
door opened. Wallace Starr stepped in.
"Shall I get to work on it?" Ric asked.
"Yeah. And make it good." I hung up.
Starr walked over to my desk. I picked up my letter opener.
"You might have told me," he preluded.
"What?"
"The changes naturally. I spent three hours at the printers last night.
Didn't get home until after two."
* * * * *
He stalked into his office and slammed the door behind him. Then I
phoned the printers.
"Lemme talk to Corky," I told the girl who answered.
"Mr. Corkendahl is not here," her Brooklynese voice trilled. "Mr.
Corkendahl is home in bed, on account of he spent half the night
rechanging some changes for Mr. Starr."
"Was Mr. Starr there last night?"
"Why yes."
"Sure?"
"Mr. Corkendahl informed me he was here until almost two. Mr.
Corkendahl is not in the habit of prevaricating, Mr. Field."
I hung up in a daze. If Wallace Starr was definitely not in his loft
apartment at twelve-thirty last night, then.... I rang up Alice. No
answer. I rang her every fifteen minutes until she did.
"Where were you?" I demanded.
"Why, Max." She sounded piqued. "All right, I'll tell you. I was up at
Wallace Starr's apartment."
"But he's here!"
"I know. I waited until he left. Then I went up to the loft. I told
the janitor I worked for Mr. Starr and he let me in. I went over the
place with a fine-tooth comb. Max, there's simply nothing there to get
excited about. He's quite neat for a bachelor. Everything very prosaic
and natural, except for that big amateur radio of his."
"Amateur radio?"
"You know. Amateur sending and receiving. Mr. Starr is a ham."
"H-ham?" I swallowed hard. "Alice, you're right. I'm going off my
rocker."
"Just overwork," she protested, soothingly. "You take your science
fiction too seriously. What you need is a nice vacation, away from the
office and everything that even smells like work."
"I'll do it," I said meekly. Right then a thought hit me. It had been
simmering in my mind for a long time. Now it exploded into words.
"Alice--let's make it a honeymoon!"