It was meant to scare him: they couldn't possibly see him.
Nevertheless, Horner's heart almost stopped when he heard a volley of
shots. Then, in the silence that followed, he felt a momentary sorrow
for Jake Halrohan, who was either dead or a prisoner again. But his
case and Halrohan's were different--Halrohan had been duly convicted
for some crime; Horner was innocent.
He swam, and grew gradually numb with cold. He became aware of a
stronger current, surrendered himself to it and was borne along. The
voices had faded behind him; there had been only the first volley
of fire, then silence. He could not judge how far he had gone, nor
did he know the geography in the vicinity of the state prison. In
all probability there would be a three-state alarm out for Lionel
Overman--which now meant for Horner. He had to hurry.
* * * * *
The first false light of pre-dawn had faded. It was as dark now as the
middle of the night, but in half an hour daylight would come. Rain fell
in fitful squalls now; the rain seemed to be stopping. Horner had never
been so cold in his life. He thought hours had passed, but knew that
was impossible because dawn had not yet chased the night. He shivered
and broke for shore in an agonizingly slow crawl. He dragged himself
out of the water and lay there, gasping, panting, still shivering.
After a while he got up. The sullen sky seemed brighter across the
river now; dawn was coming. He had to get away. He had to get out of
his tell-tale prison denims before it was fully light or he would never
get out of them at all.
Very faintly he heard the wail of the prison siren. Slowly he walked up
the muddy embankment, then set out in a southerly direction. The rain
came down harder now, as if determined to make things as miserable for
Horner as it could. He came to a fence. It was barbed wire and it meant
people weren't far. He decided to climb the fence, parting the top two
strands and going through. He found himself in a pasture. Something
big and blocky loomed ahead--a barn. At least he could sleep there for
a few hours. He would be comparatively safe if he could find a place
up in the loft somewhere, but of course that would be delaying the
inevitable, for if he waited till night he would still be within siren
distance of the state prison.
He lifted the lock bar cautiously and let the big barn door swing out.
There was a faint protest of rusted metal and Horner allowed a full two
minutes to pass before he went inside. The cattle smell was strong.
A cow lowed uncertainly off to his left, but he could see nothing.
He passed a smaller door, not meant for cattle, and the smaller door
was not locked. He smiled as it swung on its rusty hinges in the rain
and the wind. If anyone was about, that would explain the other hinge
noise. Meanwhile, Horner was ravenously hungry. He would eat anything,
even cattlefeed.... He stumbled suddenly, reaching out awkwardly to
right himself. A bucket clanged against wood, and he froze.
* * * * *
Then, not ten feet above Horner's head, a sleepy girl's voice said, "Go
back to sleep, will you, Caleb honey? It wasn't nothin'."
"I heard someone down there."
"It wasn't nothin', Caleb honey," the girl repeated. "One of the cows
kicked inter somethin', is all. Put your arm back around me Caleb love,
there Caleb, ah Caleb."
"I still thought. I--"
"Caleb. I swear, boy, what is the matter with you! My old man will be
up an' to the barn a few minutes fum now an' all you can do is talk.
Caleb Wilson if you don't ... ah...."
The gloom inside the barn was less complete than it had been outside,
only moments ago. Rain drummed on the roof as Horner groped slowly
forward, found the foot of a ladder which probably went up to the loft.
The boy named Caleb and the farm girl were up there and, from the
tone of their conversation, probably undressed. Horner needed Caleb's
clothing. He wondered for a moment if it would be tell-tale farm
clothing, a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, perhaps. He couldn't
get very far in New York with that, not when an alarm was out for an
escaped convict. But if Caleb had come a-courting in his Sunday best....
The sounds above his head made Horner blush furiously as he mounted the
ladder one slow rung at a time. The wood creaked and Horner froze, but
the sounds of love did not abate. Horner could see blacks and grays
now, charcoals--but no pale grays and whites of day.
* * * * *
Suddenly, he was in the loft. He stood there, wanting to breathe
hard but barely daring to breathe at all. From the sound of _their_
breathing, Caleb and the girl had abandoned themselves completely. Hay
crunched underfoot, and Horner froze in his tracks, crouched there.
But Caleb and the girl were beyond hearing. He could not see them: he
was very glad that this was so. His sense of privacy had already been
violated in a shocking fashion, both from their point of view and from
his.
They made animal sounds. Blood flooded Horner's face again. The hell
with it, he finally decided. They sounded happy enough, at any event.
He got down on hands and knees and groped for Caleb's clothing.
With one hand he found the clothing. With the other he struck something
warm and slightly yielding. Again, he froze.
"Caleb! How'd you get down there?"
"Down where?"
"My foot."
"I ain't down there."
"Caleb!" The foot explored Horner's arm, his shoulder. The foot drew
away as if Horner were flame. "Caleb," the voice was shocked. "Caleb, I
think it's somebody."
There was a gasp, a stirring, a creaking of wood and a crunching of
hay. Horner remained in a motionless crouch, one hand still gripping
the pile of clothing. He was aware of a dim shape as Caleb got up. He
wondered if Caleb could see him crouched there and decided that for the
moment he could not.
When Caleb was very close, when he would have stepped on Horner had
he advanced another two strides, Horner flung the pile of clothes in
his face and propelled himself forward head-first. His head struck
Caleb's belly as he hoped it would and the air rushed out of Caleb and
the farmboy did a jackknife over Horner's shoulder. Horner backed away
quickly and hit Caleb as he went down. He was not happy about that, but
he had to make sure. He connected twice with Caleb's face.
* * * * *
"Daddy!" the girl demanded in a choking sob. It was half question and
half frightened guess. She didn't raise her voice, though. And she
would not raise her voice, on the chance that it was not Daddy and
Daddy, maybe, would not hear. Because she was as much afraid of Daddy
finding her here with Caleb as she was afraid of Horner.
"Just be quiet and you won't get hurt," Horner whispered.
"Who are you?"
Instead of answering, Horner commenced stripping off his prison
denims. He changed into Caleb's clothing while the girl administered
to her lover, stroking him and cooing at him in the growing light.
Horner could see the clothing now: it was shirt and loud tie and
farm-catalogue suit and while Horner never would have picked these
particular items for himself out of choice, they would get by in New
York without too many second glances.
"Got a car?" Horner asked.
"Daddy has a--"
"I mean Caleb."
"Y-yes, sir. He come in a pick-up truck."
"Where are the keys?" Horner asked.
"But you ain't a-takin'--"
"Where are the keys?"
"You're wearin' them in your left-hand pocket, I think."
Horner checked the pocket. The keys were there.
"Where's the truck?" he asked.
"Round behind the barn. You take the lane there over to the fence. On
t' other side of the fence, but it's Caleb's uncle's truck, mister. I
swear, he'll tan Caleb's hide if you--"
"Well," said Horner righteously, and then felt foolish, "he ought to."
Then he heard Caleb sighing, knew the boy would be all right. He also
knew that he would be safe in the pick-up truck for at least an hour or
so. For the girl wouldn't dare tell her father, at dawn, coming from
the barn, that Caleb's pick-up truck had been stolen. And even Caleb
had a problem. Apparently it was some distance back to his uncle's
farm--and there was still the problem of accounting for his absence in
the night.
Horner went down the ladder quickly, and out of the barn. It was still
raining outside, but dawn light had finally come. Abruptly, Horner
flattened himself against the wall of the barn. He'd heard something.
Footsteps squelching through the mucky pasture. A big burly man went by
and Horner waited ten seconds before he dared to move again. Then he
found the lane behind the barn and marched along through the mud until
he reached the three strands of the barbed wire fence, parted them and
went through. He had come several hundred yards and now saw the truck
ahead of him. He wondered if he dared start the engine with the farmer
so close. He decided he had to chance it, swinging up into the truck
and inserting the key in the ignition.
Moments later, he was driving through the rain. The lane took him to
a two-lane blacktop which led to a concrete highway heading south for
the city. Grimly, Horner clung to the wheel. It was still quite early
and almost no traffic was on the road. Horner expected pursuit almost
momentarily.
* * * * *
Miraculously, he was in Brooklyn. He still couldn't believe it. He
had driven the pick-up truck down through the rain to the northern
outskirts of the Bronx, where he'd parked it near a subway station. A
series of subway rides had brought him through the Bronx and Manhattan
to Brooklyn, where he lived with Jane. He thought his trail was covered
quite well. There was something hearteningly anonymous about a subway
passenger.
The rain had stopped. The time, on a bank clock, was quarter past
eleven. The bank was around the corner from where the Hugh Horner
lived. Horner's steps became swifter: he had already decided to see
his wife. Jane must have been frantic, he told himself. Naturally,
Horner couldn't just barge in on a wife now apparently twice his age
and announce himself. In the first place, she wouldn't believe him. In
the second, there would be the element of shock. In the third, he was
still wanted by the police--as Lonnie Overman.
Horner shrugged. He would _have to_ barge in on her. He had to get off
the streets, or sooner or later he would be spotted as the escaped
convict. Every couple married twenty years, and moderately happy,
Horner told himself, had certain shared secrets. Given time and the
opportunity, he could prove his identity to Jane beyond the shadow of a
doubt, new body or not.
He reached their apartment building and went into the lobby. He stood
there longer than was necessary, for the self-service elevator had
already come down. He studied his reflection in the lobby mirror. The
clothing was a pretty good fit, but the suit was a cheap sharkskin in
a loud plaid, and the tie was a clashing polka-dotted affair. You look
just great, Horner told his reflection. But he had to admit he was
not really sorry. He was young again, strong and healthy, and not bad
looking in a dashing, devil-may-care way. Despite Lonnie Overman's
troubles, the face was one used to smiling. Horner could see that. It
was a strong-looking face and the eyes, which Horner had expected to
be furtive, were frank and bold. The furtive look, then, belonged to
Overman's personality and Overman's personality no longer inhabited
Overman's body.
* * * * *
Whatever happened, Horner was suddenly determined to keep this good,
sound, healthy body. A lifer in prison, Overman did not need it.
Whereas Horner....
He shut the thoughts off. There was no predicting the future, no sense
raising his hopes, only to have them dashed, sundered, when the law
overtook him. He entered the elevator, went up to the fourth floor,
walked uncertainly along the hallway. Suddenly, he was frightened.
Could he explain the situation to Jane? It hardly seemed likely. It was
asking a lot of anyone. How could Jane believe the wild story he would
tell her? How could he...?
Horner shrugged, and jabbed a finger against the bell-button. He
waited a few seconds, hearing no response inside the apartment. Perhaps
Jane was out. Perhaps, even now, she was down at the police station,
tearfully describing Horner to the policemen on duty. "But officer,
I can't imagine _what_ could have happened to him. He was always so
punctual...." All at once the door opened.
Standing there staring at Horner was--Hugh Horner!
* * * * *
Horner's first impulse was to run. What could he explain to Jane now?
Whatever he tried was doomed to failure by the simple presence of the
other Hugh Horner--of the convict, Lionel Overman, in Horner's body,
he now realized. He should have expected it. Overman and the other
seven men in the observation room, the auburn-haired girl had said
at _Bodies, Inc._, had approved of the switch. It was a question of
money, the girl had said. And now Horner knew that was a lie. It had
to be a lie. It wasn't a question of money at all. Lionel Overman was
a convict. And the others? Convicts too, Horner decided. Glad to trade
twenty years of their lives for freedom.... Apparently they had been
recruited in prison by hirelings of _Bodies, Inc._ Apparently they
knew the full score. Lionel Overman--in Horner's body--seemed quite
sure of himself.
"Good God!" Horner blurted. "You're me! You have my body--Horner's that
is!"
"Quiet, you fool," the other Hugh Horner told him. "The old lady'll
hear you. I'll give you this much of a break: get lost and I won't call
the cops. But beat it--fast!"
"Now listen--" Horner began. His voice trailed off. He had nothing to
say. He understood, but he was stunned. Intellectual understanding and
emotional acceptance of a situation, he knew, having learned the hard
way, were two different things. But he studied Lionel Overman in Hugh
Horner's body, and was more determined than ever that he would not go
back, if going back were possible. The Hugh Horner he looked at was an
ageing man. Forty-seven? He looked easily that old. He was a dumpy man
with a sagging-jowled face, small, rather close-set eyes and a receding
hair line. The eyes looked crafty, too: Horner had never known his eyes
to look crafty before. Probably, that was Overman's personality coming
through.
"You listen to me," Overman said, "and listen good. Get lost. I mean
that brother. We both know the score, so don't try to pull any of
this bewilderment crap on me. I heard over the radio how you escaped,
but hell, man, they got a seven state alarm out for you. I got enough
trouble with that bag of an old lady inside--"
"What," said Horner in a shocked voice, "did you say?"
"I got enough trouble with your bag of a wife, I said," Overman told
him. "Hell, man, maybe my body's older now, but my memory ain't. She's
a bag. A real bag. But what do you care, huh? You ain't saddled with
her any more."
"Saddled with her?" Horner mumbled. "Saddled? I--I love my wife.
How dare you call her a--a--" Horner went livid with rage, grabbed
Overman's arm.
* * * * *
The small dumpy man lurched toward him. "Hey, leggo--" Overman struck
out awkwardly, unathletically, in the Hugh Horner body. Horner warded
off the weak blows easily, and hit Overman once, expertly, on the point
of the jaw just as Jane Horner called from within the apartment:
"Who is it, dear? What's taking so long?"
Horner let the unconscious Overman fall. He was about to flee back to
the elevator because he couldn't face his wife now, not--apparently--as
the man who had just knocked Hugh Horner unconscious. But an apartment
door between theirs and the elevator opened and Horner had no choice
but to duck into his own apartment.
Jane appeared from the direction of the kitchen. She was wearing an
apron and she was dumpier than Horner remembered. Probably, Horner
told himself, my own dumpiness prevented me from seeing her that way.
She wore her hair in a bun and was forty-five and looked it. She was
holding a heavy green-glass pitcher in her hand and looked down at
what was apparently her unconscious husband on the floor and let out a
scream--or began to, for Horner ran to her and clasped a hand over her
mouth.
"I can explain everything," he said, wondering if, indeed, he could.
"If you promise not to shout or scream, I'll let go of you."
The trapped face nodded. Horner let go and his wife said, "I know you.
I know you now. I recognize you from the television. You're that Lionel
Overstreet--"
"Overman--but I'm not."
"Who escaped from the prison up state. What--what did you do to my
husband?"
"I," said Horner, "am your husband."
She looked at him. She looked at the Hugh Horner body, unconscious, on
the floor. She sobbed hysterically and Horner said:
"You're both coming with me, in your car."
"A murderer! You'll kill us."
"Janey, listen to me. That time in Jones Beach before we were married
and the top of your bathing suit came off while we were swimming--"
It was something only she and the real Horner would know, but he had
waited too long. He had been staring down at the unconscious Lionel
Overman while he spoke, and when he looked up it was too late to ward
off the green-glass pitcher which Jane was bringing down over his head.
It exploded there.
So did the world--for Horner.
There was a buzzing. There was a roaring.
Horner opened his eyes. He was seated on the floor and his arms were
bound. So were his legs. He looked across the foyer. Overman-in-Horner
was similarly seated, similarly bound.
* * * * *
"You're both driving me crazy," Jane Horner said.
"You call the cops," Overman-in-Horner a asked.
"Not yet. I'll give you both a chance. You," she gestured at Overman,
"weren't acting yourself since you came home last night. You
acted--well--cruel. That's the only way I can describe it."
"Of course he wasn't acting himself," Horner-in-Overman said. "Because
he isn't--me."
"That makes sense, don't it?" Overman sneered.
"And you wouldn't say 'don't it,'" Jane told him. "And you," she said
to Horner, "when you let go of me I knew I was going to hit you with
the pitcher and I couldn't stop it, even when I wanted to when you said
that about Jones Beach. We--we were alone, my husband and me. But how
could you be my husband? You don't look like him. You--you're young
enough to be my--my son."
"Ask him," Horner said, pointing at the bound Overman, "ask him
about Jones Beach." Horner smiled grimly, waiting. His own memory of
Overman's life was only fair, and spotty, and certainly not very good
on particular details. Overman's of his would be the same.
"What happened at Jones Beach before we were married?" Jane asked
Overman.
"Twenty years ago? How the hell should I remember?"
"_He_ remembered," said Jane in a bewildered voice, pointing at Horner.
"Ask him about our honeymoon," Horner suggested.
"Where did we go on our honeymoon?"
"Er, Atlantic City," Overman-in-Horner said triumphantly.
"How long did we stay?"
"Two weeks."
"Who," Jane asked, "was in the hotel room next door?"
"Who remembers a thing like that?" Overman said after a while.
Horner grinned. "I do," he said, and named some old friends of theirs.
Jane made no comment, but asked other questions. They became
increasingly intimate, and Overman could not answer most of them. But
Horner, of course, answered them all.
Finally, Jane said, "I--I don't know how it can be." Her eyes were
filling with tears as she looked down at Overman. "You--you're my
husband. You should be. But you don't know the things he would know.
It's impossible, but you're not--not--"
Her voice trailed off. She turned to Horner. "While you--you're just
a boy. You don't look anything like my husband, but you know all the
things he knows."
* * * * *
Quickly, Horner told her. Overman tried to confound the incredible
story with acid comments on its impossibility, but Jane heard Horner's
words and, when he had finished, she went to him slowly and untied
him. She looked at him and said, also slowly, "You--you're my husband.
I know you are. I know it now. But you're young. I can't keep you,
saddled--"
"That's just what he said," Horner said.
"But you'll want your freedom, won't you?"
"Hell," said Horner, "no. I have a better idea. Bring the car around,
Janey. We have a lot to do."
"But this man who looks like--"
"He comes with us," Horner said. He chafed his wrists and ankles and
went inside quickly and soon returned with a Luger pistol, a memento
of his Army days in Germany during the Second World War. "Get up," he
told Overman, then realized he could not. "Untie him," he told Jane.
She did so. Overman got slowly to his feet. "Try anything and you'll
regret it," Horner said. "Don't go for the car, Janey. We'll all three
go for it together, Overman in the middle."
Horner rammed the Luger into his jacket pocket and took hold of
Overman's arm, steering him for the door. They went into the hall
together, and into the elevator. Jane flanked Overman nervously on the
other side. The elevator was not empty. A couple named Shapiro from the
sixth floor was in it and Jane smiled at them. Horner jabbed the Luger
against Overman's ribs and Overman gave them a weak smile too. Horner
nodded at them in a friendly fashion.
Then they were all outside, and the Shapiros went their way. "The car?"
Horner asked his wife. "Where is it?"
"Down the block," she said, and they began walking. Horner's grip on
Overman's arm was like iron. He was much stronger than the little
middle-aged man, and both of them knew it. But Overman was desperate,
and they both knew that too.
They got into the car. "You drive," Horner told his wife. Overman sat
between them and Horner told Jane to head out to Long Island. It would
be a long drive and Horner knew he would have to watch Overman every
mile of the way.
* * * * *
An hour later Horner said, "Turn there." He was surprised that he
remembered the way. It had all seemed dream-like in the taxi.
"What are you gonna do?" Overman asked. "Try and change back, that it?"
Horner shrugged. Actually, he did not know. He was playing the rest
of it by ear, but if there was an answer anywhere, it would be at
_Bodies, Inc._ He did not answer Overman, but told Jane to ignore the
no vehicles sign and drive up the lane alongside the high hemlock hedge.
They all got out of the car together. Horner took the Luger from his
pocket now. There was no need to hide it, no reason to take chances. He
lifted the door-knocker and let it fall and in a moment the beautiful
auburn-haired girl opened the door.
"Yes?" she said, then snapped, "You! You had no business coming back
here!"
"It wasn't my idea," Overman said with a bleak grin.
"It was mine," Horner told her. "You didn't say I'd be switching places
with a convict. How many other poor suckers fell for it?"
"That's no business of yours. We didn't do a thing that wasn't legal."
"There are no statutes in the books to cover what you did, you mean,"
Horner accused.
"It's the same thing. Now go away, will you? There's nothing we can do
for you here."
"I guess there is," Horner said wearily. "I'll tell you. I guess I'll
have to ask you to change us back."
He didn't like the idea. He wanted to be young. He thought after what
had happened, and since Overman apparently knew the score, he had
earned his right to keep the strong young body as his own. But there
seemed no other way out and, besides, he knew now that he loved Jane
deeply and could not show her the kind of love he wanted to, young
enough to be her son. He would change back with regrets, but change he
would. The dream of youth had ended for him....
The pretty auburn-haired girl was laughing. "But I thought you knew,"
she said with finality. "We can't possibly reverse the procedure. Once
made, the change is irrevocable because the electromagnetic impulses
which make up a human mind are delicate and could never stand the shock
twice. It looks like you're trapped, Mr. Horner. Or, should I say, Mr.
Overman?"
Momentarily, he was stunned. He looked at Jane. Jane's face was
crumpling. She was going to cry. A dumpy, middle-aged woman on the
brink of tears.
* * * * *
He whirled--too late! Overman was in the soft and dumpy Horner body,
but Overman's reflexes had apparently crossed over with him. He lunged
for the Luger just as Horner brought himself out of the momentary
funk which possessed him. The Luger was wrenched from Horner's hand.
It seemed to leap into Overman's with a life of its own, then Overman
swung it up and down and Horner felt the searing pain of it against
his temple. He staggered and would have fallen, but Jane came to him,
supported his weight until, slowly, strength flowed back.
"Go inside and call the cops," Overman snapped at the girl. "This guy
can't prove nothin'. Let the dame rant if she wants, they'll think
she's nuts and I'll wind up with a separation. Snap to it, baby!"
"Don't worry," auburn-hair said, "I will." And she disappeared inside.
"Hugh, oh, Hugh," Jane said. "What will we do?"
"You'll just wait for the cops," Overman told them. He held the Luger
on them steadily, watching them very closely.