I glanced sideways at Foster. He didn't look like a nut....
"All I've got to say is," I said, "you're a hell of a spry-looking
ninety."
"You find my appearance strangely youthful. What would be your reaction
if I told you that I've aged greatly in the past few months? That
a year ago I could have passed as no older than thirty without the
slightest difficulty----"
"I don't think I'd believe you," I said. "And I'm sorry, Mr. Foster;
but I don't believe the bit about the 1918 hospital either. How can I?
It's----"
"I know. Fantastic. But let's go back a moment to the book itself. Look
closely at the paper; it's been examined by experts. They're baffled by
it. Attempts to analyze it chemically failed--they were unable to take
a sample. It's impervious to solvents----"
"They couldn't get a sample?" I said. "Why not just tear off the corner
of one of the sheets?"
"Try it," Foster said.
I picked up the book and plucked at the edge of one of the blank
sheets, then pinched harder and pulled. The paper held. I got a better
grip and pulled again. It was like fine, tough leather, except that it
didn't even stretch.
"It's tough, all right," I said. I took out my pocket knife and opened
it and worked on the edge of the paper. Nothing. I went over to the
bureau and put the paper flat against the top and sawed at it, putting
my weight on the knife. I raised the knife and brought it down hard. I
didn't so much as mark the sheet. I put the knife away.
"That's some paper, Mr. Foster," I said.
"Try to tear the binding," Foster said. "Put a match to it. Shoot at
it if you like. Nothing will make an impression on that material. Now,
you're a logical man, Legion. Is there something here outside ordinary
experience or is there not?"
I sat down, feeling for a cigarette. I still didn't have.
"What does it prove?" I said.
"Only that the book is not a simple fraud. You're facing something
which can't be dismissed as fancy. The book exists. That is our basic
point of departure."
"Where do we go from there?"
"There is a second factor to be considered," Foster went on. "At some
time in the past I seem to have made an enemy. Someone, or something,
is systematically hunting me."
I tried a laugh, but it felt out of place. "Why not sit still and let
it catch up with you? Maybe it could tell you what the whole thing is
about."
Foster shook his head. "It started almost thirty years ago," he said.
"I was driving south from Albany, New York, at night. It was a long
straight stretch of road, no houses. I noticed lights following me. Not
headlights--something that bobbed along, off in the fields along the
road. But they kept pace, gradually moving alongside. Then they closed
in ahead, keeping out of range of my headlights. I stopped the car. I
wasn't seriously alarmed, just curious. I wanted a better look, so I
switched on my spotlight and played it on the lights. They disappeared
as the light touched them. After half a dozen were gone, the rest began
closing in. I kept picking them off. There was a sound, too, a sort of
high-pitched humming. I caught a whiff of sulphur then, and suddenly
I was afraid--deathly afraid. I caught the last one in the beam no
more than ten feet from the car. I can't describe the horror of the
moment----"
"It sounds pretty weird," I said. "But what was there to be afraid of?
It must have been some kind of heat lightning."
"There is always the pat explanation," Foster said. "But no explanation
can rationalize the instinctive dread I felt. I started up the car
and drove on--right through the night and the next day. I sensed that
I must put distance between myself and whatever it was I had met. I
bought a home in California and tried to put the incident out of my
mind--with limited success. Then it happened again."
"The same thing? Lights?"
"It was more sophisticated the next time. It started with
interference--static--on my radio. Then it affected the wiring in the
house. All the lights began to glow weakly, even though they were
switched off. I could feel it--feel it in my bones--moving closer,
hemming me in. I tried the car; it wouldn't start. Fortunately, I kept
a few horses at that time. I mounted and rode into town--and at a fair
gallop, you may be sure. I saw the lights, but outdistanced them. I
caught a train and kept going."
"I don't see----"
"It happened again; four times in all. I thought perhaps I had
succeeded in eluding it at last. I was mistaken. I have had definite
indications that my time here is drawing to a close. I would have been
gone before now, but there were certain arrangements to be made."
"Look," I said. "This is all wrong. You need a psychiatrist, not an
ex-tough guy. Delusions of persecution----"
"It seemed obvious that the explanation was to be found somewhere in my
past life," Foster went on. "I turned to the notebook, my only link.
I copied it out, including the encrypted portion. I had photostatic
enlargements made of the initial section--the part written in
unfamiliar characters. None of the experts who have examined the script
have been able to identify it.
"I necessarily, therefore, concentrated my attention on the last
section--the only part written in English. I was immediately struck by
a curious fact I had ignored before. The writer made references to an
Enemy, a mysterious 'they', against which defensive measures had to be
taken."
"Maybe that's where you got the idea," I said. "When you first read the
book----"
"The writer of the log," Foster said, "was dogged by the same nemesis
that now follows me."
"It doesn't make any sense," I said.
"For the moment," Foster said, "stop looking for logic in the
situation. Look for a pattern instead."
"There's a pattern, all right," I said.
"The next thing that struck me," Foster went on, "was a reference to a
loss of memory--a second point of some familiarity to me. The writer
expresses frustration at the inability to remember certain facts which
would have been useful to him in his pursuit."
"What kind of pursuit?"
"Some sort of scientific project, as nearly as I can gather. The
journal bristles with tantalizing references to matters that are never
explained."
"And you think the man that wrote it had amnesia?"
"Not exactly amnesia, perhaps," Foster said. "But there were things he
was unable to remember."
"If that's amnesia, we've all got it," I said. "Nobody's got a perfect
memory."
"But these were matters of importance; not the kinds of thing that
simply slip one's mind."
"I can see how you'd want to believe the book had something to do with
your past, Mr. Foster," I said. "It must be a hard thing, not knowing
your own life story. But you're on the wrong track. Maybe the book is a
story you started to write--in code, so nobody would accidentally read
the stuff and kid you about it."
"Legion, what was it you planned to do when you got to Miami?"
The question caught me a little off-guard. "Well, I don't know," I
hedged. "I wanted to get south, where it's warm. I used to know a few
people----"
"In other words, nothing," Foster said. "Legion, I'll pay you well to
stay with me and see this thing through."
I shook my head. "Not me, Mr. Foster. The whole thing sounds--well,
the kindest word I can think of is 'nutty.'"
"Legion," Foster said, "do you really believe I'm insane?"
"Let's just say this all seems a little screwy to me, Mr. Foster."
"I'm not asking you just to work for me," Foster said. "I'm asking for
your help."
"You might as well look for your fortune in tea leaves," I said,
irritated. "There's nothing in what you've told me."
"There's more, Legion. Much more. I've recently made an important
discovery. When I know you're with me, I'll tell you. You know enough
now to accept the fact that this isn't entirely a figment of my
imagination."
"I don't know anything," I said. "So far it's all talk."
"If you're concerned about payment----"
"No, damn it," I barked. "Where are the papers you keep talking about?
I ought to have my head examined for sitting here humoring you. I've
got troubles enough----" I stopped talking and rubbed my hands over my
scalp. "I'm sorry, Mr. Foster," I said. "I guess what's really griping
me is that you've got everything I think I want--and you're not content
with it. It bothers me to see you off chasing fairies. If a man with
his health and plenty of money can't enjoy life, what the hell is there
for anybody?"
Foster looked at me thoughtfully. "Legion, if you could have anything
in life you wanted, what would you ask for?"
"Anything? I've wanted a lot of different things. Once I wanted to be
a hero. Later, I wanted to be smart, know all the answers. Then I had
the idea that a chance to do an honest job, one that needed doing, was
the big thing. I never found that job. I never got smart either, or
figured out how to tell a hero from a coward, without a program."
"In other words," Foster said, "you were looking for an abstraction
to believe in--in this case, Justice. But you won't find justice in
nature. It's a thing that only man expects or acknowledges."
"There are some good things in life; I'd like to get a piece of them."
"Don't lose your capacity for dreaming, in the process."
"Dreams?" I said. "Oh, I've got those. I want an island somewhere in
the sun, where I can spend my time fishing and watching the sea."
"You're speaking cynically--but you're still attempting to concretize
an abstraction," Foster said. "But no matter--materialism is simply
another form of idealism."
I looked at Foster. "But I know I'll never have those things--or that
Justice you were talking about, either. Once you really know you'll
never make it...."
"Perhaps unattainability is an essential element of any dream," Foster
said. "But hold onto your dream, whatever it is--don't ever give it up."
"So much for philosophy," I said. "Where is it getting us?"
"You'd like to see the papers," Foster said. He fished a key ring from
an inner pocket. "If you don't mind going out to the car," he said,
"and perhaps getting your hands dirty, there's a strong-box welded
to the frame. I keep photostats of everything there, along with my
passport, emergency funds and so on. I've learned to be ready to
travel on very short notice. Lift the floorboards; you'll see the box."
"It's not all that urgent," I said. "I'll take a look in the
morning--after I've caught up on some sleep. But don't get the wrong
idea--it's just my knot-headed curiosity."
"Very well," Foster said. He lay back, sighed. "I'm tired, Legion," he
said. "My mind is tired."
"Yeah," I said, "so is mine--not to mention other portions of my
anatomy."
"Get some sleep," Foster said. "We'll talk again in the morning."
* * * * *
I pushed back the light blanket and slid out of bed. Underfoot, the rug
was as thick and soft as a working girl's mink. I went across to the
closet and pushed the button that made the door slide aside. My old
clothes were still lying on the floor where I had left them, but I had
the clean ones Foster had lent me. He wouldn't mind if I borrowed them
for a while longer--it would be cheaper for him in the long run. Foster
was as looney as a six-day bike racer, but there was no point in my
waiting around to tell him so.
The borrowed outfit didn't include a coat. I thought of putting my
old jacket on but it was warm outside and a grey pin-stripe with
grease spots wouldn't help the picture any. I transferred my personal
belongings from the grimy clothes on the floor, and eased the door open.
Downstairs, the curtains were drawn in the living room. I could vaguely
make out the outline of the bar. It wouldn't hurt to take along a bite
to eat. I groped my way behind the bar, felt along the shelves, found
a stack of small cans that rattled softly. Nuts, probably. I reached to
put a can on the bar and it clattered against something I couldn't see.
I swore silently, felt over the obstruction. It was bulky, with the
cold smoothness of metal, and there were small projections with sharp
corners. It felt for all the world like----
I leaned over it and squinted. With the faint gleam of moonlight from
a chink in the heavy curtains falling just so, I could almost make
out the shape; I crouched a little lower, and caught the glint of
light along the perforated jacket of a .30 calibre machine gun. My eye
followed the barrel, made out the darker square of the entrance hall,
and the tiny reflection of light off the polished brass doorknob at the
far end.
I stepped back, flattened against the wall, with a hollow feeling
inside. If I had tried to walk through that door....
Foster was crazy enough for two ordinary nuts. My eyes flicked around
the room. I had to get out quickly before he jumped out and said _Boo!_
and I died of heart failure. The windows, maybe. I came around the end
of the bar, got down and crawled under the barrel of the gun and over
to the heavy drapes, pushing them aside. Pale light glowed beyond the
glass. Not the soft light of the moon, but a milky, churning glow that
reminded me of the phosphorescence of sea water....
I dropped the curtain, ducked back under the gun into the hall, and
pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. There was a faint
glow from the luminous handle of the refrigerator. I yanked it open,
spilling light on the floor, and looked around. Plenty of gleaming
white fixtures--but no door out. There was a window, almost obscured
by leaves. I eased it open and almost broke my fist on a wrought-iron
trellis.
Back in the hall, I tried two more doors, both locked. A third opened,
and I found myself looking down the cellar stairs. They were steep and
dark as cellar stairs always seem to be, but they might be the way out.
I felt for a light switch, flipped it on. A weak illumination showed me
a patch of damp-looking floor at the foot of the steps. It still wasn't
inviting, but I went down.
There was an oil furnace in the center of the room, with dusty
duct-work spidering out across the ceiling; some heavy packing cases
of rough wood were stacked along one wall, and at the far side of the
room, there was a boarded-up coal bin--but no cellar door.
I turned to go back up. Then I heard a sound and froze. Somewhere a
cockroach scuttled briefly. Then I heard the sound again, a faint
grinding of stone against stone. I peered through the cob-webbed
shadows, my mouth suddenly dry. There was nothing.
The thing for me to do was to get up the stairs fast, batter the iron
trellis out of the kitchen window, and run like hell. The trouble was,
I had to move to do it, and the sound of my own steps was so loud it
was paralyzing. Compared to this, the shock of stumbling over the gun
was just a mild kick, like finding a whistle in your Cracker-jacks.
Ordinarily I didn't believe in things that went bump in the night,
but this time I was hearing the bumps myself, and all I could think
about was Edgar Allen Poe and his cheery tales about people who got
themselves buried before they were thoroughly dead.
There was another sound, then a sharp snap, and I saw light spring up
from a crack that opened across the floor in the shadowy corner. That
was enough for me. I jumped for the stairs, took them three at a time,
and banged through the kitchen door. I grabbed up a chair, swung it
around and slammed it against the trellis. It bounced back and cracked
me across the mouth. I dropped it, tasting blood. Maybe that was what
I needed. The panic faded before a stronger emotion--anger. I turned
and barged along the dark hall to the living room--and lights suddenly
went on. I whirled and saw Foster standing in the hall doorway, fully
dressed.
"OK, Foster!" I yelled. "Just show me the way out of here."
Foster held my eyes, his face tense. "Calm yourself, Mr. Legion," he
said softly. "What's happened here?"
"Get over there to that gun," I snapped, nodding toward the .30 calibre
on the bar. "Disarm it, and then get the front door open. I'm leaving."
Foster's eyes flicked over the clothes I was wearing.
"So I see," he said. He looked me in the face again. "What is it that's
frightened you, Legion?"
"Don't act so innocent," I said. "Or am I supposed to get the idea the
brownies set up that booby trap while you were asleep?"
His eyes went to the gun and his expression tightened. "It's mine," he
said. "It's an automatic arrangement. Something's activated it--and
without sounding my alarm. You haven't been outside, have you?"
"How could I----"
"This is important, Legion," Foster rapped. "It would take more than
the sight of a machine gun to panic you. What have you seen?"
"I was looking for a back door," I said. "I went down to the cellar. I
didn't like it down there so I came back up."
"What did you see in the cellar?" Foster's face looked strained,
colorless.
"It looked like ..." I hesitated. "There was a crack in the floor,
noises, lights...."
"The floor," Foster said. "Certainly. That's the weak point." He seemed
to be talking to himself.
I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "Something funny going on outside
your windows, too."
Foster looked toward the heavy hangings. "Listen carefully, Legion,"
he said. "We are in grave danger--both of us. It's fortunate you arose
when you did. This house, as you must have guessed by now, is something
of a fortress. At this moment, it is under attack. The walls are
protected by some rather formidable defenses. I can't say as much for
the cellar floor; it's merely three feet of ferro-concrete. We'll have
to go now--very swiftly, and very quietly."
"OK--show me," I said. Foster turned and went back along the hall to
one of the locked doors where he pressed something. The door opened and
I followed him inside a small room. He crossed to a blank wall, pressed
against it. A panel slid aside--and Foster jumped back.
"God's wounds!" he gasped. He threw himself at the wall and the panel
closed. I stood stock still; from somewhere there was a smell like
sulphur.
"What the hell goes on?" I said. My voice cracked, as it always does
when I'm scared.
"That odor," Foster said. "Quickly--the other way!"
I stepped back and Foster pushed past me and ran along the hall, with
me at his heels. I didn't look back to see what was at my own heels.
Foster took the stairs three at a time, pulled up short on the landing.
He went to his knees, shoved back an Isfahan rug as supple as sable,
and gripped a steel ring set in the floor. He looked at me, his face
white.
"Invoke thy gods," he said hoarsely, and heaved at the ring. A section
of floor swung up, showing the first step of a flight leading down into
a black hole. Foster didn't hesitate; he dropped his feet in, scrambled
down. I followed. The stairs went down about ten feet, ending on a
stone floor. There was the sound of a latch turning, and we stepped out
into a larger room. I saw moonlight through a row of high windows, and
smelled the fragrance of fresh night air.
"We're in the garage," Foster whispered. "Go around to the other side
of the car and get in--quietly." I touched the smooth flank of the
rakish cabriolet, felt my way around it, and eased the door open. I
slipped into the seat and closed the door gently. Beside me, Foster
touched a button and a green light glowed on the dash.
"Ready?" he said.
"Sure."
The starter whined half a turn and the engine caught. Without waiting,
Foster gunned it, let in the clutch. The car leaped for the closed
doors, and I ducked, and then saw the doors snap aside as the low-slung
car roared out into the night. We took the first turn in the drive at
forty, and rounded onto the highway at sixty, tires screaming. I took a
look back and caught a glimpse of the house, its stately façade white
in the moonlight--and then we were out of sight over a rise.
"What's it all about?" I called over the rush of air. The needle
touched ninety, kept going.
"Later," Foster barked. I didn't feel like arguing. I watched in the
mirror for a few minutes, wondering where all the cops were tonight.
Then I settled down in the padded seat and watched the speedometer eat
up the miles.