Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _The Counterfeit Man More Science
Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse_ published in 1963. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
errors have been corrected without note.
The
Dark
Door
1
It was almost dark when he awoke, and lay on the bed, motionless and
trembling, his heart sinking in the knowledge that he should never have
slept. For almost half a minute, eyes wide with fear, he lay in the
silence of the gloomy room, straining to hear some sound, some
indication of their presence.
But the only sound was the barely audible hum of his wrist watch and the
dismal splatter of raindrops on the cobbled street outside. There was no
sound to feed his fear, yet he knew then, without a flicker of doubt,
that they were going to kill him.
He shook his head, trying to clear the sleep from his brain as he turned
the idea over and over in his mind. He wondered why he hadn't realized
it before, long before, back when they had first started this horrible,
nerve-wracking cat-and-mouse game. The idea just hadn't occurred to him.
But he knew the game-playing was over. They wanted to kill him now. And
he knew that ultimately they _would_ kill him. There was no way for him
to escape.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, painfully, perspiration standing out
on his bare back, and he waited, listening. How could he have slept,
exposing himself so helplessly? Every ounce of his energy, all the skill
and wit and shrewdness at his command were necessary in this cruel hunt;
yet he had taken the incredibly terrible chance of sleeping, of losing
consciousness, leaving himself wide open and helpless against the attack
which he knew was inevitable.
How much had he lost? How close had they come while he slept?
Fearfully, he walked to the window, peered out, and felt his muscles
relax a little. The gray, foggy streets were still light. He still had a
little time before the terrible night began.
He stumbled across the small, old-fashioned room, sensing that action of
some sort was desperately needed. The bathroom was tiny; he stared in
the battered, stained reflector unit, shocked at the red-eyed
stubble-faced apparition that stared back at him.
This is Harry Scott, he thought, thirty-two years old, and in the prime
of life, but not the same Harry Scott who started out on a ridiculous
quest so many months ago. This Harry Scott was being hunted like an
animal, driven by fear, helpless, and sure to die, unless he could find
an escape, somehow. But there were too many of them for him to escape,
and they were too clever, and they _knew_ he knew too much.
He stepped into the shower-shave unit, trying to relax, to collect his
racing thoughts. Above all, he tried to stay the fear that burned
through his mind, driving him to panic and desperation. The memory of
the last hellish night was too stark to allow relaxation--the growing
fear, the silent, desperate hunt through the night; the realization that
their numbers were increasing; his frantic search for a hiding place in
the New City; and finally his panic-stricken, pell-mell flight down into
the alleys and cobbled streets and crumbling frame buildings of the Old
City.... Even more horrible, the friends who had turned on him, who
turned out to be _like_ them.
Back in the bedroom, he lay down again, his body still tense. There were
sounds in the building, footsteps moving around on the floor overhead, a
door banging somewhere. With every sound, every breath of noise, his
muscles tightened still further, freezing him in fear. His own breath
was shallow and rapid in his ears as he lay, listening, waiting.
If only something would happen! He wanted to scream, to bang his head
against the wall, to run about the room smashing his fist into doors,
breaking every piece of furniture. It was the _waiting_, the eternal
waiting, and running, waiting some more, feeling the net drawing tighter
and tighter as he waited, feeling the measured, unhurried tread behind
him, always following, coming closer and closer, as though he were a
mouse on a string, twisting and jerking helplessly.
If only they would move, do something he could counter.
But he wasn't even sure any more that he could detect them. And they
were so careful never to move into the open.
He jumped up feverishly, moved to the window, and peered between the
slats of the dusty, old-fashioned blind at the street below.
An empty street at first, wet, gloomy. He saw no one. Then he caught the
flicker of light in an entry several doors down and across the street,
as a dark figure sparked a cigarette to life. Harry felt the chill run
down his back again. Still there, then, still waiting, a hidden figure,
always present, always waiting....
Harry's eyes scanned the rest of the street rapidly. Two three-wheelers
rumbled by, their rubber hissing on the wet pavement. One of them
carried the blue-and-white of the Old City police, but the car didn't
slow up or hesitate as it passed the dark figure in the doorway. They
would never help me anyway, Harry thought bitterly. He had tried that
before, and met with ridicule and threats. There would be no help from
the police in the Old City.
Another figure came around a corner. There was something vaguely
familiar about the tall body and broad shoulders as the man walked
across the wet street, something Harry faintly recognized from somewhere
during the spinning madness of the past few weeks.
The man's eyes turned up toward the window for the briefest instant,
then returned steadfastly to the street. Oh, they were sly! You could
never spot them looking at you, never for _sure_, but they were always
there, always nearby. And there was no one he could trust any longer, no
one to whom he could turn.
Not even George Webber.
Swiftly his mind reconsidered that possibility as he watched the figure
move down the street. True, Dr. Webber had started him out on this
search in the first place. But even Webber would never believe what he
had found. Webber was a scientist, a researcher.
What could he do--go to Webber and tell him that there were men alive in
the world who were _not_ men, who were somehow men and something more?
Could he walk into Dr. Webber's office in the Hoffman Medical Center,
walk through the gleaming bright corridors, past the shining metallic
doors, and tell Dr. Webber that he had found people alive in the world
who could actually see in four dimensions, live in four dimensions,
_think_ in four dimensions?
Could he explain to Dr. Webber that he knew this simply because in some
way he had sensed them, and traced them, and discovered them; that he
had not one iota of proof, except that he was being followed by them,
hunted by them, even now, in a room in the Old City, waiting for them to
strike him down?
He shook his head, almost sobbing. That was what was so horrible. He
couldn't tell Webber, because Webber would be certain that he had gone
mad, just like the rest. He couldn't tell anyone, he couldn't do
anything. He could just wait, and run, and wait--
It was almost dark now and the creaking of the old board house
intensified the fear that tore at Harry Scott's mind. Tonight was the
night; he was sure of it. Maybe he had been foolish in coming here to
the slum area, where the buildings were relatively unguarded, where
anybody could come and go as he pleased. But the New City had hardly
been safer, even in the swankiest private chamber in the highest
building. They had had agents there, too, hunting him, driving home the
bitter lesson of fear they had to teach him. Now he was afraid enough;
now they were ready to kill him.
Down below he heard a door bang, and he froze, his back against the
wall. There were footsteps, quiet voices, barely audible. His whole body
shook and his eyes slid around to the window. The figure in the doorway
still waited--but the other figure was not visible. He heard the steps
on the stair, ascending slowly, steadily, a tread that paced itself with
the powerful throbbing of his own pulse.
Then the telephone screamed out--
Harry gasped. The footsteps were on the floor below, moving steadily
upward. The telephone rang again and again; the shrill jangling filled
the room insistently. He waited until he couldn't wait any longer. His
hand fumbled in a pocket and leveled a tiny, dull-gray metal object at
the door. With the other hand, he took the receiver from the hook.
"Harry! Is that you?"
His throat was like sandpaper and the words came out in a rasp. "What is
it?"
"Harry, this is George--George Webber."