"If I make a disturbance, the Gels will come. Is that what you're afraid
of?"
"Now, now. Be calm. No need for you to get excited."
"I won't make a scene," Brett said. "Just talk to me. How long have you
been here?"
"I dislike scenes. I dislike them intensely."
"When did you come here?"
"Just ten minutes ago. I just sat down. I haven't had my dinner yet.
Please, young man. Go back to your table." The fat man watched Brett
warily. Sweat glistened on his bald head.
"I mean this town. How long have you been here? Where did you come
from?"
"Why, I was born here. Where did I come from? What sort of question is
that? Just consider that the stork brought me."
"You were born here?"
"Certainly."
"What's the name of the town?"
* * *
"Are you trying to make a fool of me?" The fat man was getting angry.
His voice was rising.
"Shhh," Brett cautioned. "You'll attract the Gels."
"Blast the Jilts, whatever that is!" the fat man snapped. "Now, get
along with you. I'll call the manager."
"Don't you know?" Brett said, staring at the fat man. "They're all
dummies; golems, they're called. They're not real."
"Who're not real?"
"All these imitation people at the tables and on the dance floor. Surely
you realize--"
"I realize you're in need of medical attention." The fat man pushed back
his chair and got to his feet. "You keep the table," he said. "I'll dine
elsewhere."
"Wait!" Brett got up, seized the fat man's arm.
"Take your hands off me--" The fat man went toward the door. Brett
followed. At the cashier's desk Brett turned suddenly, saw a fluid brown
shape flicker--
"Look!" He pulled at the fat man's arm--
"Look at what?" The Gel was gone.
"It was there: a Gel."
The fat man flung down a bill, hurried away. Brett fumbled out a ten,
waited for change. "Wait!" he called. He heard the fat man's feet
receding down the stairs.
"Hurry," he said to the cashier. The woman sat glassy-eyed, staring at
nothing. The music died. The lights flickered, went off. In the gloom
Brett saw a fluid shape rise up--
He ran, pounding down the stairs. The fat man was just rounding the
corner. Brett opened his mouth to call--and went rigid, as a translucent
shape of mud shot from the door, rose up to tower before him. Brett
stood, mouth half open, eyes staring, leaning forward with hands
outflung. The Gel loomed, its surface flickering--waiting. Brett caught
an acrid odor of geraniums.
A minute passed. Brett's cheek itched. He fought a desire to blink, to
swallow--to turn and run. The high sun beat down on the silent street,
the still window displays.
Then the Gel broke form, slumped, flashed away. Brett tottered back
against the wall, let his breath out in a harsh sigh.
Across the street he saw a window with a display of camping equipment,
portable stoves, boots, rifles. He crossed the street, tried the door.
It was locked. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in
sight. He kicked in the glass beside the latch, reached through and
turned the knob. Inside he looked over the shelves, selected a heavy
coil of nylon rope, a sheath knife, a canteen. He examined a Winchester
repeating rifle with a telescopic sight, then put it back and strapped
on a .22 revolver. He emptied two boxes of long rifle cartridges into
his pocket, then loaded the pistol. He coiled the rope over his shoulder
and went back out into the empty street.
* * *
The fat man was standing in front of a shop in the next block, picking
at a blemish on his chin and eyeing the window display. He looked up
with a frown, started away as Brett came up.
"Wait a minute," Brett called. "Didn't you see the Gel? the one that
cornered me back there?"
The fat man looked back suspiciously, kept going.
"Wait!" Brett caught his arm. "I know you're real. I've seen you belch
and sweat and scratch. You're the only one I can call on--and I need
help. My friend is trapped--"
The fat man pulled away, his face flushed an even deeper red. "I'm
warning you, you maniac: get away from me...!"
Brett stepped close, rammed the fat man hard in the ribs. He sank to his
knees, gasping. The panama hat rolled away. Brett grabbed his arm,
steadied him.
"Sorry," he said. "I had to be sure. You're real, all right. We've got
to rescue my friend, Dhuva--"
The fat man leaned against the glass, rolling terrified eyes, rubbing
his stomach. "I'll call the police!" he gasped.
"What police?" Brett waved an arm. "Look. Not a car in sight. Did you
ever see the street that empty before?"
"Wednesday afternoon," the fat man gasped.
"Come with me. I want to show you. It's all hollow. There's nothing
behind these walls--"
"Why doesn't somebody come along?" the fat man moaned.
"The masonry is only a quarter-inch thick," Brett said. "Come on; I'll
show you."
"I don't like it," said the fat man. His face was pale and moist.
"You're mad. What's wrong? It's so quiet ..."
"We've got to try to save him. The Gel took him down into this pit--"
"Let me go," the man whined. "I'm afraid. Can't you just let me lead my
life in peace?"
"Don't you understand? The Gel took a man. They may be after you next."
"There's no one after me! I'm a business man ... a respectable citizen.
I mind my own business, give to charity, go to church. All I want is to
be left alone!"
* * *
Brett dropped his hands from the fat man's arms, stood looking at him:
the blotched face, pale now, the damp forehead, the quivering jowls. The
fat man stooped for his hat, slapped it against his leg, clamped it on
his head.
"I think I understand now," said Brett. "This is your place, this
imitation city. Everything's faked to fit your needs--like in the hotel.
Wherever you go, the scene unrolls in front of you. You never see the
Gels, never discover the secret of the golems--because you conform. You
never do the unexpected."
"That's right. I'm law-abiding. I'm respectable. I don't pry. I don't
nose into other people's business. Why should I? Just let me alone ..."
"Sure," Brett said. "Even if I dragged you down there and showed you,
you wouldn't believe it. But you're not in the scene now. I've taken you
out of it--"
Suddenly the fat man turned and ran a few yards, then looked back to see
whether Brett was pursuing him. He shook a round fist.
"I've seen your kind before," he shouted. "Troublemakers."
Brett took a step toward him. The fat man yelped and ran another fifty
feet, his coat tails bobbing. He looked back, stopped, a fat figure
alone in the empty sunny street.
"You haven't seen the last of me!" he shouted. "We know how to deal with
your kind." He tugged at his vest, went off along the sidewalk. Brett
watched him go, then started back toward the hollow building.
* * * * *
The jagged fragments of masonry Brett had knocked from the wall lay as
he had left them. He stepped through the opening, peered down into the
murky pit, trying to judge its depth. A hundred feet at least. Perhaps a
hundred and fifty.
He unslung the rope from his shoulder, tied one end to the brass stump,
threw the coil down the precipitous side. It fell away into darkness,
hung swaying. It was impossible to tell whether the end reached any
solid footing below. He couldn't waste any more time looking for help.
He would have to try it alone.
There was a scrape of shoe leather on the pavement outside. He turned,
stepped out into the white sunlight. The fat man rounded the corner,
recoiled as he saw Brett. He flung out a pudgy forefinger, his
protruding eyes wide in his blotchy red face.
"There he is! I told you he came this way!" Two uniformed policemen came
into view. One eyed the gun at Brett's side, put a hand on his own.
"Better take that off, sir."
"Look!" Brett said to the fat man. He stooped, picked up a crust of
masonry. "Look at this--just a shell--"
"He's blasted a hole right in that building, officer!" the fat man
shrilled. "He's dangerous."
The cop ignored the gaping hole in the wall. "You'll have to come along
with me, sir. This gentleman registered a complaint ..."
Brett stood staring into the cop's eyes. They were pale blue eyes,
looking steadily back at him from a bland face. Could the cop be real?
Or would he be able to push him over, as he had other golems?
"The fellow's not right in the head," the fat man was saying to the cop.
"You should have heard his crazy talk. A troublemaker. His kind have got
to be locked up!"