Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (4 page)

 
          
 
Three tiny flakes of Smith's chrysalis flicked
up and then spiraled down to the floor.

 
          
 
Instantly, Rockwell was to the table, and
gaping.

 
          
 
"It's starting to crack. From the
collar-bone to the navel, a miscroscopic fissure! He'll be out of his chrysalis
soon!"

 
          
 
McGuire's jowls trembled. "And then
what?"

 
          
 
Hartley's words were bitter sharp. "We'll
have a superman. Question: what does a superman look like? Answer: nobody
knows."

 
          
 
Another crust of flakes crackled open.

 
          
 
McGuire shivered. "Will you try to talk
to him?"

 
          
 
"Certainly."

 
          
 
"Since when do—butterflies—speak?"

 
          
 
"Oh, Good God, McGuire!"

 
          
 
With the two others securely imprisoned
upstairs, Rockwell locked himself into Smith's room and bedded down on a cot,
prepared to wait through the long wet night, watching, listening, thinking.

 
          
 
Watching the tiny flakes flicking off the
crumbling skin of chrysalis as the Unknown within struggled quietly outward.

 
          
 
Just a few more hours to wait. The rain slid
over the house, pattering. What would Smith look like? A change in the earcups
perhaps for greater hearing; extra eyes, maybe; a change in the skull
structure, the facial setup, the bones of the body, the placement of organs,
the texture of skin, a million and one changes.

 
          
 
Rockwell grew tired and yet was afraid to
sleep. Eyelids heavy, heavy. What if he was wrong? What if his theory was
entirely disjointed? What if Smith was only so much moving jelly inside? What
if Smith was mad, insane—so different that he'd be a world menace?

 
          
 
No. No. Rockwell shook his head groggily.
Smith was perfect. Perfect. There'd be no room for evil thought in Smith.
Perfect.

 
          
 
The sanitarium was death quiet. The only noise
was the faint crackle of chrysalis flakes skimming to the hard floor ...

 
          
 
Rockwell slept. Sinking into the darkness that
blotted out the room as dreams moved in upon him. Dreams in which Smith arose,
walked in stiff, parched gesticulations and Hartley, screaming, wielded an ax,
shining, again and again into the green armor of the creature and hacked it
into liquid horror. Dreams in which McGuire ran babbling through a rain of
blood. Dreams in which—

 
          
 
Hot sunlight. Hot sunlight all over the room.
It was morning. Rockwell rubbed his eyes, vaguely troubled by the fact that
someone had raised the blinds. Someone had—he leaped! Sunlight! There was no
way for the blinds to be up. They'd been down for weeks! He cried out.

 
          
 
The door was open. The sanitarium was silent.
Hardly daring to turn his head, Rockwell glanced at the table. Smith should
have been lying there.

 
          
 
He wasn't.

 
          
 
There was nothing but sunlight on the table.
That— and a few remnants of shattered chrysalis. Remnants.

 
          
 
Brittle shards, a discarded profile cleft in
two pieces, a shell segment that had been a thigh, a trace of arm, a splint of
chest—these were the fractured remains of Smith!

 
          
 
Smith was gone. Rockwell staggered to the
table, crushed. Scrabbling like a child among the rattling papyrus of skin.
Then he swung about, as if drunk, and swayed out of the room and pounded up the
stairs, shouting:

 
          
 
"Hartley! What did you do with him?
Hartley! Did you think you could kill him, dispose of his body, and leave a few
bits of shell behind to throw me off trail?"

 
          
 
The door to the room where McGuire and Hartley
had slept was locked. Fumbling, Rockwell unlocked it. Both McGuire and Hartley
were there.

 
          
 
"You're here," said Rockwell, dazed.
"You weren't downstairs, then. Or did you unlock the door, come down,
break in, kill Smith and—no, no."

 
          
 
"What's wrong?"

 
          
 
"Smith's gone! McGuire, did Hartley move
out of this room?"

 
          
 
"Not all night.'*

 
          
 
"Then—there's only one explanation—Smith
emerged from his chrysalis and escaped during the night! I'll never see him,
I'll never get to see him, damn it! What a fool I was to sleep!"

 
          
 
"That settles it!" declared Hartley.
"The man's dangerous or he would have stayed and let us see him! God only
knows what he is."

 
          
 
"We've got to search, then. He can't be
far off. We’ve got to search then! Quick now. Hartley. McGuire!"

 
          
 
McGuire sat heavily down. "I won't budge.
Let him find himself. I've had enough."

 
          
 
Rockwell didn't wait to hear more. He went
downstairs with Hartley close after him. McGuire puffed down a few moments
later.

 
          
 
Rockwell moved wildly down the hall, halted at
the wide windows that overlooked the desert and the mountains with morning
shining over them. He squinted out, and wondered if there was any chance at all
of finding Smith. The first superbeing. The first perhaps in a new long line.
Rockwell sweated. Smith wouldn't leave without revealing himself to at least
Rockwell. He couldn't leave. Or could he?

 
          
 
The kitchen door swung open, slowly.

 
          
 
A foot stepped through the door, followed by
another. A hand lifted against the wall. Cigarette smoke moved from pursed
lips.

 
          
 
"Somebody looking for me?"

 
          
 
Stunned, Rockwell turned. He saw the
expression on Hartley's face, heard McGuire choke with surprise. The three of
them spoke one word together, as if given their cue:

 
          
 
"Smith."

 
          
 
Smith exhaled cigarette smoke. His face was
red-pink as he had been sunburnt, his eyes were glittering blue.

 
          
 
He was barefoot and his nude body was attired
in one of Rockwell's old robes.

 
          
 
"Would you mind telling me where I am?
What have I been doing for the last three or four months? Is this a—hospital or
isn't it?"

 
          
 
Dismay slammed Rockwell's mind, hard. He
swallowed.

 
          
 
"Hello. I. That is— Don't you
remember—anything?"

 
          
 
Smith displayed his fingertips. "I recall
turning green, if that's what you mean. Beyond that—nothing." He raked his
pink hand through his nut-brown hair with the vigor of a creature newborn and
glad to breathe again.

 
          
 
Rockwell slumped back against the wall. He
raised his hands, with shock, to his eyes, and shook his head. Not believing
what he saw he said, "What time did you come out of the chrysalis?'*

 
          
 
"What time did I come out of—what?"

 
          
 
Rockwell took him down the hall to the next
room and pointed to the table.

 
          
 
"I don't see what you mean," said
Smith, frankly sincere. "I found myself standing in this room half an hour
ago, stark naked."

 
          
 
"That's all?" said McGuire,
hopefully. He seemed relieved.

 
          
 
Rockwell explained the origin of the chrysalis
on the table.

 
          
 
Smith frowned. "That's ridiculous. Who
are you?"

 
          
 
Rockwell introduced the others.

 
          
 
Smith scowled at Hartley. "When I first
was sick you came, didn't you. I remember. At the radiations plant. But this is
silly. What disease was it?"

 
          
 
Hartley's cheek muscles were taut wire.
"No disease. Don't you know anything about it?"

 
          
 
"I find myself with strange people in a
strange sanitarium. I find myself naked in a room with a man sleeping on a cot.
I walk around the sanitarium, hungry. I go to the kitchen, find food, eat, hear
excited voices, and then am accused of emerging from a chrysalis. What am I
supposed to think? Thanks, by the way, for this robe, for food, and the
cigarette I borrowed. I didn't want to wake you at first, Mr. Rockwell. I
didn't know who you were and you looked dead tired."

 
          
 
"Oh, that's all right.'' Rockwell
wouldn't let himself believe it. Everything was crumbling. With every word
Smith spoke, his hopes were pulled apart like the crumpled chrysalis. "How
do you feel?"

 
          
 
"Fine. Strong. Remarkable, when you
consider how long I was under."

 
          
 
"Very remarkable," said Hartley.

 
          
 
"You can imagine how I felt when I saw
the calendar. All those months—crack—gone. I wondered what I'd been doing all
that time."

 
          
 
"So have we."

 
          
 
McGuire laughed. "Oh, leave him alone,
Hartley. Just because you hated him—"

 
          
 
"Hated?" Smith's brows went up.
"Me? Why?"

 
          
 
"Here. This is why!" Hartley thrust
his fingers out "Your damned radiations. Night after night sitting by you
in your laboratory. What can I do about it?"

 
          
 
"Hartley," warned Rockwell.
"Sit down. Be quiet."

 
          
 
"I won't sit down and I won't be quiet!
Are you both fooled by this imitation of a man, this pink fellow who's carrying
on the greatest hoax in history? If you had any sense you'd destroy Smith
before he escapes!"

 
          
 
Rockwell apologized for Hartley's outburst.

 
          
 
Smith shook his head. "No, let him talk.
What's this about?"

 
          
 
"You know already!" shouted Hartley,
angrily. "You've lain there for months, listening, planning. You can't
fool me. You've got Rockwell bluffed, disappointed. He expected you to be a
superman. Maybe you are. But whatever you are, you're not Smith any more. Not
any more. It's just another of your misdirections. We weren't supposed to know
all about you, and the world shouldn't know about you. You could kill us,
easily, but you'd prefer to stay and convince us that you're normal. That's the
best way. You could have escaped a few minutes ago, but that would have left
the seeds of suspicion behind. Instead, you waited, to convince us that you're
normal."