Authors: William Marshall
Lim said, "It's The Thing!"
"It isn't The Thing! It's something ordinary and explainable and scientific!"
"No, it isn't!"
The rat was listening. Panting, trying to catch its breath, the rat was getting bigger and bigger.
Lim said, "It's a giant rat! It's expanding! It's—" Lim said, "I don't have to put up with this. I didn't join up for this. I came down to this cellar and I thought that because the cellar was empty and that all there was in the cellar was emptiness, I thought thai—"
O'Yee said, "It's just a rat!" O'Yee, holding the poor, harmless creature in the beam of his flashlight, said, "Look, it's frightened of me. I'm not frightened of it, it's frightened of me!" He went forward making cooing noises. O'Yee said, "See? Look!"
It was nought but one of God's tiny creatures, in its own way but a tiny perfect reflection of the genius of the directing force of the Great Mechanic Who, in His wisdom, had—
O'Yee said, "It's sick, poor mite."
The rat, its ears twitching, fell over.
O'Yee said, "Very sick. As a matter of fact, it's dead." O'Yee turning to Lim, said curiously, "If I were by myself down here . . ."
He was.
O'Yee said, "Lim? Lim?"
He had deserted me. It was all too much for him. Sadly, slowly, I began to retrace my steps from that strange place back out to the light, no further advanced in my knowledge of—
"Twenty-eight."
O'Yee said, "What?"
The wall, far above the cellars, said in a shriek! Twenty-eight! Twen-ty-eight! TWENTY-EIGHT!"
The flashlight beam went full on the rat. Its fur was bloody. It had no eyes. Under the fur it looked like it had been torn to pieces.
O'Yee's Lost Secret Journal, as he went out the cellar door and up the stairs two at a time, had only on its last unfinished page, as its final cryptic entry for generations of the curious who would study it, merely an exhortation to that comfort and strength of the fearful, the name of the Son of God. O'Yee, running, panting, shrieking, gone white in sheer, rampant dead rat mournful whisper terror, only seconds behind Lim, falling about on the stairs trying to make progress as his legs gave up, yelled to anyone who might listen, "Oh Christ! Oh Christ! OH CHRIST—!"
There were events taking place. Inside the cocoon, inside the redness, there was a progression of events taking place. There were whispers, rasps, the incoherent patterns of voices, the movement of time.
There were no memories, no dreams. The dreams were memories and the memories dreams within a dream. There were colors, intimations from the outside world like blurs through smoked glass: there was a series of events beginning.
"
. . . Jakob . . .
"
It was a tiny old man with washed-out pale eyes: that was what existed inside the cocoon, hidden behind the smoked glass.
It was nothing like that at all.
It was a dream, a shadow play, it was—
—whatever it was turned on the corner of Canton Street and began to move northwest and nobody, nobody at all on the other side of that smoked glass, seeing it, thought to notice it at all.
"
. . . Jakob—
"
Inside the cocoon, inside the redness, visions of death and blood and killing were forming as events, and there was nothing, nothing that could be done to stop them.
". . . Jakob . . ."
Outside the cocoon, on the street, there was no sound at all and no one passing by the person moving through all the events in the cocoon, dreaming the dream, heard anything at all.
In the bank, Natasha, dabbing at Spencer's wounds, grazes, abrasions and assorted contusions with a Kleenex dipped in alcohol from a bottle marked
IBM MACHINE ROLL CLEANING FLUID
, said with concern, "Won't he come in for help?" Outside in the street Auden was standing in a public phone booth going through his pockets for change. From the way he kept trying to put his hand in his pocket and then pulling it out and looking at it, even the muscle against his trousers pocket hurt. Natasha, her eyes glistening in sympathy, said softly, walking behind Spencer's chair and working at the back of his neck to try to set his head back on straight, "You are both so brave."
At the counter Ivan was counting out money for the elderly man who had been at the autobank. Ivan, glancing across through the glass doors to the fragile telephonist in the street, said in English, "Three thousand dollars short." He turned back to the elderly man, one of Mr. Nyet's best customers, and changed to Cantonese, "But the Russo Harbin Hong Kong Trading Bank is glad to replace your lost money." The portrait of Mr. Nyet, looking like Beria, looked down at him. Ivan gave it a snarl. Ivan, finishing counting the money and smiling to the elderly man as he in turn began counting the money, said across to Spencer, "It's three-thirty. The bank is closing."
Out in the street Auden got his hand into his pocket without touching any part of his anatomy and touched the coins in his pocket. They must have jingled. Auden, bending in the middle and taking his hand out again like a claw, mouthed, "Ow . . ."
His neck went back into place. Natasha had wonderful hands. They ached for Auden. Spencer, feeling guilty, said as Natasha's gaze went toward the Man Who Knew No Fear trying to get his hand back into his pocket, "He'll be all right." He nodded to the elderly man as he went by on his way out with nary a word, "The people chasing us got the rest of your money."
The elderly man, pausing, took out a little notebook and wrote something down. He looked at the portrait of Mr. Nyet. He turned to Ivan. He was writing Ivan's name down. The elderly man shaking his head, sighed.
"We're closing now!" It was Ivan. He was groveling. Ivan, coming around and opening the glass doors for the elderly man, said in desperation, "We're closing the doors now. We're closing the autobank! We're doing the best we can!" He looked to Natasha to say something winning. Natasha's eyes were on Auden. Ivan, bowing as the man paused at the doors, said fervently, "We're not keeping the autobank open because there wouldn't be anyone in the bank to replace any stolen money which might be stolen because—" He turned and near-genuflected to the portrait, "No one is going to work any overtime to replace money taken from the autobank so we'll close the autobank down!"
The elderly man said, "Huh."
Ivan said, "They're going home now: the police. They'll be back in the morning when the staff is here on normal hours, but nobody is going to sneak in a bit of overtime to—" Ivan, whining, said, still bowing and holding the door, "Please don't tell Mr. Nyet!"
The poor fellow was obviously in danger of losing his job. Spencer, unloosing himself from Natasha's hands, rising, said to console him, "That's all right." The elderly man was quite a pleasant-looking old Chinese gentleman with watery eyes. Spencer, patting him on the shoulder and at the same time with the other hand getting Ivan up from his bowing and scraping, said to encourage him, "The Royal Hong Kong Police always get their man." Spencer, giving the man one of his best grins, said to charm him, "We are only human. We all make mistakes. At first, like the world of finance, we stumble a little in the dark jungle of the unknown, but then, after we have found our way, we—" He made a chuckling sound and grinned wider, "We find our way. We'll be back here tomorrow with a plan." He looked across to Natasha for a sympathetic smile, but she was looking out at Auden trying to solve the problem of getting into the telephone box without actually touching anything and looked sad. Spencer said, "Trust us!" He saw the man's face. To get through to people like him you had to use psychology, human interaction, relationship motivation and a deep knowledge of the human psyche. You had to use tact, diplomacy, understanding and the authority of the law meted out in careful doses. They were all watching him, even Natasha. Bruised, abrased, beaten, contused and here and there through his filthy shirt and trousers still bleeding, Spencer grinning winningly, said, "It's a bet! We're doing it this way for a
bet
!"
The elderly man said, "Huh!"
The elderly man took out his notebook to write that down too.
Out to sea, the typhoon, blowing itself out, creating a vacuum in its wake, brought in following clouds and turned them north toward Hong Kong.
Billowing and then falling, the clouds passing over the ocean approached, and, taking the sea's chill, met with rising air from the land and pressed down on it, darkened and became fog.
Beyond the typhoon shelter in Hop Pei Cove briefly the fog turned back toward the sea as it met a crosscurrent blown in from China to the west and then, passing through it, cutting it with a sharp edge, darkened again and came in swiftly across the land.
Far above the fog there was lightning. Through the fog it flashed like something boiling inside the darkness of the fog itself. The fog was thick and cold. It settled on the land a building, a street at a time and covered it, muffling sounds and life and movement.
It moved toward Hong Bay and Yellowthread Street and, piece by piece, building by building, blotted them out.
He felt it.
In the Detectives' Room, O'Yee, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, felt something cold pass by the window.
". . . twen-ty-eight . . . twenty-eight . . ."
Outside, the fog was at the window, rising against it, turning it cold and gray, running with condensation.
Outside, the person inside the red cupola, dreaming the dreams, passed by the station traveling north.
It was
Assault on Precinct 13
. All they had left inside the deactivated, cut-off police station to defend it as outside the psychos and killers gathered, was a half-caste, over-the-top detective senior inspector and a quivering P.C. The quivering P.C. was somewhere out in the charge room making quivering sounds and trying to ring someone on the telephones that kept making jingling noises and didn't work.
The walls were running with wetness. The window was graying with fog.
". . . twenty-eight . . ."
Outside, in the street, he felt as a cold, deadly shiver, something awful pass by.
". . . twenty . . ."
The wall felt it too. It fell suddenly silent.
All was stillness. Even the phone stopped jingling . . .
On the phone, Auden, holding the receiver carefully between two fingers away from his head, trying to find a way of standing where nothing hurt, said in Cantonese, "I just want to know how P.C. Wang is doing following his unfortunate heart attack."
The Sister on the other end of the line said, "Are you a relative?"
Auden said, "No."
"A friend?"
Auden said, "How is he?"
"We can't give out information over the phone. Perhaps if you—"
Auden said, "I just want to know how he is!" He touched the side of his leg against the phone box. Auden said, "Oh . . . !"
"Please don't upset yourself." The Sister, obviously a nice person, said, "I realize how hard it can be for people to understand hospital rules sometimes, but if we gave out information on the condition of our patients every time someone rang up, what we'd have in the end would be—"
He touched an elbow. He didn't think his elbows hurt. Auden said, "Ann . . . !"
"But we—"
A shoulder. Auden said, "Mmm . . . !"
"But in some cases—"
"Oh—ah . . ." (the knuckle on his left hand on the glass of the booth).
"We—"
"Nggghhh."
"But I can tell you in this case—" She sounded upset. She was an Angel of Mercy. "That in this case, P.C. Wang—"
Auden said, "Will he die soon or not?"
The Sister said happily, "No, I can promise you: he isn't going to die." She said in the silence, "Hullo? Hullo?" She waited for the sound of relieved weeping and a long drawn-out sigh of heartfelt joy.
Auden, heartfelt, said, "
Damn!
"
. . . In the Detectives' Room, as the coldness outside passed by, the wall began, slowly, cautiously, to make soft throbbing noises. There was nothing beyond the wall, nothing underneath it but nothing.
It had been the rat.
It hadn't been the rat. The rat was dead.
The rat was dead.
In the lightning, in the fog, all the lights flickered.
"AAA—Raaa—gah!" It sounded as if it was coming closer.
". . . twenty-eight . . ."
There was slime running down from the wall.
The phones were jingling with the lightning and there was moisture forming under his hands on the top of his desk.
His hands did not move. The moisture was forming around them and making pools and puddles and streaking the surface of the top, but his hands stayed where he was.
He stayed where he was.
It didn't bother him. He wasn't there anymore. He was somewhere else.
". . . twenty-eight . . . Arr-raaa-
gah
" He was in a field of waving wheat and bluebells running through the forest under a warm sun with naked nymphs and shepherds singing and laughing all around him. He was happy.
He was glazed.
He had blinked out.
Scotty, at last, had beamed him up.
4:05
P.M.
In his own little world, listening to the jingling, smiling at the shepherds, swimming his little happy hands in the soft limpid pools of condensation and sweat as the fog and horror closed in all around him, O'Yee waited the minutes through until 5:00
P.M.
, when, smiling all the way, he could go home to his wife and children and womb somewhere.
He waited, singing his little songs.
5:00
P.M.
He stood up and, at that moment, at that instant, with full fogged-in darkness outside—of course—all the sounds in the station and in the wall stopped and all the telephones stopped jingling and all the walls stopped running with moisture.
It had been the rat.
The rat was dead.
O'Yee, smiling, said to one of the shepherds or one of the nymphs or whatever it was, "That figures, doesn't it?"
O'Yee said, "Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!"
The wall said nothing.
O'Yee said, "Great. Wonderful." O'Yee said, "Thank you very much."