Turning from the darkened window—as though he
expected to see someone in the room behind him—he went noiselessly,
carefully, to the other side of the house. Charlie's nerves were
taut from the prickly feeling of the hair on the back of his head
as he cautiously approached the opposite window. He told himself
that he didn't know what he expected to see when he looked out that
window. But he did. He knew exactly what he might see, at that
window—facing the gently rolling stretch of sand that went off down
toward the river.
His eyes roved out across the
spotted landscape with its quick-moving cloud shadows. Then a
bright streak of moonlight, gliding swiftly, moved down the
lonesome stretch of road toward the low, dark hills near the river.
Charlie's eyes went with it as he held his breath. A small sound
choked in his throat as the moonlight threw its ghastly light on
the spot where the dirt road turned around the bend. He saw
them.
The three black-hooded figures stood out clear and
ominous against the stark whiteness of the sand. They were coming,
slowly and steadily along the road, heading directly toward the
Shack.
Fascinated like a coyote by a rattlesnake, Charlie
stood there staring as they approached. Maybe they didn't even have
feet like ordinary people, for they just seemed to be standing on
the road—but moving closer all the time. Forcing himself to turn
away from the window, Charlie ran to the big fireplace. He reached
up, and this time he took down Uncle John's old army 30-30 rifle.
The old Springfield had a kick that was almost as good as the one
Navajo used on the side of the house. It was much more powerful
than the Winchester which had not been made for battle.
Hurriedly opening the old cigar
box of brass cartridges clips, he shoved one clip home, ramming it
down into the open breech with his thumb. Then he shoved the bolt
home and flicked up the safety-catch—to
OFF
. Charlie half-opened the bolt,
just to make sure the first of the cartridge shells had been
engaged and shoved into the rifle's chamber. Satisfied, he closed
it again. With his finger in the trigger- guard, he walked over to
the window.
At first, Charlie couldn't see them. Maybe they
might have decided to go back. Then he put his face close to the
window, and looked out toward the front of the house. There—
standing a short distance from the Shack, Charlie saw the three
tall black figures! He could make out now that they did have legs
and, also, that their black robes seemed to join what looked like
heavy black boots which came up to their knees. The dark hoods hid
their heads completely. But Charlie could tell, even as he silently
watched them now, they were just standing there. Waiting.
Navajo whinnied loudly, shrilly, stamping about out
there in the corral. Charlie could hear him kicking the stagger
poles of the fence. Good old Nav. He was trying to let him know
that strangers were about. Charlie lowered the rifle from the port
breast position. He held it down in a shoot-from-the-hip position
now. He'd fire from the hip. Point blank range. Muzzle pointed
toward the door, he took up the trigger slack.
"If any one of them busts in," Charlie breathed the
words slowly, "he'll get it. The first one that comes through that
door gets it."
CHAPTER THREE
Prisoner of the Silent
Visitors
Only the pounding of his heart came to Charlie as
he gripped the rifle steadily. Standing in the middle of the room,
he faced the door, waiting. But as he stood there a shock of pain
flashed through his head. It struck like lightning. Dropping the
rifle, Charlie slapped both hands to the sides of his head, holding
his temples tightly. He doubled over, reeling from the shock as it
came again. Gasping for breath, Charlie cried out.
Slowly, cautiously, he straightened up again. But
as he stood up fully, glad that the door was still safely barred
and the black figures hadn't tried to break in just when he had
that headache, he began to wonder a little about it. He never got
headaches. Not much, anyway. Only that one time long ago, when he
and Uncle John were out hunting and they had
gone without food for a day and a half. But that
headache disappeared quickly, as soon as they got back home to the
Shack and had a big feed.
Just as he began trying to figure out if those
three strangers outside could have had anything to do with that
sudden pain, he went toward the window again. Then he stopped dead
in his tracks. He realized he was nearly across the room and hadn't
picked up the rifle again! It was still there on the floor. Doggone
fool! He wanted to kick himself for pulling a dumb one like that.
But he didn't move. He heard that voice again. It wasn't from the
outside. It was right in the room. Behind him.
Open the door and go outside.
"Like fun!" Charlie thought grimly.
Bracing himself, he knew he'd have to make it
fast—when he turned to get it. In one desperate move Charlie
whirled and flung himself down on the floor in the darkness, where
he knew the rifle would be. It took him only a second to grab it.
He laid there, very still, waiting for whoever it was to make the
next move. Then he heard the voice again, and it seemed dim and far
away.
Open the door and go outside.
His head pulsing from that first pained shock,
Charlie glanced about the room carefully now. Seeing no one at all,
he stood up. A quick check of the bedroom and the back porch and
the other room showed that he was all alone in the house. There was
no one there. His hands were shaky now, as he thought of that
voice, positive that he had heard it right behind him. Then the
same voice came to him again, distinctly, calmly, telling him to
open the door and go out. But the voice—it had no sound.
It—it was just in his head.
"It's like a—"
Charlie stopped his spoken words abruptly. He felt
chilled suddenly, all over. For the first time, he connected that
headache with the voice that wasn't a voice. In his mind now, he
could see, even feel, the three hooded figures who were standing
outside. And he wasn't even near the window! Shuddering again,
Charlie braced himself, even as the voice once more repeated the
words in his mind. He fought it hard this time. But it was in vain.
He heard it quite clearly, and he realized that there was no
hiding, no escape from that voice.
"Yes—I'll go," Charlie heard himself saying aloud.
"I'll go with you .. . whatever you say."
Suddenly he felt quiet and at ease
all over. It was a good feeling, and he was no longer afraid. He
walked toward the barred door. Pausing a moment, he leaned the
rifle against the wall, under the turned-off water cooler. Turning
to the door, he placed a hand on the knob, then with his other hand
he slid back the heavy crossbar. With one push he shoved it all the
way back. Now he opened the door wide. Aware of what he was doing,
Charlie
still
couldn't make himself stop. He felt sure he must go out there
to the three black- hooded figures, for he had to do it. He
couldn't hold back.
Across the sandy, hard-packed yard and some
distance from the Shack, the three tall figures were standing
motionless, watching him. They made no move to come nearer.
"Wh—what do you want around here, strangers?"
The sound of his voice sounded shaky and alone in
the still night. They did not reply to him. Fear rising abruptly
within him, Charlie turned to go back inside the house. But as he
did he felt a quick tinge of that headache again. He stopped,
shaking his head to clear it.
Now come with us.
There had been no sound. Charlie stared at them,
wondering how he knew what they wanted him to do and why he was
powerless to understand their unspoken wishes. Whatever their
strange power was, they were using it on him. But most of all,
Charlie was surprised that he could get their thought impulses and
understand them. It scared him. He was actually able to hear or
feel their thoughts in his mind.
Starting across the yard toward them, Charlie felt
that he was forced to go along, though he didn't like the idea. His
mind was telling him to do it, to go with them, even though he knew
he didn't want to go. But he couldn't make himself disobey their
orders. He stopped for a moment, glancing back to the corral and
Navajo. The old horse was watching him, and as he looked back,
Navajo whinnied questioningly, as though to ask Charlie why he
didn't take him along, too. The plaintive whinny made the three
hooded figures stop, too, and turn around. They looked from Navajo
back to Charlie, and he clearly got their mental impulse.
That over there—whatever it is, tell it to come
with us.
There was something soothing now, something about
the way the thought impulses came to him. Charlie didn't want to go
with them, but the tumbling mental pictures that came to him made
him not care or worry much, and he was even
feeling a little sleepy now. It was a groggy sort
of feeling. Charlie didn't mind it much, as he raised his hand to
his mouth.
Charlie gave a low whistle toward the corral.
Navajo stamped about briefly, getting his head back through the
stagger fence bars. Then he came trotting out to Charlie, with a
pleased, low whinny.
"It's okay, Nav," Charlie said, patting the old
horse. "It's okay, boy, we'll be all right."
Navajo tramped about nervously beside Charlie,
tossing his head high as another thought impulse came from the
three hooded figures nearby. Charlie realized now that Navajo, too,
could also feel their telepathic words. He was also aware, as he
took the head harness from the hook by the door, that the three
strangers were trying to calm his feelings with their impulses, to
ease his mind. Their every thought sent to him seemed to be toned
down, sort of in a low key, like Miss Peters used to call it in
Music Appreciation class. Their impulses were coming to him mildly
and steadily. He felt very little of that first shock of pain now,
and for that he was very grateful. He adjusted Navajo's head
harness then turned to the strangers again.
Come with us now, their thoughts told him. Just
follow us.
"You—you're aliens," Charlie said aloud, as he
started after the three. "You're not from this part of the—the
country? Not from any part of the country."
They did not reply. Charlie felt a tenseness as the
swift and high speed thoughts were exchanged between the three. And
he also realized that in that high frequency buzzing
beyond his comprehension, they were able to talk
without his catching on to anything they were saying. But then they
glanced back at him and Navajo again, and Charlie was once more
aware that they were using the slower, and more calming technique
on him and Navajo.
Charlie knew that, whoever they were, there was no
mistaking where they were from. And he eliminated Parker, Arizona,
and everywhere else he had ever heard of, on this world. They
really were strangers, Charlie told himself. They were aliens, from
somewhere very far away. They were from a place much farther away
than he dared ask them about.
In spite of his predicament and whatever danger
might be just ahead, Charlie couldn't help wondering just how he
was able to understand the strange mental language, the telepathy
they used. He knew very little about it, only what he had read in
books at the library. He certainly had never read up on it because
he thought he would ever have to use it. But here he was now, using
that same telepathy, to talk to these three strangers who had not
spoken a single word since he had first met them.
But whoever or whatever they were, he had been able
to understand and receive their thought impulses, and also, to send
back his own to them, though he had also spoken the words along
with his thoughts. All their talk had been solely through the means
of mind impulses.
"Where—where're you taking me?" Charlie asked, as
they left the Dam road and started upriver in the opposite
direction from the Engineer's camp. "Where are we going?"
They did not answer. Charlie felt sure they had
heard and understood him. He tried another question.
"Is it all right if I ride my horse? Can I?"
One of the three turned his hooded head, his face
still unseen by Charlie, and glanced back at him a moment.
You may ride the horse, came the impulse. But do
not try to run from us. It would be useless. You cannot
escape.
Charlie realized in a flash they knew all about his
carefully guarded plan. "I—I'll stay with you," he stammered.
Patting Navajo as he turned to mount him, Charlie
noticed that the three hooded figures hadn't even stopped. They
were up ahead, just walking silently along as though he were right
behind them. The fleeting thought barely touched his mind again—to
make a run for it now. Perhaps they couldn't run fast enough to
catch up with him.
We can
,
came the cool, sure impulse.
Charlie bit his lip, a little angry at their
cleverness in reading his thoughts. Taking the reins, Charlie
started off after the three who still hadn't looked back, even when
they replied to that last thought of his. Charlie sniffed angrily
again as he jogged along. The old horse wasn't in any mood to hurry
after the three black figures up ahead, and neither was
Charlie.
"Feel doggone sure of themselves, Nav," Charlie
said in a low voice.
He had no further doubts as to where they were
taking him when they turned by the hill and headed straight out
across the white sand toward Saddle Mountain. And there was no
doubt now in Charlie's mind about the thing that was in