Six Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Part 9

"Whom was it addressed to; you or me?"

"I didn't pay much attention; I was half asleep. I just signed something and they unpacked it and hung it for me."

It was a very handsome piece of gla.s.s, beveled plate, without a frame, and quite large. Randall conceded that it did things for her dressing table. "If you want a gla.s.s like that, honey, I'll get one for you. But this isn't ours. I suppose I'd better call up somebody and tell 'em to take it back. Where's the tag?"

"They took it off, I think. Anyhow it's after six o'clock."

He grinned at her indulgently. "You like it, don't you? Well, it looks like it's yours for tonight-and tomorrow I'll see about getting you another."

It was a beautiful mirror; the silvering was well-nigh perfect and the gla.s.s was air-clear. She felt as if she could push her hand through it.

He went to sleep, when they turned in, a little more readily than she did-the nap, no doubt. She rested on one elbow and looked at him for a long time after his breathing had become regular. Sweet Teddy! He was a good boy-good to her certainly. Tomorrow she would tell him not to bother about the other mirror-she didn't need it. All she really wanted was to be with him, for nothing ever to separate them. Things did not matter; just being together was the only thing that really mattered.

She glanced at the mirror. It certainly was handsome. So beautifully clear-like an open window. She felt as if she could climb through it, like Alice Through the Looking Gla.s.s.

He awoke when his name was called. "Up out of there, Randall! You're late!"

It wasn't Cynthia; that was sure. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and managed to focus them. "Wha's up?"

"You," said Phipps, leaning out through the beveled gla.s.s. "Get a move on! Don't keep us waiting."

Instinctively he looked toward the other pillow. Cynthia was gone.

Gone! Then he was up out of bed at once, wide awake, and trying frantically to search everywhere at once. Not in the bathroom. "Cyn!" Not in the living room, not in the kitchen-breakfast room. "Cyn! Cynthia! Where are you?" He pawed frantically in each of the closets. "Cyn!"

He returned to the bedroom and stood there, not knowing where to look next-a tragic, barefooted figure in rumpled pajamas and tousled hair.

Phipps put one hand on the lower edge of the mirror and vaulted easily into the room. "This room should have had a place to install a full-length mirror," he remarked curtly as he settled his coat and straightened his tie. "Every room should have a full-length mirror. Presently we will require it-I shall see to it."

Randall focused his eyes on him as if seeing him for the first time. "Where is she?" he demanded. "What have you done with her?" He stepped toward Phipps menacingly.

"None of your business," retorted Phipps. He inclined his head toward the mirror. "Climb through it."

"Where is she?" he screamed and attempted to grab Phipps by the throat.

Randall was never clear as to just what happened next. Phipps raised one hand-and he found himself tumbled against the side of the bed. He tried to struggle up again-fruitlessly. His efforts had a helpless, nightmare quality. "Mr. Crewes!" Phipps called out. "Mr. Reifsnider-I need your help."

Two more faces, vaguely familiar, appeared in the mirror. "On this side, Mr. Crewes, if you please," Phipps directed. Mr. Crewes climbed through. "Fine! We'll put him through feet first, I think."

Randall had nothing to say about it; he tried to resist, but his muscles were water. Vague twitchings were all he could accomplish. He tried to bite a wrist that came his way and was rewarded with a faceful of hard knuckles-a stinging rap rather than a blow.

"I'll add to that later," Phipps promised him.

They poked him through and dumped him on a table-the table. It was the same room he had been in once before, the board room of Detheridge & Co. There were the same pleasant, icy faces around the table, the same jovial, pig-eyed fat man at the head. There was one minor difference; on the long wall was a large mirror which did not reflect the room, but showed their bedroom, his and Cynthia's, as if seen in a mirror, with everything in it swapped left for right.

But he was not interested in such minor phenomena. He tried to sit up, found that he could not, and was forced to make do with simply raising his head. "Where did you put her?" he demanded of the huge chairman.

Stoles smiled at him sympathetically. "Ah, Mr. Randall! So you've come to see us again. You do get around, don't you? Entirely too much, in fact."

"d.a.m.n you-tell me what you did with her!"

"Silly and weak and stupid," Stoles mused. "To think that my own brothers and I could create nothing better than you. Well, you shall pay for it. The Bird is cruel!"

At his last emphatic remark he covered his face briefly. The others present followed his motions; someone reached out and clapped a hand roughly over Randall's eyes, then took it away.

Stoles was speaking again; Randall tried to interrupt him-once again Stoles thrust a finger at him and said sternly, "Enough!" Randall found himself unable to talk; his throat choked up and nauseated him whenever he tried it.

"One would suppose," Stoles continued urbanely, "that even one of your poor sort would understand the warning you were given, and heed it." Stoles stopped for a moment and shoved out his lips, pressing them tightly together. "I sometimes think that my only weakness lies in not realizing the full depths of the weakness and stupidity of men. As a reasonable creature myself I seem to have an unfortunate tendency to expect others unlike myself to be reasonable."

He stopped and turned his attention away from Randall and toward one of his colleagues. "Don't raise up any false hopes, Mr. Parker," he said, smiling sweetly. "I do not underrate you. And if you should wish to wrestle for my right to sit where I sit, I shall oblige you-later. I wonder," he added thoughtfully, "what your blood tastes like."

Mr. Parker was equally courteous. "Much the same as yours, Mr. Chairman, I imagine. It's a pleasant idea, but I am satisfied with the present arrangements."

"I'm sorry to hear it. I like you, Mr. Parker; I had hoped you were ambitious."

"I am patient-like our Ancestor."

"So? Well-back to business. Mr. Randall, I tried before to impress you with the necessity of having nothing to do with-your client. You know the client I mean. What do you think would impress you with the fact that the Sons of the Bird will tolerate no interference with their plans? Speak up-tell me."

Randall had heard little of what had taken place and had understood none of it. His whole being was engrossed with a single terrible thought. When he found he could speak again, it spilled forth. "Where is she?" he demanded in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "What have you done with her?"

Stoles gestured impatiently. "Sometimes," he said pettishly, "it is almost impossible to get into communication with one of them-almost no mind at all. Mr. Phipps!"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you please see that the other one is fetched in?"

"Certainly, Mr. Stoles." Phipps gathered up an a.s.sistant with his eye; the two left the room to return shortly with a burden which they dumped casually on the table beside Randall. It was Cynthia.

The surge of relief was almost more than he could stand. It roared through him, choking him, deafening him, blinding him with tears, and leaving him nothing with which to weigh the present danger of their situation. But gradually the throbbing of his being slowed down enough for him to see that something was wrong; she was quiet. Even if she had been asleep when they carried her in, the rough handling she had received should have been enough to waken her.

His alarm was almost as devastating as his joy had been. "What have you done to her?" he begged. "Is she-"

"No," Stoles answered in disgusted tones, "she is not dead. Control yourself, Mr. Randall." With a wave of his hand he directed his colleagues, "Wake her up."

One of them poked her in the ribs with a forefinger. "Don't bother to wrap it," he remarked; "I'll eat it on the way."

Stoles smiled. "Very witty, Mr. Printemps-but I said to wake her up. Don't keep me waiting."

"Certainly, Mr. Chairman." He slapped her stingingly across the face; Randall felt it on his own face-in his helpless condition it almost unhinged his reason. "In the Name of the Bird-wake up!"

He saw her chest heave under the silk of her nightgown; her eyes fluttered and she said one word, "Teddy?"

"Cyn! Here, darling, here!"

She turned her head toward him and exclaimed, "Teddy!" then added, "I had such a bad dream-Oh!" She had caught sight of them staring greedily at her. She looked slowly around her, wide-eyed and serious, then turned back to Randall. "Teddy-is this still a dream?"

"I'm afraid not, darling. Chin up."

She looked once more at the company, then back to him. "I'm not afraid," she said firmly. "Make your play, Teddy. I won't faint on you again." Thereafter she kept her eyes on his.

Randall stole a glance at the fat chairman; he was watching them, apparently amused by the sight, and showed no present disposition to interfere. "Cyn," Randall said in an urgent whisper, "they've done something to me so I can't move. I'm paralyzed. So don't count on me too much. If you get a chance to make a break for it, take it!"

"I can't move, either," she whispered back. "We'll have to wait." She saw his agonized expression and added, " 'Chin up,' you said. But I wish I could touch you." The fingers of her right hand trembled slightly, found some traction on the polished table top, and began a slow and painful progress across the inches that separated them.

Randall found that he could move his own fingers a little; he started his left hand on its way to join hers, a half inch at a time, his arm a dead weight against the movement, At last they touched and her hand crept into his, pressing it faintly. She smiled.

Stoles rapped loudly on the table. "This little scene is very touching," he said in sympathetic tones, "but there is business to attend to. We must decide the best thing to do with them."

"Hadn't we better eliminate them entirely?" suggested the one who had jabbed Cynthia in the ribs.

"That would be a pleasure," Stoles conceded, "but we must remember that these two are merely an incident in our plans for . . . for Mr. Randall's client. He is the one who must be destroyed!"

"I don't see-"

"Of course you don't see and that is why I am chairman. Our immediate purpose must be to immobilize these two in a fashion which will cause no suspicion on his part. The question is merely one of method and of the selection of the subject."

Mr. Parker spoke up. "It would be very amusing," he suggested, "to return them as they are. They would starve slowly, unable to answer the door, unable to answer the telephone, helpless."

"So it would be," Stoles said approvingly. "That is about the caliber of suggestion I expected from you. Suppose he attempted to see them, found them so. Do you think he would not understand their story? No, it must be something which seals their tongues. I intend to send them back with one of them-dead-alive!"

The whole business was so preposterous, so utterly unlikely, that Randall had been telling himself that it could not be real. He was in the clutches of a nightmare; if he could just manage to wake up, everything would be all right. The business of not being able to move-he had experienced that before in dreams. Presently you woke up from it and found that the covers had become wound around you, or you had been sleeping with both hands under your head. He tried biting his tongue so that the pain might wake him, but it did no good.

Stoles' last words brought his attention sharply to what was going on around him, not because he understood them-they meant very little to him, though they were fraught with horror-but because of the stir of approval and antic.i.p.ation which went around the table.

The pressure of Cynthia's hand in his increased faintly. "What are they going to do, Teddy?" she whispered.

"I don't know, darling."

"The man, of course," Parker commented.

Stoles looked at him. Randall had a feeling that Stoles had intended the-whatever it was that was coming!-for the man, for him, until Parker had suggested it. But Stoles answered, "I'm always grateful for your advice. It makes it so easy to know just what one should do." Turning to the others he said, "Prepare the woman."

"Now," thought Randall. "It's got to be now." Summoning all the will he possessed he attempted to raise himself up from the table-rise up and fight!

He might just as well not have made the effort.

He let his head sink back, exhausted by the effort. "It's no use, kid," he said miserably.

Cynthia looked at him. If she felt any fear, it was masked by the concern she showed for him. "Chin up, Brain," she answered with the mere suggestion of increased pressure of her hand in his.

Printemps stood up and leaned over her. "This is properly Potiphar's job," he objected.

"He left a prepared bottle," Stoles answered. "You have it, Mr. Phipps?"

Phipps answered by reaching into his brief case and producing it. At a nod from Stoles he pa.s.sed it over; Printemps accepted it. "The wax?" he added.

"Here you are," Phipps acknowledged, dipping into his brief case again.

"Thank you, sir. Now, if someone will get that out of the way"-indicating Randall as he spoke-"we seem to be ready." Half a dozen savagely willing hands manhandled Randall to the extreme far edge of the table; Printemps bent over Cynthia, bottle in hand.

"One moment," Stoles interrupted. "I want them both to understand what is happening and why. Mrs. Randall," he continued, bowing gallantly, "in our short interview earlier I believe I made you understand that the Sons of the Bird will brook no interference from such as you two. You understood that, did you not?"

"I understood you," she answered. But her eyes were defiant.

"Good. Be it understood that it is our wish that your husband have nothing more to do with . . . a certain party. In order to insure that result we are about to split you into two parts. The part that keeps you going, that which you rather amusingly call the soul, we will squeeze into this bottle and keep. As for the rest, well, your husband may have that to keep with him, as a reminder that the Sons of the Birds have you in p.a.w.n. You understand me?"

She ignored the question. Randall tried to answer, found that his throat was misbehaving again.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Randall; if you are ever to see your husband again it is imperative that he obey us. He must not, on pain of your death, see his client again. Under the same penalty he must hold his tongue concerning us and all that has transpired. If he does not-well, we will make your death very interesting, I a.s.sure you."

Randall tried to cry out that he would promise anything they wanted to spare her, but his voice was still silenced-apparently Stoles wanted to hear from Cynthia first. She shook her head. "He'll do as he thinks wise."

Stoles smiled. "Fine," he said. "That was the answer I wanted. You, Mr. Randall-do you promise?"

He wanted to agree, he was about to agree-but Cynthia was saying, "No!" with her eyes. From her expression he knew that her speech was now being blocked. Inside his head, clear as speech, he seemed to hear her say, "It's a trick, Brain. Don't promise!"

He kept quiet.

Phipps dug a thumb into his eye. "Answer when you are spoken to!"

He had to squint the injured eye in order to see Cynthia, but her expression still approved; he kept his mouth shut.

Presently Stoles said, "Never mind. Get on with it, gentlemen."

Printemps stuck the bottle under Cynthia's nose, held it against her left nostril. "Now!" he directed. Another of them pressed down on her short ribs vigorously, so that her breath was expelled suddenly. She grunted.

"Teddy," she said, "they're pulling me apar-Ugh!"

The process had been repeated with the bottle at the other nostril. Randall felt the soft warm hand in his suddenly relax. Printemps held up the bottle with his thumb over its top. "Let's have the wax," he said briskly. Having sealed it he pa.s.sed it over to Phipps.

Stoles jerked a thumb toward the big mirror. "Put them back," he directed.

Phipps superintended the pa.s.sing of Cynthia back through the gla.s.s, then turned to Stoles. "Couldn't we give him something to make him remember us?" he inquired.

"Help yourself," Stoles answered indifferently, as he stood up to go, "but try not to leave any permanent marks."

"Fine!" Phipps smiled, and hit Randall a backhanded swipe that loosened his teeth. "We'll be careful!"

He remained conscious through a considerable portion of it, though, naturally, he had no way of judging what proportion. He pa.s.sed out once or twice, only to come to again under the stimulus of still greater pain. It was the novel way Phipps found of holding a man down without marking him which caused him to pa.s.s out for the last time.

He was in a small room, every side of which was a mirror-four walls, floor, and ceiling. Endlessly he was repeated in every direction and every image was himself-selves that hated him but from which there was no escape. "Hit him again!" they yelled-he yelled-and struck himself in the teeth with his closed fist. They-he-cackled.

They were closing in on him and he could not run fast enough. His muscles would not obey him, no matter how urgently he tried. It was because he was handcuffed-handcuffed to the treadmill they had put him on. He was blindfolded, too, and the handcuffs kept him from reaching his eyes. But he had to keep on-Cynthia was at the top of the climb; he had to reach her.