Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _The Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse_ published in 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.
The Dark Door
1
It was almost dark when he awoke, and lay on the bed, motionless andtrembling, his heart sinking in the knowledge that he should never haveslept. For almost half a minute, eyes wide with fear, he lay in thesilence of the gloomy room, straining to hear some sound, someindication of their presence.
But the only sound was the barely audible hum of his wrist watch and thedismal splatter of raindrops on the cobbled street outside. There was nosound to feed his fear, yet he knew then, without a flicker of doubt,that they were going to kill him.
He shook his head, trying to clear the sleep from his brain as he turnedthe idea over and over in his mind. He wondered why he hadn't realizedit before, long before, back when they had first started this horrible,nerve-wracking cat-and-mouse game. The idea just hadn't occurred to him.But he knew the game-playing was over. They wanted to kill him now. Andhe knew that ultimately they _would_ kill him. There was no way for himto escape.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, painfully, perspiration standing outon his bare back, and he waited, listening. How could he have slept,exposing himself so helplessly? Every ounce of his energy, all the skilland wit and shrewdness at his command were necessary in this cruel hunt;yet he had taken the incredibly terrible chance of sleeping, of losingconsciousness, leaving himself wide open and helpless against the attackwhich he knew was inevitable.
How much had he lost? How close had they come while he slept?
Fearfully, he walked to the window, peered out, and felt his musclesrelax a little. The gray, foggy streets were still light. He still had alittle time before the terrible night began.
He stumbled across the small, old-fashioned room, sensing that action ofsome sort was desperately needed. The bathroom was tiny; he stared inthe battered, stained reflector unit, shocked at the red-eyedstubble-faced apparition that stared back at him.
This is Harry Scott, he thought, thirty-two years old, and in the primeof life, but not the same Harry Scott who started out on a ridiculousquest so many months ago. This Harry Scott was being hunted like ananimal, driven by fear, helpless, and sure to die, unless he could findan escape, somehow. But there were too many of them for him to escape,and they were too clever, and they _knew_ he knew too much.
He stepped into the shower-shave unit, trying to relax, to collect hisracing thoughts. Above all, he tried to stay the fear that burnedthrough his mind, driving him to panic and desperation. The memory ofthe last hellish night was too stark to allow relaxation--the growingfear, the silent, desperate hunt through the night; the realization thattheir numbers were increasing; his frantic search for a hiding place inthe New City; and finally his panic-stricken, pell-mell flight down intothe alleys and cobbled streets and crumbling frame buildings of the OldCity.... Even more horrible, the friends who had turned on him, whoturned out to be _like_ them.
Back in the bedroom, he lay down again, his body still tense. There weresounds in the building, footsteps moving around on the floor overhead, adoor banging somewhere. With every sound, every breath of noise, hismuscles tightened still further, freezing him in fear. His own breathwas shallow and rapid in his ears as he lay, listening, waiting.
If only something would happen! He wanted to scream, to bang his headagainst the wall, to run about the room smashing his fist into doors,breaking every piece of furniture. It was the _waiting_, the eternalwaiting, and running, waiting some more, feeling the net drawing tighterand tighter as he waited, feeling the measured, unhurried tread behindhim, always following, coming closer and closer, as though he were amouse on a string, twisting and jerking helplessly.
If only they would move, do something he could counter.
But he wasn't even sure any more that he could detect them. And theywere so careful never to move into the open.
He jumped up feverishly, moved to the window, and peered between theslats of the dusty, old-fashioned blind at the street below.
An empty street at first, wet, gloomy. He saw no one. Then he caught theflicker of light in an entry several doors down and across the street,as a dark figure sparked a cigarette to life. Harry felt the chill rundown his back again. Still there, then, still waiting, a hidden figure,always present, always waiting....
Harry's eyes scanned the rest of the street rapidly. Two three-wheelersrumbled by, their rubber hissing on the wet pavement. One of themcarried the blue-and-white of the Old City police, but the car didn'tslow up or hesitate as it passed the dark figure in the doorway. Theywould never help me anyway, Harry thought bitterly. He had tried thatbefore, and met with ridicule and threats. There would be no help fromthe police in the Old City.
Another figure came around a corner. There was something vaguelyfamiliar about the tall body and broad shoulders as the man walkedacross the wet street, something Harry faintly recognized from somewhereduring the spinning madness of the past few weeks.
The man's eyes turned up toward the window for the briefest instant,then returned steadfastly to the street. Oh, they were sly! You couldnever spot them looking at you, never for _sure_, but they were alwaysthere, always nearby. And there was no one he could trust any longer, noone to whom he could turn.
Not even George Webber.
Swiftly his mind reconsidered that possibility as he watched the figuremove down the street. True, Dr. Webber had started him out on thissearch in the first place. But even Webber would never believe what hehad found. Webber was a scientist, a researcher.
What could he do--go to Webber and tell him that there were men alive inthe world who were _not_ men, who were somehow men and something more?
Could he walk into Dr. Webber's office in the Hoffman Medical Center,walk through the gleaming bright corridors, past the shining metallicdoors, and tell Dr. Webber that he had found people alive in the worldwho could actually see in four dimensions, live in four dimensions,_think_ in four dimensions?
Could he explain to Dr. Webber that he knew this simply because in someway he had sensed them, and traced them, and discovered them; that hehad not one iota of proof, except that he was being followed by them,hunted by them, even now, in a room in the Old City, waiting for them tostrike him down?
He shook his head, almost sobbing. That was what was so horrible. Hecouldn't tell Webber, because Webber would be certain that he had gonemad, just like the rest. He couldn't tell anyone, he couldn't doanything. He could just wait, and run, and wait--
It was almost dark now and the creaking of the old board houseintensified the fear that tore at Harry Scott's mind. Tonight was thenight; he was sure of it. Maybe he had been foolish in coming here tothe slum area, where the buildings were relatively unguarded, whereanybody could come and go as he pleased. But the New City had hardlybeen safer, even in the swankiest private chamber in the highestbuilding. They had had agents there, too, hunting him, driving home thebitter lesson of fear they had to teach him. Now he was afraid enough;now they were ready to kill him.
Down below he heard a door bang, and he froze, his back against thewall. There were footsteps, quiet voices, barely audible. His whole bodyshook and his eyes slid around to the window. The figure in the doorwaystill waited--but the other figure was not visible. He heard the stepson the stair, ascending slowly, steadily, a tread that paced itself withthe powerful throbbing of his own pulse.
Then the te
lephone screamed out--
Harry gasped. The footsteps were on the floor below, moving steadilyupward. The telephone rang again and again; the shrill jangling filledthe room insistently. He waited until he couldn't wait any longer. Hishand fumbled in a pocket and leveled a tiny, dull-gray metal object atthe door. With the other hand, he took the receiver from the hook.
"Harry! Is that you?"
His throat was like sandpaper and the words came out in a rasp. "What isit?"
"Harry, this is George--George Webber."
His eyes were glued to the door. "All right. What do you want?"
"You've got to come talk to us, Harry. We've been waiting for weeks now.You promised us. We've _got_ to talk to you."
Harry still watched the door, but his breath came easier. The footstepsmoved with ridiculous slowness up the stairs, down the hall toward theroom.
"What do you want me to do? They've come to kill me."
There was a long pause. "Harry, are you sure?"
"Dead sure."
"Can you make a break for it?"
Harry blinked. "I could try. But it won't do any good."
"Well, at least try, Harry. Get here to the Hoffman Center. We'll helpyou all we can."
"I'll try." Harry's words were hardly audible as he set the receiverdown with a trembling hand.
The room was silent. The footsteps had stopped. A wave of panic passedup Harry's spine; he crossed the room, threw open the door, stared upand down the hall, unbelieving.
The hall was empty. He started down toward the stairs at a dead run, andthen, too late, saw the faint golden glow of a Parkinson Field acrossthe dingy corridor. He gasped in fear, and screamed out once as hestruck it.
And then, for seconds stretching into hours, he heard his scream echoingand re-echoing down long, bitter miles of hollow corridor.