The Shadow Men Read online

  The girl's voice oddly suggested she was shrugging. “Couldn’t leave you in the city,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “The Shadows would get you.”

  The phrase had a rhythm that snatched Cargill’s attention. The Shadows—will—get you. The Shadows will get you. He could almost imagine children being frightened by the threat.

  His thought poised on the fact that at least one Shadow had seen him. He said as much. There was a pause. Then, “He’s not—one of them.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He has a plan”—she hesitated— “for fighting them.”

  Cargill's mind made a single, embracing leap. “Where do I fit into this plan ?”

  Silence answered. Cargill waited, then strode forward and fell in step beside her.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “It’s very complicated.” She still did not turn her head. “We had to have somebody from a time far past so the Shadows couldn’t use their four-dimensional minds on him. He looked at you and said he couldn't tell what your future was. Here and there through history are individuals who are—complicated—like that. You’re the one we selected.”

  “Selected!" Cargill exclaimed. Then he was silent. He had an abrupt impossible picture that everything that had happened to him had been planned. In his mind’s eye he saw a drunken soldier being selected to wreck a car and kill a girl. No, wait, that couldn’t be. He had got drunk that night deliberately. They couldn’t have had anything to with that.

  The fury of his speculation subsided.

  The possibilities were too intricate. With a cold intentness he stared at the shadowed profile of Ann Reece.

  "I want to know,” he said, “what way I’m supposed to be used.”

  "I don’t know,” she said. “I’m only a pawn.”

  His fingers snatched at her arm. “Like heck you don’t know,” he said roughly. “Where are you taking me?”

  The fingers of her other hand tugged A futilely at his hand. She struggled a little. “You’re hurting my arm,” she whimpered.

  Cargill released her reluctantly. “You can answer my question.”

  “I’m taking you to a hiding place of ours. You’ll be told there what’s next.” Her tone was reluctant.

  Cargill pondered the possibilities and liked them less every second. A mysterious group intended to use him against beings they feared so violently that they bad gone into remote history for somebody to fight their enemies.

  “Look,” he said frankly, “I don’t like this situation at all. I don’t think I’m going with you to this hiding place.”

  That did not seem to worry her. "Don’t be silly,” she said. “Where would you go?”

  Cargill pondered that uneasily. Once in Germany his unit had withdrawn in disorder and he had been in enemy territory for two days. He could picture that a similar predicament here might be equally unhappy.

  He looked down at himself, undecided. For some minutes, he had been aware that he had on clothes. In that dimness it was impossible to see what they were like but he felt warm and cozy. Surely, they wouldn’t have given him conspicuous clothing. Abruptly, he made up his mind.

  “I don’t think,” he said quietly, “that I’m going any farther in your direction. Good-by.”

  He stepped away from her and ran rapidly along the road, back the way they had come. After not more than ten seconds he plunged off the road and found himself scrambling through thick brush. Ann Reece’s flashlight flared behind him obviously seeking him. But the reflections from the beam only made it easier for him to penetrate the brush.

  He broke into a meadow and trotted across it—and then he was in brush again. For the first time then he heard her voice calling. “You fool, you! Come back!”

  For several minutes, her words broke the spell of the night but he heard only snatches now.

  Once he thought she said, “Watch out for the Planiacs!” But that didn’t make sense.

  He passed over the crest of a hill and thereafter heard her no more.

  Purposefully though carefully Cargill pressed on through the darkness. He grew startled by the extent of the wilderness but it was important that he keep moving. In the morning there might be a search for him and he had better be as far as possible from the road where he had left Ann Reece.

  The night was dark, the sky continued sullen. The tangy smell of water warned him that he was approaching either a river or a lake. Cargill turned aside. He was crossing what seemed to be an open space when, out of the night, the beam of a flashlight focussed on him.

  A girl’s high-pitched voice said, “Darn you, I’ve got my — on you.” He didn’t get the word. It sounded like spit-ter. “Put up your hands.”

  In the reflections of the flashlight, Cargill glimpsed a dull metal gadget that looked like nothing else than an elongated radio tube. It pointed at him steadily.

  The girl raised her voice in a yell. “Hey, pa, I’ve caught myself a —” The word sounded like wiener but Cargill rejected that. The girl went on excitedly, "Come on, pa, and help me get him aboard.”

  Afterwards, Cargill realized he should have tried to escape at that moment. It was the unnatural weapon that held him indecisive. Had it been an ordinary gun he'd have dived off into the darkness—or so he told himself when it was too late.

  Before he could decide a roughly dressed man loped out of the darkness. “Good work, Lela," he said, “you're a smart girl."

  Cargill had a flashing glimpse of a lean, rapacious, bearded countenance. And then the man had taken up a position behind him and was jabbing another of the tubelike weapons into him.

  “Get going, stranger, or I’ll spit you."

  Cargill started forward reluctantly. Ahead of him a long, snub-nosed snubtailed structure loomed up vaguely out of the darkness. The light from the flash seared across it, sending back glassy reflections. And then—

  “Follow Lela through that door.”

  There was no escape now. The man and the gun crowded behind him. Cargill found himself in a large dimly lighted room, amazingly well constructed and looking both cozy and costly. Then he was being urged across the carpeted floor, past a comfortable lounge into a narrow corridor and toward a tiny room that was even more dimly lighted than the first one.

  A few moments later, while the man glowered in the doorway, the girl fastened a chain around Cargill’s right and left ankles. A key clicked twice, then she was drawing back, saying, “There’s a cot in that corner.”

  His two captors retreated along the corridor toward the brighter light, the girl babbling happily about having “caught one of them at last."

  The man said, “Maybe we’d better cast adrift. Maybe there’s more of them.”

  The light in Cargill's room went out. There was a jerk and then slow upward movement. Cargill thought, amazed, An airship!

  His mind jumped back to what Ann Reece had shouted at him—“Watch out for the Planiacs!” Had she meant—this? Carefully, in the darkness he edged towards the cot the girl had indicated. He reached it and sank down on it wearily.

  He spent about a minute fumbling over the chain with his Angers. The metal was hard, the chain itself just over a foot long, an excellent length for hobbling a man.

  He was suddenly too tired to think about it. He lay down and must have slept immediately.

  CHAPTER IV Life with Lela

  CARGILL had a lazy sensation of drifting along. For some reason he resisted waking up and kept sinking back into the darkness. Throughout that early dreamy stage he had no memory of what had happened or of where he was.

  Gradually however he grew conscious of motion underneath him. He stirred and felt the chain clasps against his ankles. That jarred. That brought the beginning of alarm. With a start he woke up.

  His eyes took in the curving metal ceiling, and all too swiftly he remembered. He reached down and touched the chain. It was cool and hard and convincing to his touch. It gave him an empty feeling.

  And t
hen, just as he was about to sit up, he realized he was not alone. He started to turn his head, caught a glimpse of what was there and barely in time brought his hands up in front of his face.

  A whip cracked across his fingers, and licked at his neck with a flamelike intensity. “Get up you lazy good-for-nothing.” The man who stood in the doorway was already drawing the whip back for another blow.

  With a gasp Cargill swung his legs from the cot to the floor. In black rage he was about to launch himself at the other when the metallic rattle of the chain reminded him that he was desperately handicapped. That dimmed his fury and brought a sense of disaster.

  Once more tbe whip struck at him. Cargill ducked and managed to get part of the blow on the sleeve of his coat. The thin sharp end flicked harmlessly past his shoulder against the metal wall.

  Again the whip was drawn back.

  He had already, blurrily, recognized his assailant as the man who had been with the girl the night before. Seen in the light of day he was a scrawny slovenly individual about forty years old. Several days’ growth of beard darkened his face. His lips were thin.

  His eyes had a curiously crafty expression and his face was a mask of bad temper. He wore a pair of greasy trousers and his filthy shirt, which was open at the neck, revealed a flat hairy chest.

  He stood with an animal-like snarl on his face. “Darn your hide, get going.”

  Cargill thought: If he tries to hit me again, I’ll rush him.

  Aloud he temporized. “What do you want me to do?”

  That seemed to add new fury to the man’s anger. “I’ll learn you what I want!”

  The whip came up and it would have flashed down except for one thing. Cargill lunged from the cot and flung himself across the intervening space. The violent impact of their coming together nearly took his breath away but it smashed the other against the metal door jamb.

  He let out a screech and tried to pull back. But Cargill had him now. With one hand he clutched the man’s shirt. With the other hand, clenched, he struck at the thin, bony jaw.

  It was a knockout. A limp body collapsed toward the floor. Cargill followed, kneeling awkwardly and with trembling fingers started to search the other’s pockets.

  From farther along the corridor, the girl’s voice said, “All right, put up your hands or I'll spit you.”

  Cargill jerked up, tensed for action. He hesitated as he saw the weapon, then reluctantly drew back from the man’s body. Stiffly, he sat down on the cot.

  The girl walked forward, and dug the toe of her shoe into her father’s ribs. “Get up, you fool,” she said.

  The man stirred, and sat up. “I’ll kill him,” he mumbled. “I’ll murder that blasted—” It still sounded like wiener.

  The girl was contemptuous. “You aren’t going to kill anybody. You asked for a kick in the teeth and you got it. What did you want him to do?”

  The man stood up groggily, and felt his jaw. “These darn Tweeners,” he said, “make me sick with their sleeping in, and not knowing what to do.”

  The girl said coldly, “Don’t be such a fool, Pa. He hasn’t been trained yet Do you expect him to read your mind ?” She squeezed past him, and came into the little room. “And besides, you keep your dirty hands off him. I caught him, and I’ll do any beating that’s necessary. Give me that whip.”

  “Look, Lela Bouvy,” said her father, “I’m the boss of this floater and don’t you forget it.” But he handed her the whip and said sullenly, “All I want is some breakfast and I want it quick.” “You’ll get it. Now beat it.” She motioned imperiously. “I’ll do the rest.” The man turned and slouched out of sight.

  The girl gestured with her thumb. "All right, you, into the kitchen.” Cargill hesitated, half-minded to resist. But the word, kitchen, conjured thoughts of food. He realized he was tremendously hungry. Silently he climbed to his feet and hobbled clumsily through the door she indicated.

  He was thinking, These creatures could keep me chained up here from now on.

  The despair that came was like a weight, more constricting than the chain that bound him.

  The kitchen proved to be a narrow corridor between thick translucent walls. It was about ten feet long and at the far end was a closed transparent door, beyond which he could see machinery. Both the kitchen and the machine room were bright with the light that flooded through the translucent walls.

  Cargill glanced around, puzzled. There was no sign of a stove or of any standard cooking equipment. He saw no food, no dishes, no cupboards. He looked for lines in the glasslike walls. There were hundreds, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, curving and circular. They seemed to have no purpose. If any of them marked off a panel or a door he couldn’t see it.

  He turned questioningly to the girl. She spoke first. “No clouds this morning. We’ll be able to get all the heat we want.”

  He watched, interested, as she reached up with one hand, spread it wide and touched the top of the wall where it curved toward the ceiling. Only her thumb and little finger actually touched the glass. With a quick movement she ran her hand along parallel to the floor, lightly.

  A thick slab of the glass broke free along an intricate series of lines and noiselessly slid down into a slot. Cargill craned his neck. From where he stood he could just see that there was a limpidly transparent panel inside, behind which were shelves. What was on the shelves, he could not see.

  The girl slid the panel casually sideways. For a moment then her body hid what she was doing. She drew back holding a plate with raw fish and potatoes on it. It looked like trout, and surprisingly it had been cleaned. It was surprising to Cargill because neither Bouvy nor his daughter looked as if they were capable of doing anything in advance.

  He shrewdly suspected the presence of kitchen gadgets that could scale and fillet a fish automatically.

  The girl took a few steps toward him. Once more she ran her little finger and thumb along the upper wall. Another section of that sunlit wall slid down and there was a second panel with shelves behind it. The girl opened the panel, and placed the plate on one of 'the shelves.

  As she closed the panel a faint steam rose from the fish. It turned a golden brown. The potatoes lost their hard whiteness, and visibly underwent the chemical change to a cooked state.

  “That’ll do, I guess,” said Lela Bouvy. She added, “You better get yourself a bite.”

  She took out the plate in her bare hands, paused at the refrigerator to take out an apple and a pear from a bottom shelf and walked out, still carrying the plate.

  Cargill was left alone in the kitchen. By the time she returned for her own breakfast, he had eaten an apple, cooked himself some chicken legs and potatoes and was busily eating when she paused in the doorway.

  She was rather a pretty thing if you allowed for a certain sullenness of expression. So it seemed to Cargill. Her hair was not too well combed but it was not tangled and it had a kind of a pleasant shine that showed some attention had been lavished on it.

  Her eyes were a hot blue, her lips full and her chin came to a point. She wore dungarees and an open-necked shirt which partly exposed a very firm tanned bust.

  She could have been very pretty. She said, with a suspicious tone in her voice, "How did a smart-looking Tweener like you come to get caught so easy?”

  Cargill swallowed a vast mouthful of potato in several quick gulps, and said, “I’m not a Tweener.”

  The hot blue of her eyes smoldered with easy anger. “What kind of a smarty answer is that?”

  Cargill cleaned up what was left on the plate and said, “I’m being honest with you. I’m not a Tweener.”

  She frowned. “Then what are you?” She stiffened. The anger went out of her eyes. They seemed to change color. A fear blue, slightly but curiously different. She whispered, “Not a Shadow?” Before he could pretend or even decide not to she answered her own question. “Of course, you aren’t. A Shadow would know all about this ship and how the kitchen works without having to watch me first. T
hey fix our ships for us floater folk when the repair job is too big for us to figure out.”

  The moment for pretense, whatever its possibilities might have been, was past. Cargill said grudgingly, “No, I’m not a Shadow.”

  The girl’s frown had deepened. "But a Tweener would’ve known that too.” She looked at him warily, “What’s your name?”

  “Morton Cargill.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Cargill told her and watched those expressive eyes of hers change color again. Finally she nodded. “One of those, eh?” She seemed disturbed. “We get a reward for people like you.”

  She broke off. “What did you do— back where you came from—to start the Shadows after you?”

  Cargill shrugged. “Nothing.” He had no intention of launching into a detailed account of the Marie Chanette incident.

  Once more, the blue eyes were flashing. “Don’t you dare lie to me,” she said. "All I’ve got to do is to tell Pa that you’re a getaway and that’ll cook your goose.”

  Cargill said with all the earnestness he could muster, “I can’t help that. I really don’t know.” He hesitated, then said, “What year is this?”

  The moment he had asked the question he felt breathless.

  CHAPTER V A Woman’s Loud Voice

  He hadn’t thought about it before.

  He hadn’t had time. The clock in the glass-walled room in Shadow City had indicated that it was May 6th but not what year it was. Everything had happened too swiftly. Even his blurred questions to Ann Reece during those first minutes after her arrival had been so weighted with emotion that the possibilities of being here in the future hadn’t really penetrated.

  Which future? What year? What had happened during the centuries that must have passed? Where? How? Who? He caught his whirling mind, fastened it down, brought it to focus. The most important fact was—what year?

  Lela Bouvy shrugged, and said, “Two Thousand Three Hundred and Ninety-One.”

  Cargill ventured, “What I can’t understand is how the world has changed so completely from my time.” He described the United States at the end of World War Two.