Eye in the Sky by Philip K. Dick
From the furnace vent in the hall came a rhythmic wheezing. Halting, Hamilton stood listening. The air that billowed out was warm—and fragrant! Not the dead, stale air of a mechanical appliance, but the personal, body-warmed breath generated by a living organism. Down in the basement the furnace was breathing. Back and forth the air moved, as the house-creature inhaled and exhaled.
“Is it—male or female?” Marsha asked.
“Male,” McFeyffe said. “Miss Reiss is afraid of men.”
The air that billowed out smelled pungently of cigar smoke, stale beer and masculine perspiration. The tough composite odors that Miss Reiss must have encountered on buses, in elevators, in restaurants. The harsh, garlic-laden scent of middle-aged men.
“That’s probably how her boy friend smells,” Hamilton said, “when he breathes down her neck.”
Marsha shuddered. “And to come home and smell it, all around her …”
Probably, by now, the electrical wiring of the house was a neurological system, carrying the nervous impulses of the house-creature. Why not? The water pipes carried its blood; the furnace pipes carried air to its basement lungs. Through the living room window Hamilton could make out the shape of the trailing ivy vines that Marsha had painstakingly induced to climb to the roof. In the night darkness, the ivy was no longer green: it was a dull brown.
Like hair. Like the thick, dandruff-clouded hair of a middle-aged businessman. The ivy blew slightly in the wind, an ominous shudder that sent bits of dirt and stem showering down to the lawn outside.
Under Hamilton’s feet the floor stirred. At first he failed to notice; it wasn’t until Mrs. Pritchet began to wail that he identified the faint undulation.
Bending down, he touched the asphalt tile with the palm of his hand. The tile was warm—like human flesh. The walls, too, were warm. And not hard. Not the firm, unyielding surface of paint, paper, plaster and wood—but a soft surface that gave slightly under his fingers..
“Come on,” Laws said tightly. “Let’s move.
Warily, like trapped animals, the seven of them made their way forward into the darkness of the living room. Under their feet, the carpet stirred restlessly. They could hear it all around them, the uneasy living presence, rippling and fretting, struggling into irritable animation.
It was a long trip across the dark living room. On all sides, lamps and books stirred sullenly. Once, Mrs. Pritchet gave a mindless squeak of terror; the cord of the television set had craftily wrapped itself around her ankle. Bill Laws, with a swift yank of his hand, snapped the cord and pulled her loose. Behind them, the severed cord lashed furiously, impotently.
“We’re almost there,” Hamilton said to the indistinct shapes behind him. He could make out the door and the doorknob; already, he was reaching for it. Praying silently, he groped closer: three feet, two feet, only one single foot left… .
He seemed to be going uphill.
Astonished, he drew his hand back. He was on a slant, a rising expanse of material down which he was already beginning to slide. Suddenly, he was rolling and falling; arms flailing, he fought to get up. All seven of them slipped and bumped back toward the center of the living room, toward the hall itself. The hall was utterly dark; even the kitchen light had gone off. There was only the dim flicker of stars beyond the windows, tiny spots of brilliance a long way off.
It’s the carpet,” Bill Laws was saying, in a muted, unbelieving whisper. It—licked us back.”
Under them, the carpet stirred violently. A warm, spongy surface, it was already becoming moist. Stumbling up, Hamilton collided with a wall—and recoiled. The wall dripped a thick ooze of wetness, an avid, leaking sheet of anticipatory saliva.
The house-creature was getting ready to feed.
Cringing against the wall, Hamilton tried to edge past the carpet. The tip of it reached cunningly around, groping for him as he advanced, sweating and trembling, toward the front door. One step. Two. Three. Four. Behind him, other shapes came—but not all.
“Where’s Edith Pritchet?” Hamilton demanded.
“Gone,” Marsha said. “Rolled back into the hall”
“The throat,” Laws’ voice came.
“We’re in its mouth,” David Pritchet said faintly.
The warm wet flesh of the creature’s mouth billowed and pushed against Hamilton. The pressure of it sent shudders of revulsion through him; struggling forward, he groped again for the doorknob, concentrating on the small orb of faintly glimmering metal. This time he managed to catch hold of it; with one great tug he flung the door wide. The shapes behind him gasped as the night became abruptly visible. Stars, the street, dark houses on the far side, trees swaying in the uneven wind … and cold, crisp air.
That was all. Without warning, the square outline began to fold up. The doorway became smaller as the walls squeezed it shut Only a tiny slot remained; like lips, the walls had pressed together, closing it out of existence.
From behind them, the garlicky, rancid breath of the creature billowed out of the hall. The tongue rippled greedily. The walls sweated saliva. In the gloom around Hamilton, human voices shrilled in hopeless fear; ignoring them, he fought to get his hands and arms into the dwindling cavity that had been the front door. Beneath him, the floor began to rise. And the ceiling, slowly and inexorably, was coming down. With rhythmical precision, the two were coming together; in a moment they would meet.
“Chewing,” Marsha gasped, beside him in the darkness.
Hamilton kicked with all his strength. Putting his shoulder against the compressed door, he shoved, fought, scratched and tore at the soft flesh. Tatters of organic substance came away in his hands; gouging, he dug away great gobs of it.
“Help me!” he shouted to the shapes struggling around him. Bill Laws and Charley McFeyffe rose up from the ooze of saliva and began tearing at the door in frenzy. An opening appeared; with Marsha and David Pritchet helping, they managed to tear a circular gap in the flesh.
“Out,” Hamilton snarled, pushing his wife through. Marsha sprawled on the front porch and rolled away. “You next,” Hamilton said to Silvester. The old man was shoved roughly through; after him came Laws, and then McFeyffe. Glaring around, Hamilton saw no other shapes but himself and David Pritchet. The ceiling and floor had virtually met; there was no time to worry about anybody else.
“Get through there,” he grunted, and heaved the boy bodily through the palpitating gap. Then, twisting and shuddering, he got himself through. Behind, within the mouth of the creature, the ceiling and floor came together. A sharp crunch was audible as hard surfaces met. Again and again the crunching sound came.
Mrs. Pritchet, who had not gotten out, was being chewed up.
The surviving members of the group collected in the front yard, safely away from the house. None of them spoke as they stood watching the creature methodically contract and expand. Digestive processes were taking place. Finally, the movement ebbed away. A last ripple of spasmodic activity passed through it, and then the creature was silent.
With a dull whir, the window shades came down, forming opaque shadows that remained in place. It’s sleeping,” Marsha said distantly. Idly, Hamilton wondered what the garbage men would say when they came to pick up the garbage. A neat heap of bones would lie resting on the back porch, a glistening pile that would have been expertly picked, sucked, and then cast out And, perhaps, a few buttons and metal hooks.
“That’s that,” Laws observed.
Hamilton started toward the car. “It’s going to be a real pleasure to kill her,” he stated.
“Not the car,” Laws warned. “We can’t trust it.”
Halting, Hamilton considered. “Well go over to her apartment on foot. I’ll try to get her to come outside; if we can catch her in the open, without going indoors—”
“She’s probably already outdoors,” Marsha said. “This would be working against her, too. Maybe she’s already dead; maybe her apartment house devoured her as soon as she went inside.”
&nbs
From the dark shadows by the garage, a slim shape emerged. “That’s right,” it said, in a quiet, colorless voice. A familiar voice. “I’m still alive.”
* * * * *
From his coat pocket, Hamilton got the .45. As his fingers probed for the safety catch, a bizarre realization came to him. He had never in his life used the gun before—or even seen it. In the real world, he owned no .45. The gun had appeared with Miss Reiss’ world; it was part of his personality and existence in this feral, pathological fantasy.
“You escaped?” Bill Laws asked Miss Reiss.
“I was wise enough not to go upstairs,” the woman’s answer came. “I realized what you had planned as soon as I set foot on the lobby carpet” There was a touch of frantic triumph in Miss Reiss’ voice. “You’re not as clever as you thought”
“My God,” Marsha said. “But we never—”
“You’re going to try to kill me, aren’t you?” Miss Reiss inquired. “All of you, the whole group. You’ve been conspiring for some time, haven’t you?”
“That’s true,” Laws admitted suddenly. “It really is.”
Harshly, metallically, Miss Reiss laughed. I knew it. And you’re not afraid to come right out and say it, are you?”
“Miss Reiss,” Hamilton said, “of course we’re conspiring to kill you. But we can’t. There isn’t a human being in this insane world that could lay a finger on you. It’s these horrors you’ve dreamed up that—”
“But,” Miss Reiss broke in, “you’re not human beings.”
“What?” Arthur Silvester demanded.
“Of course not I knew that when I first saw you, that day at the Bevatron. That’s why you all survived the fall; it was an obvious attempt to get me out there and push me to my death. But I didn’t die.” Miss Reiss smiled. “I have a few resources of my own.”
Very slowly, Hamilton said, “If we’re not human beings, then what are we?”
At that moment Bill Laws stirred. Whirring up from the moist grass, he glided directly toward the small, thin shape of Joan Reiss. Unfolded wings, dusty and parchment-like, flapped and rustled in the night gloom. His aim was absolutely correct; he was on top of her before she could move or cry out
What had seemed to be a human being was a multi-jointed, chitinous entity that buzzed and fluttered as it folded itself around Miss Reiss’ feebly protesting body. The elongated rear portion of the creature twisted; with a sharp jab, it stung the woman, held its poisonous tail deep in her body for an interval, and then, satiated, withdrew. Gradually, the creature’s clicking, scrabbling claws released her. Swaying, Miss Reiss pitched onto her hands and knees and lay stunned, face down and gasping in the wet grass.
“She’ll crawl away,” Arthur Silvester said quickly. Running forward, he sprang on the shrinking body and turned it over. Rapidly, efficiently, he squirted quick-drying cement in a continuous trail around the woman’s bony hips; revolving her, he wound her tightly in a thick net of tough fibers. When he had finished, the elongated insect that had been Bill Laws grappled her up in his claws; supporting the feebly quivering cocoon, he held it in place while Silvester spun a long strand and tossed it over the limb of a tree. In a moment, the half-paralyzed shape of Joan Reiss hung head downward in her sack of gummy webs, eyes glazed, mouth half-open, swaying slightly with the night wind.
“That should hold her,” Hamilton said, with satisfaction.
I’m glad you kept her alive,” Marsha said avidly. “We can take our time with her … There’s nothing she can do.”
“But we’ve got to kill her eventually,” McFeyffe pointed out “After we have our pleasure.”
“She killed my mother,” David Pritchet said, in a small, vibrating voice. Before any of them could catch him, he sprinted forward, crouched, and leaped up onto the swaying cocoon. Extending a protruding feeding-tube, he pushed aside the strands of the cocoon, tore away the woman’s dress, and greedily drilled into her pale flesh. Very shortly, he had probed deep into the moistures of her body. After a time he dropped back to the ground, bloated and dizzy leaving behind him a withered, dehydrated husk.
The husk was still alive, but it was dying rapidly. Fain-blurred eyes gazed sightlessly down at them. Joan Reiss was past comprehension; only a vague, dull spark of personality remained. The members of the group watched appreciatively, conscious that the final seconds of her agony were drifting away.
“She deserved it,” Hamilton said hesitantly. Now that the job had been accomplished, he was beginning to have doubts.
Beside him, the tall, multi-pointed chitinous insect that was Bill Laws nodded in agreement “Of course she did.” His voice was a thin, buzzing rasp. “Look what she did to Edith Pritchet”
“It’ll be good to get out of this world,” Marsha said. “Back to our own world.”
“And our own shapes,” Hamilton added, with an uneasy glance at Arthur Silvester.
“What do you mean?” Laws demanded.
“He doesn’t understand,” Silvester said, with a trace of cold amusement “These are our shapes, Hamilton. But they haven’t appeared before.” He added: “At least, not where you could see them.”
Laws laughed brittlely. “Listen to him. Listen to what he thinks. Hamilton, you’re so very interesting.”
“Maybe we should see what else he thinks,” Arthur Silvester suggested.
“Let’s watch him,” Laws agreed. “Let’s get up close where we can see what he has to say. Let’s find out what he can do.”
Aghast, Hamilton said, “Kill her and let’s end this— you’re part of her insanity and you don’t know it”
“I wonder how fast he can run,” Arthur Silvester conjectured, slowly approaching Hamilton. “Keep away from me,” Hamilton said, reaching for his gun.
“And his wife,” Silvester said. “Let’s give her a go-around, too.”
“I want her,” David Pritchet said greedily. “Let me have her. You can hold her for me if you want. You can keep her from trying to—”
Hanging silently in her cocoon, Miss Reiss quietly died. And, without a sound, the world around them expired into random particles.
Weak with relief, Hamilton pulled the dim shape of his wife to him and stood holding her. “Thank God,” he said. “We’re out of there.”
Marsha hung on tight to him. “It was just in time, wasn’t it?” Swirling shadows drifted around them; patiently, Hamilton stood waiting. There was going to be pain ahead, as they emerged on the litter-strewn concrete floor of the Bevatron. All of them were injured; there would be a period of suffering and slow recovery, long empty days in the hospital. But it would be worth it. Well worth it.
The shadows cleared. They were not in the Bevatron.
“Here we go again,” Charley McFeyffe said heavily. He rose from the moist lawn and stood gripping the porch railing.
“But it can’t be,” Hamilton said stupidly. “There aren’t any left. We’ve been through all of them.”
“You’re wrong,” McFeyffe said. “Sorry, Jack. But I told you. I warned you about her and you wouldn’t listen.”
Parked at the curb in front of Hamilton’s house was an ominous black car. The doors had been pushed open; from the back seat stepped a vast waddling figure that stalked rapidly across the dark yard and up to Hamilton. Behind it came hulking, grim-faced men in overcoats and hats, hands thrust menacingly in their pockets.
“There you are,” the corpulent man grunted. “Okay, Hamilton. Come along.”
At first, Hamilton didn’t recognize him. The man’s face was a mass of doughy flesh, corrupted by a weak chin and ugly little eyes set deep in the fat. His fingers, as they closed roughly over Hamilton’s arm, were fleshy talons; he gave off a foul odor of rancid but expensive cologne and—blood.
“Why weren’t you at work today?” the heavy-set man grunted. “I’m sorry for you, Jack. I knew your father.”
“We found ou
“Tillingford,” Hamilton said, dazed. “Is it really you?” With an ugly leer, Doctor Guy Tillingford, the bloated, blood-smeared capitalist, turned and shambled back toward his parked Cadillac. “Bring him along,” he ordered his gang of men. I have to get back to the Epidemic Development Agency labs. We’ve got some new bacterial poisons we want to try. He’ll make a good subject.”
XV
death lay heavily in the chill night darkness. In the gloom ahead of them, a great corroded organism was dying. Cracked and broken, the crumpled shape painfully oozed body fluids onto the curb and sidewalk; around it a growing pool of shiny moisture formed, expanding and bubbling.
For a moment Hamilton failed to identify it. The shape quivered slightly as it settled onto one side. Starlight pulsed weakly from its shattered windows. Like rotten wood, the bulging hull of the car sagged and collapsed, as he watched, the hood split open like an egg; parts dribbled from it and lay spread out, half-submerged in the puddle of oil, water, gasoline and brake fluid.
Momentarily, a flicker of solidity played through the massive frame. Then, with a protesting groan, the remains of the engine settled down through the corroded supports and onto the pavement The motor block broke in half and began a slow, methodical collapse into used, blunted particles.
“Well,” Tillingford’s driver said, resigned, “there goes that.”
Glumly, Tillingford gazed at the wreck that had been his Cadillac. Gradually, infuriated outrage crept visibly through him. “Everything’s collapsing,” he said. Viciously, he gave the remains of the car a kick; the Cadillac settled further into a shapeless blob of metal that faded into the night shadows.
“That won’t do any good,” one of his men pointed out. “Might as well leave it alone “
“We’re going to have trouble getting back to the plant,” Tillingford said, shaking ugly drops of oil from his trouser cuff. There’s a working class district separating us.”