Fantastic Stories Presents the Imagination (Stories of Science and Fantasy) Super Pack. Edmond Hamilton
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. . . have had certain powers given to us just recently? Why, before, we were no different than earthlings?”
Walt frowned. He didn’t want to think about it. He had a job to do.
“There’s a—call it—a bridge in our minds. It’s just recently been closed.”
(It was ten minutes before the larger transmitter was to be turned off for twelve hours.)
Walt decided on the pitcher. The answer to her question was suddenly obvious. “That means we’re ready to invade.”
She watched him very closely. Her fingers tapped her knee. “ . . . you said you were on a ship?”
It’s almost time to kill her, he thought. I’m sorry, he wanted to say: but I really must. “Yes. A space station.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Twenty-seven; twenty-eight, counting me.”
“That’s not many. Not enough.” She bent forward. “You said you saw a Lyrian female on the ship. I think there’s another group of Lyrians on the ship. I think they’re going to invade first. That’s the war your group is supposed to come in on the end of. You’re going to be used as a clean-up group.”
“Forential would have told us,” Walt said.
“The question is: Why didn’t he tell you?”
Walt realized how terribly sly and dangerous she was. She was too smart to be harmless. Suppose she should warn—but who could she warn? Earthlings? Could they get their atom bombs ready?
He felt his skin prickle. Look behind you! he thought to her. It had worked with the officer; it worked with her.
She turned.
Savagely, he grasped the pitcher with the mental fingers of teleportation. He hurled it as hard as he could at the back of her head.
*
Julia was ready for the blow. She had the molecules of the pitcher displaced before it was half way to her. It passed through her body easily and smashed against the far wall.
She turned quickly enough to avoid Walt’s rush.
On her feet now, she wavered into partial displacement.
Snarling harshly, he advanced on her.
(There was less than five minutes remaining. One of the aliens hovered at the larger transmitter.)
He tried to grab her. His hand passed through her body.
She smiled.
He tried to adjust to her level of displacement. He choked. Quickly he realized what was wrong; he rectified the air so he could breathe. She changed to normal just as he sprang. He hurtled through her as through the air itself.
She turned to face him. He was panting. “When I was a kid,” she said, “I used to throw rocks when I got mad.”
Damn you! His fists clenched. He towered over her.
She did not have any more time to waste with him. ‘That means,’ he had said, ‘we’re ready to invade.’
How much time did she have? The full extent of the menace was gradually taking form in her mind. With an army of indoctrinated mutants . . . . Invasion! Murder! Destruction! For an instant she wanted to collapse and cry like a frightened little girl.
What am I going to do? what am I going to do? what am I going to do? she thought frantically.
I’ve got to see someone! I’ve got to convince someone—I’ve got to show people my mutant powers: they’ll have to believe me! The President, the Army . . . .
How much time?
She made a distortion field. Invisible, she rushed to the door. She paused, returned for her handbag. Holding it, she passed through the door.
I haven’t got time to beat reason into his head, she thought. I’ll tend to him later.
Half way down the stairs, she suddenly became visible.
Chapter VII
Oh, damn! she thought. This happened once before. How long will it last this time?
A great chill exploded in her body.
. . . suppose—?
Now she ran in earnest. Her legs moved like pistons. The few patrons in the lobby glanced up in disapproval. At the door she almost bowled over a young man with a brown sack full of quarts of beer.
Once in the street, she stopped and darted frightened glances about her. It was growing dark. Neon winked. The street was unnatural and brittle under the artificial lights. Well dressed women, serious and unsmiling (serenely confident that they were being mistaken for movie stars) walked beside athletic escorts; sales girls and office clerks window shopped intently.
At the curb Julia almost danced with nervousness.
He can come upon me invisible! she thought. He can throw things! He can—! I can’t even tell when he’s near me!
She waved desperately for a cab.
“Cab! Cab! Taxi!”
It receded toward Vine Street.
Even now he’s coming out of the hotel! she thought. Or he sees me from the Window! . . . I can’t wait here; I’ll have to run; I’ll . . . .
A chartreuse convertible with its top up drew to a stop in front of her. The driver opened the door by pressing a button on the dash. The upholstery was made of tiger skin. He smiled nervously. “Going down this way?”
She hesitated only an instant. “My God, yes!” she said.
“Get in.”
She got in and slammed the door. “Let’s go! mister.”
“When you’re in a hurry, these cabs . . . you never can find one.”
He wore a sports jacket, most of which was canary yellow. He had thin, delicate hands; his face was lean and sunless; his eyes were sad and misunderstood. The hands threaded the convertible into traffic.
Julia fidgeted. She kept glancing behind her.
“Somebody following you?”
Julia shuddered. “I hope not.”
The driver waited. Julia did not amplify; she was half turned now, so she could see out the rear window.
“I had to talk to someone,” the driver said apologetically. “I was driving along, and suddenly I had to talk to someone. You know how it is? . . . Then there you were; you seemed in such a hurry.”
“I’m sure glad you stopped, mister!”
“I mean,” the driver said intently, “I get wanting to talk. My name’s Green. You may have heard of me. I produce pictures—motion pictures. I’m a producer.”
How can I ever get away from Walt! Julia thought. He can run me down whenever he wants to!
“Nobody hears of producers,” the driver said. “That’s all right with me. Let other people take the credit. I don’t like to call attention to myself.” He brought out a monogrammed cigarette case and flicked it open. “Cigarette?”
“No, no, thank you.” Julia twisted at the strap of her handbag.
“Who can you talk to, I mean really? All they’re after is your money . . . . I’ll tell you what I really want. I want a farm—no, don’t laugh: it’s the truth—a little piece of land. I want to settle down, you know. Most people don’t understand how it is.” He gazed sadly down Hollywood Boulevard. “To