The Dark Door

The Dark Door, by Alan Edward
Nourse

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Title: The Dark Door
Author: Alan Edward Nourse
Release Date: October 3, 2007 [EBook #22869]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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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 and
trembling, his heart sinking in the knowledge that he should never have
slept. For almost half a minute, eyes wide with fear, he lay in the
silence of the gloomy room, straining to hear some sound, some
indication of their presence.
But the only sound was the barely audible hum of his wrist watch and
the dismal splatter of raindrops on the cobbled street outside. There was
no sound 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 turned
the idea over and over in his mind. He wondered why he hadn't realized
it 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. And he knew that ultimately they would kill him. There was no
way for him to escape.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, painfully, perspiration standing out on
his bare back, and he waited, listening. How could he have slept,
exposing himself so helplessly? Every ounce of his energy, all the skill
and wit and shrewdness at his command were necessary in this cruel
hunt; yet he had taken the incredibly terrible chance of sleeping, of
losing consciousness, leaving himself wide open and helpless against
the attack which 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 muscles
relax a little. The gray, foggy streets were still light. He still had a little
time before the terrible night began.
He stumbled across the small, old-fashioned room, sensing that action
of some sort was desperately needed. The bathroom was tiny; he stared
in the battered, stained reflector unit, shocked at the red-eyed
stubble-faced apparition that stared back at him.
This is Harry Scott, he thought, thirty-two years old, and in the prime
of life, but not the same Harry Scott who started out on a ridiculous
quest so many months ago. This Harry Scott was being hunted like an
animal, driven by fear, helpless, and sure to die, unless he could find an
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 his
racing thoughts. Above all, he tried to stay the fear that burned through
his mind, driving him to panic and desperation. The memory of the last
hellish night was too stark to allow relaxation--the growing fear, the
silent, desperate hunt through the night; the realization that their
numbers were increasing; his frantic search for a hiding place in the
New City; and finally his panic-stricken, pell-mell flight down into the
alleys and cobbled streets and crumbling frame buildings of the Old
City.... Even more horrible, the friends who had turned on him, who
turned out to be like them.
Back in the bedroom, he lay down again, his body still tense. There
were sounds in the building, footsteps moving around on the floor
overhead, a door banging somewhere. With every sound, every breath
of noise, his muscles tightened still further, freezing him in fear. His
own breath was shallow and rapid in his ears as he lay, listening,
waiting.
If only something would happen! He wanted to scream, to bang his
head against the wall, to run about the room smashing his fist into

doors, breaking every piece of furniture. It was the waiting, the eternal
waiting, and running, waiting