The Dark Door | Page 2

some more, feeling the net drawing
tighter and tighter as he waited, feeling the measured, unhurried tread
behind him, always following, coming closer and closer, as though he
were a mouse 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 they
were so careful never to move into the open.
He jumped up feverishly, moved to the window, and peered between
the slats of the dusty, old-fashioned blind at the street below.
An empty street at first, wet, gloomy. He saw no one. Then he caught
the flicker 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 run down
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-wheelers
rumbled by, their rubber hissing on the wet pavement. One of them
carried the blue-and-white of the Old City police, but the car didn't
slow up or hesitate as it passed the dark figure in the doorway. They
would never help me anyway, Harry thought bitterly. He had tried that
before, and met with ridicule and threats. There would be no help from
the police in the Old City.
Another figure came around a corner. There was something vaguely
familiar about the tall body and broad shoulders as the man walked
across the wet street, something Harry faintly recognized from
somewhere during 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 could
never spot them looking at you, never for sure, but they were always
there, always nearby. And there was no one he could trust any longer,
no one to whom he could turn.

Not even George Webber.
Swiftly his mind reconsidered that possibility as he watched the figure
move down the street. True, Dr. Webber had started him out on this
search in the first place. But even Webber would never believe what he
had found. Webber was a scientist, a researcher.
What could he do--go to Webber and tell him that there were men alive
in the 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 metallic
doors, and tell Dr. Webber that he had found people alive in the world
who 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
some way he had sensed them, and traced them, and discovered them;
that he had 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 to strike him down?
He shook his head, almost sobbing. That was what was so horrible. He
couldn't tell Webber, because Webber would be certain that he had
gone mad, just like the rest. He couldn't tell anyone, he couldn't do
anything. He could just wait, and run, and wait--
It was almost dark now and the creaking of the old board house
intensified the fear that tore at Harry Scott's mind. Tonight was the
night; he was sure of it. Maybe he had been foolish in coming here to
the slum area, where the buildings were relatively unguarded, where
anybody could come and go as he pleased. But the New City had
hardly been safer, even in the swankiest private chamber in the highest
building. They had had agents there, too, hunting him, driving home
the bitter 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 the
wall. There were footsteps, quiet voices, barely audible. His whole
body shook and his eyes slid around to the window. The figure in the
doorway still waited--but the other figure was not visible. He heard the
steps on the stair, ascending slowly, steadily, a tread that paced itself
with the powerful throbbing of his own pulse.
Then the telephone screamed out--
Harry gasped. The footsteps were on the floor below, moving steadily
upward. The telephone rang again and again; the shrill jangling filled
the room insistently. He waited until he couldn't wait any longer. His
hand fumbled in a pocket and leveled a tiny, dull-gray metal object at
the door. With the other hand, he took the