Phantoms

of the guards slammed and locked the door behind them, cutting off the reporters, who howled even louder than before.

“This way,” a security man said.

“The chopper's here,” another said.

They hurried along a maze of hallways, down a flight of concrete stairs, through a metal fire door, and outside, onto a windswept expanse of tarmac, where a sleek, blue helicopter waited. It was a plush, well- appointed, executive craft, a Bell JetRanger 11.

“It's the governor's chopper,” Corello told Flyte.

“The governor?” Flyte said. “He's here?”

“No. But he's put his helicopter at your disposal.”

As they climbed through the door, into the comfortable passengers' compartment, the rotors began to churn overhead.

Forehead pressed to the cool window, Timothy Flyte watched San Francisco fall away into the night.

He was excited. Before the plane had landed, he had felt dopey and bedraggled; not any more. He was alert and eager to learn more about what was happening in Snowfield.

The JetRanger had a high cruising speed for a helicopter, and the trip to Santa Mira took less than two hours. Corello a clever, fast-talking, amusing man — helped Timothy prepare another statement for the media people who were waiting for them. The journey passed quickly.

They touched down with a thump in the middle of the fenced parking lot behind the county sheriff's headquarters. Corello opened the door of the passengers' compartment even before the chopper's rotors had stopped whirling; he plunged out of the craft, turned to the door again, buffeted by the wind from the blades, and lent a hand to Timothy.

An aggressive contingent of newsmen — even more of them than in San Francisco — filled the alleyway. They were pressed against the chain-link fence, shouting questions, aiming microphones and cameras.

“We'll give them a statement later, at our convenience,” Corello told him, shouting in order to be heard above the din. “Right now, the police here are waiting to put you on the phone to the sheriff up in Snowfield.”

A couple of deputies hustled Timothy and Corello into the building, along the hallway, and into an office where another uniformed man was waiting for them. His name was Charlie Mercer. He was husky, with the bushiest eyebrows that Timothy had ever seen — and the briskly efficient manner of a first-rate executive secretary.

Timothy was escorted to the chair behind the desk.

Mercer dialed a number in Snowfield, making the connection with Sheriff Hammond. The call was put on a conference speaker, so that Timothy didn't have to hold a receiver, and so that everyone in the room could hear both sides of the conversation.

Hammond delivered the first shocker as soon as he and Timothy had exchanged greetings: “Dr. Flyte, we've seen the ancient enemy. Or at least I guess it's the thing you had in mind. A massive… Another thing. A shape- changer that can mimic anything.”

Timothy's hands were shaking; he gripped the arms of his chair. “My God.”

“Is that your ancient enemy?” Hammond asked.

“Yes. A survivor from another era. Millions of years old.”

“You can tell us more when you get here,” Hammond said. “If I can persuade you to come.”

Timothy only heard half of what the sheriff was saying. He was thinking of the ancient enemy. He had written about it; he had truly believed in it; yet, somehow, he had not been prepared to actually have his theory confirmed. It rocked him.

Hammond told him about the hideous death of a deputy named Gordy Brogan.

Besides Timothy himself, only Sal Corello looked stunned and horrified by Hammond's story. Mercer and the others had evidently heard all about it hours ago.

“You've seen it and lived?” Timothy said, amazed.

“It had to leave some of us alive,” Hammond said, “so that we'd try to convince you to come. It has guaranteed your safe conduct.”

Timothy chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip.

Hammond said, “Dr. Flyte? Are you still there?”

“What? Oh… yes. Yes, I'm still here. What do you mean by saying it guaranteed my safe passage?”

Hammond told him an astonishing story about communication with the ancient enemy by way of a computer.

As the sheriff talked, Timothy broke into a sweat. He saw a box of Kleenex on one corner of the desk in front of him; he grabbed a handful of tissues and mopped his face.

When the sheriff finished, the professor drew a deep breath and spoke in a strained voice, “I never anticipated… I mean… well, it never occurred to me that.”

“What's wrong?” Hammond asked.

Timothy cleared his throat. “It never occurred to me that the ancient enemy would possess human-level intelligence.”

“I suspect it may even be a superior intelligence,” Hammond said.

“But I always thought of it as just a dumb animal, of distinctly limited self-awareness.”

“It's not.”

“That makes it a lot more dangerous. My God. A lot more, dangerous.”

“Will you come up here?” Hammond asked.

“I hadn't intended to come any closer than I am now,” Timothy said, “But if it's intelligent… and if it's offering me safe passage…”

On the telephone, a child's voice piped up, the sweet voice of a young boy, perhaps five or six years old: “Please, please, please come play with me, Dr. Flyte. Please. We'll have lots of fun. Please?”

And then, before Timothy could respond, there came a woman's soft and musical voice: “Yes, dear Dr. Flyte, by all means, do come pay us a visit. You're more than welcome. No one will harm you.”

Finally, the voice of an old man called over the line, warm and tender “You have so much to learn about me, Dr. Flyte. So much wisdom to acquire. Please come and begin your studies. The offer of safe passage is sincere.”

Silence.

Confused, Timothy said, “Hello? Hello? Who's this?”

“I'm still here,” Hammond answered.

The other voices did not return.

“Just me now,” Hammond said.

Timothy said, “But who were those people?”

“They're not actually people. They're just phantoms. Mimicry. Don't you get it? In three different voices, it just offered you safe passage again. The ancient enemy, Doctor.”

Timothy looked at the other four men in the room. They were all staring intently at the black conference box from which Hammond's voice — and the voices of the creature — had issued.

Clutching a wad of already sodden paper tissues in one hand, Timothy wiped his sweat-slick face again. “I'll come.”

Now, everyone in the room looked at him.

On the telephone, Sheriff Hammond said, “Doctor, there's no good reason to believe that it'll keep its promise. Once you're here, you may very well be a dead man, too.”

“But if it's intelligent…”

“That doesn't mean it plays fair,” Hammond said, “In fact, all of us up here are certain of one thing: This creature is the very essence of evil. Evil, Dr, Flyte. Would you trust in the Devil's promise?”

The child's voice came on the line again, still lilting and sweet: “If you come, Dr. Flyte, I'll not only spare you, but these six people whore trapped here. I'll let them go if you come play with me. But if you don't come, I'll take these pigs. I'll crush them. I'll squeeze the blood and shit out of them, squeeze them into pulp, and use them up.”