Again they froze in mid-step. This time the sound was no muffled scream. It was soft, almost hissing, but it was too clear to be misunderstood.
Both flash beams swung wildly now, for seconds. Then one froze. The other hesitated, then joined it.
Together they formed a pool of light against a distant part of the tunnel wall. And in the pool stood—what?
“My God,” said Von der Stadt. “Cliff, tell me what it is quick, before I shoot it.”
“Don’t,” Ciffonetto replied. “It isn’t moving.”
“But—what?”
“I don’t know.” The scientist’s voice had a strange, uncertain quiver in it.
The creature in the pool of light was small, barely over four feet. Small and sickening. There was something vaguely manlike about it, but the proportions of the limbs were all wrong, and the hands and feet were grotesquely malformed. And the skin, the skin was a sickly, maggoty white.
But the face was the worst. Large, all out of proportion to the body, yet the mouth and nose could hardly be seen. The head was all eyes. Two great, immense, grotesque eyes, now safely hidden by lids of dead white skin.
Von der Stadt was rock steady, but Ciffonetto shook a bit as he looked at it. Yet he spoke first.
“Look,” he said, his voice soft. “In its hand. I think—I think that’s a tool.” Silence. Long, strained silence. Then Ciffonetto spoke again. His voice was hoarse.
“I think that’s a man.”
Greel burned.
The fire had caught him. Even shut tight, his eyes ached, and he knew the horror that lurked outside if he opened them. And the fire had caught him. His skin itched strangely, and hurt. Worse and worse it hurt.
Yet he did not stir. He was a scout. He had a duty. He endured, while his mind mingled with those of the others.
And there, in their minds, he saw fear, but checked fear. In a distorted, blurry way he saw himself through their eyes, He tasted the awe and the revulsion that warred in one. And the unmixed revulsion that churned inside the other.
He angered, but he checked his anger. He must reach them. He must take them to the People. They were blind and crippled and could not help their feelings. But if they understood, they would aid. Yes.
He did not move. He waited. His skin burned, but he waited.
“That,” said Von der Stadt. “That thing is a man?”
Ciffonetto nodded. “It must be. It carries tools. It spoke.” He hesitated. “But—God, I never envisioned anything like this. The tunnels, Von der Stadt. The dark. For long centuries only the dark. I never thought—so much evolution in so little time.”
“A man?” Still Von der Stadt doubted. “You’re crazy. No man could become something like that.”
Ciffonetto scarcely heard him. “I should have realized,” he mumbled. “Should have guessed. The radiation, of course. It would speed up mutation. Shorter life-spans, probably. You were right, Von der Stadt. Men can’t live on bugs and mushrooms. Not men like us. So they adapted. Adapted to the darkness, and the tunnels. It—”
Suddenly he started. “Those eyes,” he said. He clicked off his flashlight, and the walls seemed to move closer. “He must be sensitive. We’re hurting him. Divert your flash, Von der Stadt.”
Von der Stadt gave him a doubtful sidelong glance. “It’s dark enough down here already,” he said. But he obeyed. His beam swung away.
“History,” Ciffonetto said. “A moment that will live in—”
He never finished. Von der Stadt was tense, trigger-edged. As his beam swung away from the figure down the tunnel, he caught another flicker of movement in the darkness. He swung back and forth, found the thing again, pinned it against the tracks with a beam of light.
Almost he had shot before. But he had hesitated, because the manlike figure had been still and unfamiliar.
This new thing was not still. It squealed and scurried. Nor was it unfamiliar. This time Von der Stadt did not hesitate.
There was a roar, a flash. Then a second.
“Got it,” said Von der Stadt. “A damn rat.”
And Greel screamed.
After the long burning, there had come an instant of relief. But only an instant. Then, suddenly, pain flooded him. Wave after wave after wave. Rolled over him, blotting out the thoughts of the fire-men, blotting out their fear, blotting out his anger.
H’ssig died. His mind-brother died.
The fire-men had killed his mind-brother.
He shrieked in pain rage. He darted forward, swung up his spear.
He opened his eyes. There was a flash of vision, then more pain and blindness. But the flash was enough. He struck. And struck again. Wildly, madly, blow after blow, thrust after thrust.
Then, again, the universe turned red with pain, and then again sounded that awful roar that had come when H’ssig died. Something threw him to the tunnel floor, and his eyes opened again, and fire, fire was everywhere.
But only for a while. Only for a while. Then, shortly, it was darkness again for Greel of the People.
The gun still smoked. The hand was still steady. But Von der Stadt’s mouth hung open as he looked, unbelieving; from the thing he had blasted across the tunnel, to the blood dripping from his uniform, then back again.
Then the gun dropped, and he clutched at his stomach, clutched at the wounds. His hand came away wet with blood. He stared at it. Then stared at Ciffonetto.
“The rat,” he said. There was pain in his voice. “I only shot a rat. It was going for him. Why, Cliff? I—?”
And he fell. Heavily. His flashlight shattered and went dark.
There was a long fumbling in the blackness. Then, at last, Ciffonetto’s light winked on, and the ashen scientist knelt beside his companion.
“Von,” he said, tugging at the uniform. “Are you all right?” He ripped away the fabric to expose the torn flesh.
Von der Stadt was mumbling. “I didn’t even see him coming. I took my light away, like you said, Cliff. Why? I wasn’t going to shoot him. Not if he was a man. I only shot a rat. Only a rat. It was going for him, too.”
Ciffonetto, who had stood paralyzed through everything, nodded. “It wasn’t your fault, Von. But you must have scared him. You need treating, now, though. He hurt you bad. Can you make it back to camp?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped his arm under Von der Stadt’s, and lifted him to his feet, and began to walk him down the tunnel, praying they could make it back to the platform.
“I only shot a rat,” Von der Stadt kept saying, over and over, in a dazed voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Ciffonetto. “It won’t matter. We’ll find others. We’ll search the whole subway system if we have to. We’ll find them.”
“Only a rat. Only a rat.”
They reached the platform. Ciffonetto lowered Von der Stadt back to the ground. “I can’t make the climb carrying you, Von,” he said. “I’ll have to leave you here. Go for help.” He straightened, hung the flash from his belt.
“Only a rat,” Von der Stadt said again.
“Don’t worry,” said Ciffonetto. “Even if we don’t find them, nothing will be lost. They were clearly sub-human. Men once, maybe. But no more. Degenerated. There was nothing they could have taught us, anyway.”
But Von der Stadt was past listening, past hearing. He just sat against the wall; clutching his stomach and feeling the blood ooze from between his fingers, mumbling the same words over and over.
Ciffonetto turned to the wall. A few short feet to the platform, then the old, rusty escalator, and the
