Invasion of The Body Snatchers

doctor. And brain waves have always existed; they weren't invented, only discovered. People have always had them, just as they've always had fingerprints; Abraham Lincoln, Pontius Pilate, and Cro-Magnon man. We just didn't know it, that's all.'

He sighed, and said, 'And there is a great deal more we don't know or even begin to suspect. Not only your brain, but your entire body, every cell of it emanates waves as individual as fingerprints. Do you believe that, Doctor?' He smiled. 'Well, do you believe that utterly invisible, undetectable waves can emanate from a room, move silently through space, be picked up, and then reproduce precisely every word, sound, and tone to be heard in that original room? The sound of a whispered voice, the note of a piano, the plucked string of a guitar? Your grandfather would never have believed such an impossibility, but you do – you believe in radio. You even believe in television.'

He nodded. 'Yes, Doctor Bennell, your body contains a pattern, all living matter does – it is the very foundation of cellular life. Because it is composed of the tiny electrical force-lines that hold together the very atoms that constitute your being. And therefore it is a pattern – infinitely more perfect and detailed than any blueprint could be – of the precise atomic constitution of your body at exactly that moment, altering with every breath you take, and with every second of time in which your body infinitesimally changes. And it is during sleep, incidentally, when that change occurs least; and during sleep when the pattern can be taken from you, absorbed like static electricity, from one body to another.'

Again he nodded. 'So it can happen, Doctor Bennell, and rather easily; the intricate pattern of electrical forcelines that knit together every atom of your body to form and constitute every last cell of it – can be slowly transferred. And then, since every kind of atom in the universe is identical – the building blocks of the universe – you are precisely duplicated, atom for atom, molecule for molecule, cell for cell, down to the tiniest scar or hair on your wrist. And what happens to the original? The atoms that formerly composed you are – static now, nothing, a pile of grey fluff. It can happen, does happen, and you know that it has happened; and yet you will not accept it.' He watched me for a moment, then smiled. 'Though perhaps I'm wrong about that; I think maybe you have accepted it.'

For a time, then, the room was silent, the four figures in my waiting-room quietly watching Becky and me. He was right; I believed him. I knew it was true, possible or impossible, and the helplessness and frustration were rising up in me. I could feel it in my finger tips, an actual physical sensation, a compelling urgency to do something, and I sat there, my fists clenching and unclenching. Suddenly, impulsively, for no other reason than to move, to act, to do something, I reached behind me, grabbed the cord of the Venetian blind, and yanked. The blinds shot up, the slats rattling like machine-gun fire, daylight slanting into the room, and I turned to look down at the wandering shoppers, the stores, the cars, the parking meters, the so ordinary scene below.

The four figures in my office didn't move, just sat watching me; and now my eyes were darting around the room, frantically searching for something I could do.

Mannie realized what was going on in my mind before I did. 'You could grab something and heave it through the window, Miles. And it would attract attention; people would look up and see the smashed window. You could stand there, then, and shout at them, Miles. But no one would come up.' My eyes swung to the phone, and Mannie said, 'Grab it; we won't stop you. And you'll reach the operator. But she won't put a call through.'

Becky's head swung toward me, and she buried her face on my chest, her hands clutching my lapels; and, my arms around her, I felt her shoulders heave in a dry and soundless sobbing.

'Then what are you waiting for!' There was an actual red mist swarming before my eyes. 'What are you doing, torturing us?'

Mannie grimaced, his face apparently pained, and he was shaking his head. 'No, Miles! No, we're not. We haven't the least desire to hurt or torture you in any way. You're friends of mine! Or were.' He shook his head, hands outspread helplessly. 'Don't you see? There's nothing we can do, Miles, but wait; and try to explain, make you understand and accept this, try to make this as easy on you as we can. Miles,' he said simply, 'we have to wait till you're asleep, that's all. And there's no way you can make a man sleep.'

Mannie looked at me for a moment, then added gently, 'But there's no way you can keep from sleeping, either. You can fight it off for a time, but finally… you'll have to sleep.'

The little man near the door – I'd forgotten he existed – sighed, and said, 'Lock them in a cell at the jail; they'll sleep eventually. Why all the argument?'

Mannie looked at him coldly. 'Because these people are friends of mine. Go on home, if you want to; three of us are enough.'

The little man just sighed – no one ever got mad, I noticed – and continued to sit where he was.

Mannie got up suddenly, walked toward us, and stood looking down at me, his face pained and regretful. 'Miles, face it! You're caught; there's nothing you can do. Face it, and accept it; do you like seeing Becky this way? I don't!' We stared at each other for several ticks of a clock, and somehow I didn't believe in his anger at all. Gently, persuasively, Mannie said, 'Talk to her, Miles. Make her see the truth. No fooling, you won't mind, I tell you. You'll feel nothing at all. Sleep, and you'll wake up feeling exactly the same as you do now, only rested. You'll be the same. What the hell are you fighting?' After a moment he turned, and walked back to the davenport.

Chapter seventeen

My hand was moving, stroking Becky's hair, gently massaging her neck, comforting her, or trying to, in the only way I could. And then I wondered if it was the only way. I was tired; I could feel it behind my eyes, and in the slackening of my facial muscles; I could feel the weariness of my legs and arms. I wasn't exhausted; I could hold out for a time, but not for too long, nor could Becky. And the idea of sleep, of just dropping my problems and letting go; letting sleep pour through me, and then waking up, feeling just the same as I did now, still Miles Bennell – it was shocking to realize how terribly tempting the idea was.

I looked up at Mannie, sitting there on the edge of the davenport, eyes wide, his face looking compassionate and anxious, wanting me to believe him; and I wondered if what he said weren't the simple truth. Even if it weren't, holding Becky, feeling the tiny tremble of her body, and knowing how terrified she was, was more than I could take, and I knew there was something more I could do for her than simply sitting there stroking her hair. I could persuade her. I could accept what Mannie had said – accept and believe it – and then let my conviction convince her. It might even be true; it might.

My hand steadily stroking Becky's hair, holding her tight to me, I thought about it, feeling the steady trembling of her body, feeling my own weariness, letting the will to believe strengthen and grow. Then… Budlong was right; the will to survive cannot be denied – and I knew we'd fight, that we had to. Like a condemned man futilely holding his last breath in a gas chamber, we had to hold out as long as we possibly could, struggling and hoping even when there was no possible hope left. And now I turned to Budlong, trying to think of something, anything, to say, to keep us awake, to find some point of attack, hoping for I didn't know what.

'How did it happen?' I said conversationally. 'All of Santa Mira – how did it work?'

He was willing to answer, and I knew Mannie was right; they were simply going to wait, till finally we had to sleep. 'A little blindly, at first,' Budlong said pleasantly. 'The hulls, the pods, drifted down in this area; it could have been anywhere, but it happened to be here. They came to rest on the Parnell farm, on a trash pile, and their first efforts were merely a blind duplication of what they encountered first: an empty tin can stained with the juice of once-living fruit, a broken axe handle of wood. It's a natural waste; the waste of any kind of seed spore falling in the wrong places. Others, though, a few of them – and as a matter of fact, it would have taken only one success – fell, or drifted, or were blown, or carried by curious people, into the right places. And then those who were changed recruited others, usually their own families. The case of your friend, Wilma Lentz, is a typical one; it was her uncle, of course, who placed the hull in their basement that – effected her change. It was Becky's father who – ' Politely, he didn't finish that sentence.

'In any event, from the moment the first effective changeover occurred, chance was no longer a factor. One man alone, Charley Bucholtz, the local gas- and electric-meter reader, brought about over seventy changeovers;