The Dark on the Other Side

I

WHEN LINDA WOKE, IT WAS GETTING DARK OUTSIDE. The high windows were gray oblongs; the dim light within the room reduced furniture and hangings to unfamiliar menaces.

She sat up, brushing the strands of hair back from her face. Her mouth was horribly dry. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and swallowed it down, so grateful for the relief to parched membranes that she hardly noticed its stale taste. Still fuzzy with sleep, she didn’t think about the time until her half-closed eyes lit on the illumined dial of the clock.

She jumped up from the bed and stood swaying dizzily as the sluggish blood moved down from her head. Late. It was very late. She had meant to take extra time over her dressing, to apply makeup with extra care. She had hoped to speak privately with Andrea before the others joined them.

Where the hell was that stupid maid?

She groped for the buzzer and jabbed it impatiently. She had just found the light switch when the door burst open. Dazzled, Linda blinked at her maid.

“You’re supposed to knock,” she said angrily. “And why did you let me sleep so long? You know I’m late.”

Anna’s mouth drooped open another inch. She was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide which criticism to answer first.

“But, madam, you’ve told me time and again not to bother you unless you ring. And this time, the bell-it sounded sort of frantic, and I thought maybe you’d hurt yourself or something-”

“Oh, shut up,” Linda said. The very reasonableness of the girl’s defense infuriated her. “Straighten up this mess. Find me something to wear.”

With a murmured “Yes, madam,” Anna picked up the shoes Linda had left in the middle of the floor and carried them to the dressing room.

From where she stood, Linda could see the far wall of the dressing room, which was one huge mirror, polished to shining perfection. Out of its depths, another Anna advanced briskly to meet the one who was entering the room. The identical twin figures were an uncanny sight; but Linda paid no attention to that, or to the expression on the mirrored face, which had relaxed when Anna thought herself no longer under observation. Part of the bedroom was reflected in the mirror, and it was, as she had said, a mess. She had thrown herself down on the bed without turning back the spread; the satin surface was wrinkled and ugly, with a dark spot near the pillow where her mouth had rested. Her gardening clothes, which she had changed before lunch, lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Beside the bed, as if fallen from a nerveless hand, was an empty bottle.

Linda gaped at it in vague surprise. Had she really finished the whole bottle? Surely this one had been almost full when she took it out of the drawer.

She shoved it aside with her foot, wrinkling her nose at the sour reek of spilled liquor. Her tweed skirt was twisted and her right stocking marred by a run. There were stains on the front of her blouse.

“Run my bath,” she called, tugging at the zipper of the skirt.

Anna appeared in the doorway.

“But, madam, it’s late-”

“Whose fault is that?” Linda asked pettishly. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll make it a shower then. Get my clothes out. The black culotte thing, stockings, the gold sandals-and hurry up, damn you.”

She moved toward the bathroom, shedding clothes as she went, watching with malicious satisfaction as Anna stooped to pick up each item. Anna grunted when she bent over. She was too fat, that was her trouble. Linda gave the right hand tap a vicious twist and stepped under a spray of water that felt as if it had been refrigerated.

The treatment was drastic, but effective; she knew, from past experience, how effective. When she came out of the bathroom, she felt fairly human again, and by the time she was seated at the dressing table, with Anna’s nimble fingers working at her hair, she was able to be cunning.

“I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did,” she said, watching Anna’s face in the mirror. “I’m always cross when I sleep in the afternoon. It was my own fault that I was late.”

The sullen pink face did not change, nor the pale eyes move from their work.

“That’s quite all right, madam,” Anna said.

So much for that. There was no use trying to influence the girl now; she knew too much.

When Linda went down, she knew that she looked as good as skilled grooming and expensive clothes could make her look. But the black outfit had not, perhaps, been a wise choice. She liked the freedom of the wide black trousers, so full that they resembled a skirt except when the wearer was in motion; but the bodice left her arms and throat bare, and seemed to show more bone than flesh. She had had to send Anna to bore a new hole in the belt, and when it was buckled tightly it gathered the dress in unbecoming folds around the waist. I’m too thin, she thought, and then: Pathos; I’m appealing to his sense of pity. Nice. And it probably won’t work, either.

The others were already assembled in the drawing room, not in the library this time. Gordon did seem to get a perverse pleasure from Andrea’s company; he loved baiting her. But he would never admit her into his sanctum.

As she went down the hall, Linda knew she was walking faster than usual, almost running. Something pulled at her like a magnet acting on a lode-stone. She had felt it that morning, sensing his presence even before she saw him. Tonight the tug was even stronger. That was all it was so far, nothing reasoned or desired, only a blind, mindless need. Like a fish on a line, she thought angrily, and shoved at the hangings over the doorway.

Andrea had already arrived. Sprawled with her usual lack of grace in an armchair near the fire, she raised a fat hand in greeting, and Linda saw her suddenly, not as the familiar friend, but as she must have appeared to a stranger, even one as tolerant and sophisticated as Michael Collins.

She was a very ugly old woman. Her ugliness was not the distinguished plainness some homely girls acquire in old age; it was plain, unvarnished, positive ugliness, strengthened by cultivated sloppiness. Her wrinkled face was overlaid with a thick coating of powder; her lipstick, applied in a wide slash without the aid of a mirror, always left smears on cigarettes and glasses. Her hair was another, clashing, shade of red, worn in a frizzy halo. Her dresses looked like the sort of thing that might be worn by a gypsy fortuneteller at a fair. Tonight, in honor of the occasion, she had added a few more yards of beads to the collection around her neck, and changed her long, full calico skirts for a magenta taffeta one of the same style. Long brass earrings dangled from her ears. In her left hand she held a jade cigarette holder.

I hate her, Linda thought. Fat, ugly old woman…

She knew a moment of despair so absolute that it felt like death. What had possessed her to ask Andrea to dinner? Some unformed idea of help, of support? But it wouldn’t work that way. Andrea’s weight would be on the other side of the scales, pushing them down, against her.

“Hello, Andrea,” she said. “I hope the trip was successful.”

“Darling girl,” Andrea said effusively. She waved the cigarette holder, endangering her mop of hair. “Yes, I was just telling the boys about it. It was nasty, but I managed.”

“A case of demonic possession,” Gordon explained solemnly. “By-Beelzebub, was it, Andrea? Or Belial?”

“Oh, you nasty skeptic,” Andrea said. She grinned at Gordon. The effect was hideous-white, unnaturally perfect teeth framed in smeary scarlet lipstick. “You know I’m never sure who it is. I just reel off a list of names and tell them all to get the hell out of the patient. It has to be one of the bunch.”

Linda glanced at Michael. His expression was just what she had expected it to be-incredulity and amusement covered by a thin glaze of polite interest.

“Andrea, you are too much,” she said irritably. “You sound like a charlatan.”

“The fakers are the ones who bother with fancy words,” said Andrea, flicking the ash off her cigarette. It landed on the Aubusson carpet, and she smeared it around with her foot. “I tell it like it is.”

“Tell me,” Michael said, leaning forward, “how do you go about exorcising an evil spirit? I know the Roman Church has a ritual for that purpose, but I don’t imagine you-”

“No, I’ve got my own methods,” Andrea said complacently. “Not that the other isn’t effective enough. But it has to be performed by an ordained priest.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten.”

“You’ve studied the subject? Mm-hm. But you don’t believe.”

“No.”

Reading their faces, Linda leaned back with a feeling of relief. Andrea’s judgments of people were quick and violent-like or dislike, immediate and instinctive. Apparently she approved of Michael Collins. She grinned at him and he grinned back, remarking,

“At this point I’m supposed to say, ‘Not that I haven’t seen things, strange things, that were hard to explain by the normal laws of nature.’ But I can’t say that. I’ve never had the faintest flash of clairvoyance, nor seen a ghost.”

“Never had the feeling that you’d been somewhere before, done the same thing at another time?”

“Déjà vu? Of course. Everyone has had that experience. It’s easily explained in terms of subconscious resemblances, forgotten memories, without resorting to theories of precognition or reincarnation.”

“Touché,” said Gordon softly, from the depths of his chair.

Andrea turned on him with a metallic jangle of jewelry.

“Touché, hell. Skeptics always drag that one out. They have an answer for everything-if you let them throw out half the evidence. I can quote you, offhand, a dozen cases of genuine precognition. Impressions of a scene, a house, a face-recorded and witnessed-which appeared at a later time.”

It was the old familiar ground; they had been over it a dozen times, arguing in a perfectly good-humored way, which still made Linda queasy and nervous. Gordon was leading Andrea on again, not only for his own amusement but to entertain his guest. But now the conversation took an unexpected twist.

“Precognition, telepathy, clairvoyance,” Michael said. “Aren’t we wandering a bit from the track? ESP is one thing; demons are another. Or so it seems to me.”

The room was brightly lit. One of Gordon’s phobias was a dislike of darkness. There was no reason why Linda should have had the impression of something pale and shapeless stirring in a shadowy corner. There were no shadows; and the movement was only that of Jack Briggs, shifting in his chair. He was so quiet most of the time that his infrequent movements were startling.

“Your assumption is correct,” he said in a precise, lisping voice, “if we accept your definitions of normal and extranormal. But there is a single consistent hypothesis which accounts both for what you call clairvoyance, and for-demons.”

Andrea gave him a queer look of mingled respect and hostility.

“That’s right,” she said reluctantly. “Look here, Mr. Collins, do you believe in God?”

Michael was silent. Andrea chuckled. Her laugh was not the dry cackle her appearance led one to expect, but a high-pitched, childish giggle.

“Funny,” she said drily. “That question really gets people these days. They’ll answer impertinent questions about their sex life and their emotional hang-ups, just to prove they’re modern, emancipated intellectuals. But ask ’ em about God and they squirm like a spinster when you mention virginity.”

“Touché yourself,” Michael said good-humoredly. “No, I was speechless out of ignorance, not embarrassment. I just don’t know. That’s as honest an answer as I can give.”

Andrea nodded. Her face was grave, and not without a certain dignity.

“Fair enough. Let’s avoid the embarrassing word, then. Do you believe in the existence of Good?”

“Philosophically, theologically, or historically?”

“Cut that out.”

“All right,” Michael said resignedly. “But you’ll accuse me of equivocating again. Sometimes I do believe. Sometimes I have serious doubts.”

Gordon leaned forward.

“No one who has studied history can believe in a benevolent creator,” he said.

Michael looked at him curiously. Andrea ignored him.

“All right, Mr. Collins,” she said. “You’ve already answered the next question, but I’ll put it anyhow. Do you believe in the existence of Evil?”

Gordon, sensing his guest’s discomfort, started to protest.

“Andrea, this is a ridiculous conversation. Can’t we-”

“No,” Linda interrupted. She had not meant to speak. The sound of her own voice startled her; it was harsh and peremptory, unlike her usual tones. “No. Let him answer.”

“Of course,” Michael said easily. “I’m enjoying this, Gordon. I’m just afraid of sounding like a fool. Philosophy was never one of my subjects.”

“Philosophy be damned,” Andrea said rudely. “I’m not interested in quibbles about Kant’s categories of whatever the hell they are. Evil is a living, conscious force, operating in this world and the next. Anyone who denies that does sound like a fool.”

“Evil deeds,” Michael said. “Even evil men. “But-Evil, with a capital E? An impersonal, active power?”

“There is nothing impersonal about Lucifer,” said Briggs’s soft voice.

The ensuing silence was broken by Gordon.

“Jack is inclined to be dogmatic about his faith.”

He spoke to Michael, who smiled politely. Briggs laughed aloud.

“You needn’t apologize for me, Gordon. The orthodox believer must walk softly these days, it is true. But I feel sure that Mr. Collins is not offended by any expression of honest faith.”

“That depends on the faith,” Michael said drily. “Some beliefs are no less pernicious for being honest. But I don’t see why I should be offended at an admission of belief in the devil.”

Briggs chuckled again. His pudgy hand waved his half-full glass in a mocking salute. Linda realized that no one had offered her anything to drink. For once the thought did not preoccupy her. She was too engrossed in the greater need. Ask him, she begged silently, focusing her demand on Andrea. Ask him, I can’t. And I’ve got to know.

“Then you don’t believe in Satan-the powers of evil,” Andrea persisted.

Gordon groaned, half humorously.

“Andrea, you have the subtlety of a pile driver. And the mindless persistence.”

“And the directness,” Michael said, smiling. “After the double-entendres of the literary world I find it refreshing. No, Miss Baker-Andrea, then, if you insist-I do not believe in Satan.”

“Then how do you explain the existence of evil?”

“Do I have to explain it? I’ve got problems enough.”

“Don’t be frivolous.”

“I beg your pardon.” Michael sobered. “A number of explanations have been offered, have they not?”

“None make any sense.” Andrea dismissed the garnered wisdom, philosophy, and theology of the world with a shrug. “Given the omnipotence of God and His complete unshadowed benevolence, you can’t account for evil.”

“The finite mind of man,” Michael said, with the air of someone who is quoting, “cannot comprehend the eon-long plans of the Infinite.”

“Baloney,” Andrea said. Michael started at the word. “If our kindness is only a weak imitation of the supreme benevolence of God, and we gag at cruelty, how can He endure it, or condone it-much less perpetrate it, as He does, by your definitions?”

“Now wait a minute,” Michael protested. “They aren’t my definitions. I only said-”

“Baloney,” Andrea repeated. The light was merciless on her face as she leaned forward. The wrinkled, cosmetic-caked skin looked like lava that had coincidentally congealed into the simulacrum of a human face. “The only hypothesis that accounts for evil is the existence of another Power, equal to the power of good and unalterably opposed to it.”

“Manichaeism,” Michael muttered. He glanced at Gordon. “Odd. We were talking about it earlier today.”

If he was looking for help in changing the subject, he didn’t get it. Gordon simply nodded.

“You’re trying to snow me with words,” Andrea said. “Think I’m a dumb old woman, don’t you? Well, I know what Manichaeism is, it just so happens. They were on the right track; but they were wrong, just the same. Evil is! It exists! And you’ve got to fight it!”

Even Linda, tense and involved, had to admit that the choice of words was unfortunate; they sounded like a parody of a football cheer, and the muffled thud of Andrea’s fist, pounding the arm of the sofa, was equally anticlimactic. Linda was the only one who didn’t smile. Even Andrea looked, momentarily, as if her mouth might relax. But Briggs’s oily chuckle tightened it again.

“You’re the worst of the bunch,” she said obscurely, glaring at the secretary. “You and your damned Lucifer!”

Briggs chortled again, and Michael’s laugh echoed his.

“A singularly appropriate adjective,” he said, grinning.

Linda couldn’t stand it any longer. It was no use. Now she would have to try the other way. She jumped to her feet.

“Isn’t it time for dinner?” she demanded; and without waiting for Gordon’s answer, she went on wildly, “Of all the stupid, idiotic conversations…Let’s talk about heroin, or the crime rate, or something pleasant. And someone get me a drink!”

By the time dinner was over, Linda felt better, except for the bad taste in her mouth, which no variety of food or drink was able to remove. They talked about heroin and the crime rate; about massacres in Iraq and starvation in India and poverty in Appalachia. Briggs gobbled and Andrea ate sloppily, scattering crumbs. Gordon ate almost nothing.

When they went back to the living room for coffee, Andrea lingered, touching Linda’s arm as if she wanted to exchange a word in private. Linda brushed past her. There was no use talking now. Andrea was a fool, like the others, a loud-mouthed, bragging fool. She had done more harm than good. No, there was nothing for it now but to try the only remaining means of approach.

It wasn’t easy to arrange, though. Everyone seemed relaxed and lethargic after a heavy meal and an abundance of wine. Andrea flung herself down in her favorite corner of the sofa. Michael had chosen a chair by the fire; only his long legs and the top of his head were visible. Linda sat on the edge of her chair, nerves prickling. She didn’t see how she was going to manage it. Unless, later…But that was dangerous, roaming the halls alone in the night. And it had to be tonight. He was leaving the next morning.

The fire crackled in the vast stone hearth, but its light was diffused and lost in the brightness of the lamps scattered around the room. The paneled walls and lovely stuccoed moldings of the beamed ceiling were another successful copy of an old English original. She had been unfair, of course, to attribute this artistic servility to Gordon. The house had been built by his grandfather, after his first trip abroad. He had been a parvenu, and nouveau riche, and all the other offensive French snob terms; but Linda supposed she ought to give the old man credit for realizing his own lack of taste. Rather than make a mistake, he had simply copied what he knew to be beyond criticism. It was a fault and a weakness in herself that she preferred to make her own mistakes.

Linda roused herself long enough to accept the brandy Briggs was handing around, and then slumped back into lethargy. They were at it again, Gordon and Andrea-not about demons, this time, but about gardening, which was their other major source of disagreement. If, as Gordon always said, you could call Andrea’s mixture of superstition and random digging real gardening.

Characteristically, Michael was trying to keep the peace.

“I think science is now coming around to Andrea’s point of view,” he said. “Didn’t I read somewhere that there may be a chemical present in the skin of certain people which stimulates plant growth? The old green thumb made respectable?”

Gordon made a rude noise and Michael grinned amiably at him. Linda was accustomed to her husband’s ability to charm; but he had succeeded even faster than usual in winning Michael. Slouched companionably in two chairs, side by side, they gave the impression of having known one another for years. To Linda’s annoyance Andrea failed to see the amused sparkle in Michael’s eyes, the reflection of Gordon’s sly amusement. With loud cries of pleasure, the old woman amplified Michael’s comment, adding, “You don’t pay enough attention to these things, Gordon. If you’d listened to me, your marjoram would be in better shape.”

Gordon laughed aloud, and Andrea finally realized that she was being made fun of. Her eyes narrowed angrily.

“I didn’t know you had an herb garden, Gordon,” Michael said. “How did I miss it today?”

“It’s on the north side. Linda was the one who wanted an herb garden, so I had it laid out according to one of the old Elizabethan manuals. But Andrea is right. My marjoram is in wretched condition.”

“I thought marjoram was a girl’s name,” Michael admitted.

“It’s a rather common plant. I’ve got a few of the rarer kinds that I’m quite proud of. Did you know that there are strict rules for the layout of such gardens-specific plants next to others, some which must be planted in borders, and so on? I’ve gotten quite fascinated by it, even though it was Linda’s idea to begin with.”

She felt their glances, but did not respond. Whose idea had it been? Hers, his-someone else’s? Surely that was unimportant-except as another proof of her failing memory. Then, belatedly, she realized what they were talking about, and she sat up a little straighter. This might be the chance she had been waiting for.

“…not like ordinary floodlights,” Gordon was saying. “It’s a new system. The effect is like very strong moonlight. No, it’s no trouble; I had switches installed all over the house. And I love to show off my gadgets.”

They were all at the window; Gordon was pulling back the heavy damask drapes. Linda turned in time to see Gordon touch the switch and the high oblong of black window turn silver as the outside lights went on.

Michael made appreciative noises.

“It does suggest moonlight,” he said. “If I were ten years younger I’d turn it on at night and go for a moonlight stroll-tripping over things and reciting poetry.”

“You can’t see the herb garden, though,” Gordon said, peering. “It’s mostly hidden by the boxwood. Moonlight stroll? That’s a good idea, Mike. It’s a little chilly, but not too bad. Linda? Andrea?”

Out in the false moonlight, among the shrubbery, one person, or two, might casually wander away from the others… Linda met her husband’s eyes, and a cold, sobering shock ran through her. It was as if he could read her thoughts.

“No,” she said. “I don’t feel like it. But the rest of you go ahead.”

When they had left-Andrea still arguing about marjoram, Briggs trailing his master in silent devotion-Linda got up and went to the window. The pale gray light did not suggest moonlight, not to her distorted imagination. It was a dull, unearthly light, like phosphorescence. It was bright enough; she could make out the tiny individual leaves on the boxwood hedges, twenty feet away. But instead of silvering objects as moonlight did, this light gave them a strange dead hue, between gray and green.

She shrank back into the concealment of the draperies as the others came into view, strolling slowly across the gray-washed grass. Andrea’s floppy sleeves were wrapped around the upper part of her body. It must be pretty chilly outside. Gordon, as always the perfect host, spoke to the old woman and she shook her head vehemently-denying, Linda thought, any need for a wrap. Andrea prided herself on rising above physical needs. Old fool, Linda thought angrily.

After a time her mood improved. It was fun, watching people when they thought they were unobserved, studying faces and gestures undistracted by the added element of speech. Michael was a little taller than Gordon. He had a ridiculous way of walking, like-like a-her mind fumbled for an analogy and then, suddenly, she giggled. Like a camel. The same mixture of awkward angularity and inner dignity.

Gordon’s head had been turned away from her. Now he turned, stretching out his arm to indicate some point of interest. His face was alive with the inner fire of personality that gave it its charm, and his sharp-cut features had a beauty even the ghastly light could not spoil. For the first time in months Linda’s body responded with an inner twist that was more painful than a physical blow. Gordon, she thought. The name was like an incantation, loosening a flood of memories.

It hadn’t been so long. Five years. Was that all? It seemed longer… But she could still visualize Gordon as he had looked the first time she saw him, standing by the battered desk in Room 21 of Goddard Hall-the English Department. Only a dozen of them had signed up for the course, in the Art of the Novel; the departmental chairman had restricted it to seniors. But every eligible senior had registered. They were curious. A little skeptical, some of them, of a visiting professor who was only teaching one course, a non-academician, an intruder from the world of politics and inherited wealth. The Establishment-though they didn’t call it that, then. But no one was contemptuous. Whatever his background, the fact remained that Gordon Randolph had written one of the big books of the decade, which had won every literary prize of its year.

If he sensed their curiosity and skepticism, he didn’t show it. The tall, well-knit figure was relaxed, leaning against the desk; the handsome face smiled slightly, a smile that warmed the dark eyes. Even his clothing was perfect-loafers, dark slacks, tweed jacket. If the jacket had been cut by a tailor whose income was higher than that of any of the professors, it did not flaunt its ancestry. A stupider man might have had unnecessary patches added to the elbows, or affected a pipe. Gordon smoked cigarettes, from a crumpled pack that lay on the desk. That might have been affectation, but Linda didn’t think so. In those days he smoked incessantly, one cigarette after another. That was before the doctors had started warning about cancer. Gordon quit then…

It came back to her so vividly-the shabby old room, scarred and scuffed by generations of students; the dusty sunlight pouring in through streaked panes, brightening the colors of the girls’ pastel sweaters and blouses, showing the unformed contours of the boys’ faces… Beside Gordon’s sure maturity they had seemed so young. Of course all the girls had fallen in love with him, even the ones who sneered at crushes on teachers. And the boys, after the initial antagonism, had succumbed in a different way. Linda could still feel the shock of incredulity when she realized that this god, this man, was looking at her with more than the smiling courtesy he displayed toward the others. That when he talked to her, his voice was different. That he really felt-

The vision was so real that the interruption made it waver and shake, like a film on a cracking screen. Linda turned with the bright shards of memory still close around her and blinked through dazzled eyes at the man whose arrival had disturbed her.

He was alone.

“Where-where are the others?” she stammered.

“Andrea’s muttering incantations over some plants,” Michael said with a smile. “Gordon was called to the telephone, and Briggs went with him.”

“Oh.”

Slowly Linda relaxed her cramped fingers, which had been clutching the edge of the drapes. Her mind began to function again. If Briggs had gone with Gordon, the telephone call must have been a business call, and it might take some time. Andrea in the garden, lost in her crazy spells…

You see, one of those disembodied voices murmured gently, if you want something badly enough, it arranges itself…

She smiled, slowly, and saw the subtle response in Michael’s face; she turned, slowly, slowly, and looked out into the palely lighted night. He would have to join her at the window; it would only be courteous. And from here she could see Andrea returning. She could hear, if she listened carefully, any footsteps approaching the room.

He came. She had known he would.

“Very effective,” he said, after a moment.

Startled, Linda looked up at him. Just what had he meant by that ambiguous adjective? Whether he meant to refer to the lights or not, she would have to assume that he had.

“I don’t really like it,” she said. “The lighting.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It bothers me, somehow.”

“Because it’s not real? You are bothered by pretense?”

This time she could not be mistaken. There was a slight but definite mocking tone in his voice.

“No,” she said sharply. “I don’t object to good imitations. But there’s a tint in this light that is like a travesty of moonlight. Greenish. Don’t you see it?”

Michael looked, frowning in concentration. That was one of the qualities that made him so attractive. He seriously considered new ideas. He might be prejudiced against her-that was inevitable-but he would not dismiss any reasonable question without thinking about it.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “You don’t see it right away.”

“No. It-grows on you.”

Linda moved a little, shifting position. Her bare arm brushed his sleeve. She felt the slight recoil of his arm with satisfaction. He was not impervious. But then which of them was? Old and young, stupid and brilliant, sensitive and brutal-they were all alike in this one thing. If she couldn’t reach the mind of the individual man, she would reach the male animal. But she would have to force it upon him. He was civilized enough, and cautious enough, to reject subtle advances. Some men would have responded before this.

She swayed, raising one hand to her face. Crude, this method, but time was short. Once she was in his arms, the rest would follow.

He had to put his arm around her; he couldn’t let her crash to the floor at his feet.

“Feeling dizzy again?” he asked coolly. “You’d better sit down.”

“No. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Damn him, she thought. He was as rigid as a stick of wood. It was hard to resist his effort to move her toward a chair or couch, and still seem limp and helpless. She let go completely, clinging to him with both hands, her body against his.

There was a moment of resistance. He knew quite well what she was doing. Then it happened, as she had known it would. That the response was purely mechanical, a reflex that his mind rejected and resented, she did not care.

But as his arms tightened and his head bent, seeking her mouth, a strange thing happened. It was the first time for many months that a man had touched her in this way, and she had expected her body to respond with starved alacrity, all the more so because he was a man to whom she might have been attracted, normally, under normal circumstances. How abnormal these circumstances were she did not realize until she felt her head twist, avoiding the kiss she had invited, and sensed the pressure of her hands against his chest. His arms loosened; he could hardly escape feeling the mindless revulsion that filled her. And then, over the curve of his arm, she saw the eerily lighted window and the thing that stood outside, on the lawn, staring in at her.

Only once before had she seen it so distinctly. It stood quite still. Still as a statue, still as a figure painted by a child or a primitive artist-an outline sketched by a sharp pen and filled in, solidly, with black ink. Yet the individual hairs, bristling along the curve of the back, were distinct; so was the heavy, predatory muzzle and the thrust of the head. The only lights in the whole mass were the eyes-red, luminous, glowing like coals.

From a great distance Linda heard Michael’s voice repeating her name. She wasn’t pretending now, and he knew it. But his voice was lost in the shrieking cacophony of the other voices, the voices that had haunted her for months, risen now to a whirl of mocking laughter: We told you, we told you. Now it’s too late. Too late, too late, too late…

Then all the voices faded into blackness and silence.