The Hanging Stranger Read online

thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover." He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. "I'm glad to know it's on the level."

  "It's on the level." The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.

  "I feel better," Loyce said. "I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?"

  The two cops said nothing.

  "I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of--"

  "This won't take long," the cop behind the wheel interrupted. "A shortprocess. Only a few minutes."

  "I hope it's short," Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. "I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and--"

  Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.

  They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.

  They weren't cops--and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow--and they didn't care. _That_ was the strange part.

  Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.

  There was no sound behind him. He had got away.

  He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.

  And to his right--the police station.

  He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.

  _Them?_

  Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.

  And--something else.

  Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.

  He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.

  Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. _In the vortexsomething moved._ Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.

  Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.

  He was seeing--them.

  * * * * *

  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.

  They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest--and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.

  He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.

  Were there more of them?

  It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien--from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.

  On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.

  Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.

  Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.

  Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.

  He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.

  Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.

  * * * * *

  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.

  The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.

  Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.

  A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.

  A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.

  Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.

  Going home--with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.

  Maybe there were others.

  Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.

  A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.

  Loyce tensed. One of _them_? Or--another they had missed?

  The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them--or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.

  The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.

  The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secon
dsomething passed between them.

  A look rich with meaning.

  Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.

  "Hey!" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. "What the hell--"

  Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.

  Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.

  Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.

  Loyce