The Body Snatchers Page 5

  I WAS mad, really angry at Jack, but the damage was done, and I made my voice gentle and soothing. “Then don’t go,” I said to Theodora. “Stay here.” They both turned to look at me. I said, “Both of you; it’s a big house; pick out a room and stay. Bring your typewriter down, Jack, and work. I’d love to have you,” I said, and meant it. “I rattle around in this house, and I could use some company.”

  Jack looked down at Theodora, and she nodded dumbly, pleading. “All right,” Jack said to me then. “Maybe we’d better—for a day or so, anyway.” My face suddenly flushed at what I knew I was going to say. “Becky, I think you ought to stay too. I side with Mannie”—my conscience made me add quickly—“I think he’s right, I’m certain of it, and I don’t want to worry you even a little bit. But you are worried,” I added, because watching her eyes I saw it was true, and now my conscience relaxed a little. “So stay here with Theodora and Jack.”

  She smiled. “With Theodora and Jack. And where’ll you be?”

  My flush deepened a shade. “Right here,” I said, “but you can ignore me. Come on, Becky, stay here. You’re still a little worried and afraid, so make it easy on yourself.”

  “All right,” she said. “Though I don’t know what Dad’ll think.” The fear was still in her eyes.

  “Call him up,” I said casually, “and just tell him the truth. Say something has upset Theodora pretty badly, that she’s going to stay here and she needs you.” I grinned. “And tell him I have some wicked, sinful plans in mind that you simply can’t resist.” I glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get to work. The joint is yours, pals.”

  Jack rode downtown with me to talk to Nick Grivett, the local police chief. If Mannie was right, and I knew he was, we had to report this to the police. In the car, on the way down, we decided lack would report just the bare facts: that he’d found a body in his basement and it had disappeared. We couldn’t account for his delay in reporting, so we decided he’d better explain that Theodora was so upset and hysterical that he couldn’t think of anything else till she was taken care of, and he’d rushed her down to a doctor—me. But it wasn’t till she was finally all right and calmed down that he’d remembered he had to get in touch with the police. Since Theodora had had a bad shock, they were staying at my place. He hadn’t thought a little delay would matter, so he’d gone home to pick up some clothes—and then he’d discovered the body was gone.

  We figured Grivett would bawl him out a little, and I told Jack to act as dopey and absent-minded as he could—maybe Grivett would put it all down to Jack’s being a literary type . . .

  A patient was waiting when I arrived at the office. She had no appointment, but I was a little early so I worked her in. Some twenty minutes later I was very glad I had, because now I had absolute proof of how right Mannie had been. The patient was a Mrs. Seeley, a quiet little woman of forty who had sat in this same chair just a week before, telling me that her husband wasn’t her husband at all. Smiling now, actually squirming with relief and pleasure, she told me her delusion was gone. She said she’d talked to Dr. Kaufman last week as I’d suggested, that he hadn’t seemed to help her much, but that last evening, inexplicably, she’d “come to her senses.”

  But I couldn’t get rid of her until she’d told me what Dr. Kaufman had said, and what she had said. I listened and nodded and smiled, and finally got her out of the office—still talking—in a fairly reasonable time. She’d have stayed all afternoon if I’d let her.

  The moment she’d left, I picked up the telephone and called Wilma Lentz at her shop, and when she answered, I asked her quietly how she was feeling these days. There was a pause before she replied, and then she said, “I’ve been meaning to stop in and see you about—what happened.” She laughed, not very successfully, then said, “Miles, the delusion—or whatever it was—is gone, and—Miles, I’ve been so embarrassed. I don’t quite know what happened, or how to explain it, but—”

  I interrupted to tell her I knew what had happened, that she wasn’t to worry or feel bad, but just to forget it, and that I’d be seeing her. After I hung up, and then I mentally tipped my hat to Mannie Kaufman, eminent psychiatrist, and went on with the day.

  After dinner that night, Jack, Theodora, Becky and I sat out on the porch, sipping drinks and talking, all the lights off so they wouldn’t draw mosquitoes. I hadn’t told them yet what had happened at my office; I wasn’t in the mood for bringing it up—this was too pleasant, just as it was.

  Then Theodora finished her drink and stood up. “I’m dead,” she said. “Exhausted. And I’m going to bed.”

  Before I could speak, she looked down at Jack. “How about you, Jack? I think you should,” she said firmly.

  He glanced up at her, then nodded.

  I didn’t say anything to stop them. Becky and I were sitting in the porch swing, and we said good night, and watched the Belicecs walk on into the house.

  I turned to Becky. “Would you mind moving? And sit at my left, instead of my right?”

  “No.” She stood up, smiling puzzledly. “But why?” She sat down on the swing again, at my left.

  I leaned across her for a moment to set my glass on the porch rail. “Because,” I said, “I kiss left-handed, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, let me show you,” I said, and Becky smiled a little and turned toward me. Then I held her to me, bending toward her a little. I wanted this kiss very much. I felt her lips, soft and strong, felt my hands pressed hard against her back and the terrible thrill of her body against mine. I’d never in my life experienced anything like this.

  “Miles! Come here, Miles, quick!” It was Jack, standing just inside the closed screen door.

  SOMETHING had happened to Theodora—I knew it. I was hurrying, crossing the porch, then following Jack across the living room toward the staircase. But Jack went on past the stairs he was opening the basement door, and I walked down the stairs after him.

  The coalbin was in a corner of the basement, walled off by ceiling-high planking. It had stood empty and unused since I’d installed gas heat. Jack opened the door, and the beam of his flashlight moved across the floor, then steadied, an oval of light on the coal-bin floor.

  At first I couldn’t believe what I saw lying there on the concrete: four giant seed pods. They had been round in shape, maybe four feet in diameter, but now they had burst open in places, and from the inside of the great pods, a grayish substance—a sort of heavy fluff—had partly spilled out.

  In a way these giant pods reminded me of tumbleweed—the puffballs of dry tangled vegetable matter, light as air, and designed by nature to roll with the wind across the desert. But these had hulls on them; I saw that their surfaces were made up of a network of tough-looking yellowish fiber. Stretching between these fibers, to enclose these podlike balls completely, were great patches of brownish, dry-looking membrane, resembling a dead oak leaf in color and texture.

  “Seed pods,” Jack said softly. “Theodora was frightened—I was checking the house to reassure her.”

  I just stared at him.

  “The clipping you read this morning,” he said impatiently, “quoting some college professor—it mentioned seed pods, Miles, giant seed pods, found on a farm west of town last spring.”

  JACK pushed the coalbin door open wider, and we stepped inside the bin and squatted beside the things on the floor for a closer look. Each pod had burst open in four or five places, a part of the gray substance that filled them spilling out onto the floor. And now, in the closer beam of Jack’s light, we saw something curious. At the outer edges, farthest away from the pods, the gray fluff was turning white, almost as though contact with the air were robbing it of color. And—there was no denying this; we could see it—the tangled fluffy substance was compressing itself, achieving a form. It was slowly spilling out of the membranous pods, lightening in color at its outer edges, and—crudely but definitely—was taking a shape. The fibers were straightening and al
igning into the rough approximation—of a head, a body, and arms and legs.

  We watched, motionless, our mouths open, and occasionally the brown membranous surfaces of the huge pods cracked audibly—the sound of a brittle leaf snapping in two—and the pods crumpled steadily, slowly collapsing a little at a time. The lavalike substance they were filled with continued to flow out, like a heavy, infinitely slow-moving fog. The nearly motionless weaving and aligning of whitening fiber continued. Now the heads were indented in a vague approximation of eye sockets, a ridge of a nose had formed on each, a crease of a mouth; and at the ends of the arms, bent now at the elbows, the starlike shapes of tiny, stiff-fingered hands were forming.

  Jack and I stared into each other’s eyes, knowing what, presently, we would see. “The blanks,” he whispered, his voice rusty and harsh, “that’s where they come from—they grow!”

  We could no longer watch them. The impossible process was nearly finished. The great shattered pods lay on the floor now in tiny broken fragments, an almost unnoticeable dust. And where they had been, four figures now lay, large as adults, smoothing out steadily, and entirely white. Four blanks lay there, one for each of us—one for me, one for Jack, one each for Theodora and Becky.

  “Their weight,” Jack murmured, fighting to hold onto sanity with words. “The gray stuff is transmuted into solid matter, and then that absorbs water from the air,” he said softly. “The human body is about sixty per cent water. They absorb it; that must be how it works.”

  Squatting beside the nearest form, I thought: They’re going to get us!

  Then I turned to Jack and said, “Go up and tell Becky and Theodora as much as you think they should know. I’m going to do something about these things—and then I’ll see you in the living room. We’ve got to do something; we can’t stall any longer.”

  It was a little after two in the morning when Jack came downstairs. “I told them,” he said, “they’re going to try to rest. Been down in the basement lately?”

  “Yes,” I said, then answered his unspoken question. “Don’t worry, they’ve each had a hundred c.c. of air, intravenously. They’re reverting back to the gray stuff.”

  “Miles,” Jack said then, “I’ve been thinking about this. We’ve got to forget what Mannie Kaufman told us. We have to assume that whatever is happening is still confined to Santa Mira or the immediate area, and so every house and building—every enclosed space in the entire town—has got to be searched. The local or state police can’t do it,” he went on. “They haven’t the authority—this is a national emergency. The Army, Navy, the FBI, I don’t know who or what, but somebody has to move into this town as fast as we can get them here. And they’ll have to declare martial law, a state of siege or something—anything! And then do whatever has to be done.” His voice dropped. “Root this thing out, smash it, crush it, kill it.”

  BECKY came downstairs, just as we were about to call the FBI in San Francisco. Theodora was still awake—we heard her in the bathroom upstairs. Jack found the telephone number and called the operator. Becky and I stood watching him.

  We hadn’t known whether the FBI would answer at night, but someone did, and promptly. At first Jack spoke haltingly. If he’d had a kidnaping or murder to report, the rest would have followed easily. But Jack didn’t quite know where or how to begin this, and he stumbled, breaking off sentences without finishing them. He started out describing what had happened at his house, then changed his mind and jumped suddenly to what had happened tonight, and I knew the man at the other end couldn’t possibly be making much sense out of this. But he was patient, calm, never hurrying, and after a minute or so, Jack got himself straightened out. He began once more at the very beginning, taking his time.

  But he had just got going when the man at the other end of the wire interrupted to say he could hardly hear. Jack had to raise his voice, repeating words and phrases, till he was almost shouting. He signaled the operator and got a better connection, but almost immediately a high-pitched buzzing tone sounded in the receiver, and Jack had to try talking over that. Then the connection was broken entirely, the line dead, and Jack had to get the operator and begin again. That happened twice, then the high buzzing started once more, and for a moment Jack stood there, staring down at the telephone. Then he gently set it back onto its cradle.

  “Well?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to try again?”

  He shook his head. “No. Don’t you see what’s happening, Miles?” He shrugged. “They won’t let the call get through—not to the FBI or any other outside source of help. Someone in the telephone exchange realized whom we were calling—and you saw what happened. Watch,” he said and picked up the telephone again. The operator answered and Jack gave the FBI’s San Francisco number. There was a pause, then the ringing began. We knew someone was there; a minute ago, they’d answered. But now the ringing went on and on; whatever telephone—if any—was ringing, it wasn’t the one in the office of the FBI.

  The operator said, “Your party doesn’t answer.”

  Jack said, “Okay, never mind,” and slowly hung up. He looked at me. “We’ve got to drive over there, Miles,” he said.

  I nodded. “If they’ll let us get out of town.”

  AFTER that, we thought we were thinking, but actually we acted with a wild, spontaneous, mindless impulse. We actually bumped into one another as we rushed about; it must have looked like an old-time silent-film comedy, only there was no laughter in it. Something impossibly terrible, yet utterly real, was menacing us in a way beyond our comprehension or abilities; and we were fleeing. And at the same time, we were rushing to get help—help against this unknown enemy.

  And then we were climbing into Jack’s car on the dark, silent street, just out of the pool of swaying light from the overhead street lamp. The starter ground, the motor caught and we weren’t thinking at all, just running—running from terror, running toward help. Then we were on U.S. 101, and Santa Mira was eleven miles behind us.

  We had been driving along the almost deserted highway for nearly an hour when I began to feel a return of some sort of ordered thinking, or at least the illusion of it. I turned to Becky, in the back seat beside me, my mouth open to speak. Then I saw she was asleep, her face pale and drained in the light from a passing car, and the fright rose up in me again, worse than ever, bursting in my brain in a silent explosion of pure panic. She looked just as she had the night I found one of the blanks in the basement of her house.

  Immediately I was shaking Jack’s shoulder, shouting at him to stop, and then we were jouncing off the dark road onto the narrow dirt-and-gravel shoulder. I reached past him, yanking his keys from the dashboard, and got out of the car as fast as I could. I shoved the key into the lock of the trunk, twisting it frantically.

  Then Jack lifted up the lid of the trunk. And there they lay, in the pale gleam of my pocket flashlight—two enormous pods already burst open in one or two places. I reached in with both hands and tumbled them out onto the dirt. They were weightless as children’s balloons, but harsh and dry to the touch. At the feel of them on my skin, I lost my mind completely, and then I was trampling them, smashing and crushing them under my stamping feet.

  After Jack had calmed me down, we woke Becky and Theodora; they were both groggy at first. Then, sitting in the car, we at last talked rationally about what we were doing. We realized we were trying to get away while we could—and if we could—from whatever was happening. We had actually been thinking more of escape than of getting help. But now we knew we had a duty to go back to Santa Mira and do something, to make a move at least, against whatever was threatening us and our town—maybe our country, or even all life on our planet.

  Our final plan of action was for Jack and Theodora to take Becky and me back to Santa Mira. Once there, we would do what we could—Becky had voted to stay with me—while Jack and Theodora made a run for it, tried to get to the outside world and bring back help.

  It was almost ten thirty in the morning when we passed
the everyday, comforting-looking black-and-white Santa Mira City Limits sign, population 3,890.

  Jack let us out on Etta Street, south of Main—maybe a ten-minute walk from my house. Etta is a quiet residential street, like most of the others in Santa Mira, and as the sound of Jack’s car died away, Becky and I walked along toward Main. There wasn’t a soul in sight and hardly a sound but our shoes on the walk. It should have seemed peaceful, but something was wrong, I knew it. And then I knew that Becky did too.

  “Miles,” she said in a cautious tone, “am I imagining it, or does this street look—dead?”

  I nodded my head. “Yes. In four blocks we haven’t passed a single house with as much as a roof, porch or even a cracked window being repaired, not a tree, shrub or a blade of grass being trimmed. Nothing’s happening, Becky, nobody’s doing anything.”

  We turned onto Main, and while there were people on the sidewalks, and cars angled in at the parking meters, somehow the street seemed surprisingly empty and inactive.

  A great deal of what we saw then, I’d seen before, driving along Main on my way to house calls; but I hadn’t really noticed, hadn’t really looked at this street I’d been seeing all my life. But I did now. “When did all this happen?” I said to Becky, gesturing to indicate the length of Main Street.

  She shook her head a little, puzzled and bothered. “Gradually, I guess. A little at a time, and we’re only just now noticing.”

  THERE was a car parked in front of Becky’s, and as we approached, we recognized it. “Wilma, Aunt Aleda and Uncle Ira,” Becky said, and looked at me. Then she added, “Miles, we can’t go in there!”

  I stood for a moment thinking. “We won’t go in,” I said, “but we’ve got to see them, Becky.” She started shaking her head, and I said, “We’ve got to know what’s going on, Becky! We have to find out! Or we might as well not have come back to town.” I took hold of her arm and we turned in at the brick walk leading up to the house, but I stepped off it immediately, pulling Becky off too, and we walked in silence on the lawn beside it. Then under an open window, we crouched down, out of sight, completely sheltered from the street by the high shrubbery of the lawn.