DEAN R.KOONTZ. SOFT COME THE DRAGONS

“That’s Marcus Aurelius. She writes all those pornograph­ic novels, or nearly pornographic. Lily, Bodies in Dark­ness, those.”

Honey hair.

“How would you like to . . .”

I ignored what he was saying about her.

Soft lips.

“And those legs . . .”

Blue, blue eyes.

“Hey, she’s looking this way.”

Smooth, lovely shoulders, a graceful curved neck.

“Hey, she’s looking at you. That girl’s looking at you . . .”

Honey hair smooth lips smooth hips blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes . . .

“Hey, where you going, Sim? You can’t leave yet. What’s the rush. Hey. Hey!”

How foolish I had been at that party. But that was long ago now. I was so much younger then—and I’m older than that now.

By the time I reached the government building, I had made the decision. I loved Melinda. I feared Child. He could throw me out—perhaps he could swallow me up. There was something to his warnings to leave his thoughts alone. Something to do with the G association I had chanced upon—something to do with God. I loved Melinda. I would never again risk my mind; I would always save it to con­template her beauty. I would tell them first thing. The job is ended; go in peace.

But it didn’t run that smoothly.

They were waiting when I got there. Harry fidgeted nervously with his hands. I thought that I had never seen him as he had been the last few days—and especially as he was now. There were bags under his eyes; the old tic had reappeared in his left cheek; his hair was uncombed.

I esped to see what was troubling him.

It was floating on the surface of his mind, and the thought symbol his psyche had given it was a bloated body floating in a pool of blood. Beneath the image, I read it: WAR. The rumors were not just rumors anymore. Brushfire stuff had gotten hotter. Some Asian pilots had tried dropping a few plague bombs off England, covered by one of their newer inventions, a low altitude radar dis­torter that Harry did not understand. WAR. A bloated black body floating . . .

Extremely shaken, I sat down at the table and looked across the shiny surface at Morsfagen. There were tiny beads of perspiration on his chin and forehead. Damn them! Damn them all! Trying to kill Melinda!

“What have you come up with overnight?”

“Nothing more than yesterday,” I said. “He threw me out because I was reading some thought stream he did not want me to see. It was easy for him because I never ex­pected it. No one else could ever do it, and it was a new sensation. Rest assured that it will not happen again.”

Damn them all! I had to go in now, to save my Melinda.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain. But some steps must be taken before I can go in again. He must be told that I refuse to continue the experiment, and that you must continue without me. After he is drugged, I’ll go in and delve into him secretly. He won’t even know I’m there.”

A black, bloated body (Melinda) floating . . .

Damn them to Hell!

“Are you sure, Sim?” I thought Harry sounded as if he wanted me to quit. But now that I knew the world and my Melinda teetered on the brink of a chasm much darker than Child’s mind (as I then understood it), I realized the only person who could develop the ultimate weapon (the weapon that would make war obsolete) was Child. He could invent the weapon that would nullify all weapons. I had to go in until he formulated it—possibly urge him into formulating it.

The world was heavy on my shoulders, and Death was walking with me . . .

VIII

Like a cat with cotton feet, I went quietly . . .

Like a ghost in an old house, I went without form . . .

Like the breezes of spring, I walked softly . . .

There was no echo of my steps, and the labyrinth was warmer than usual. I rounded a bend and saw the Mino­taur. He was sitting on his haunches, unaware of my pres­ence. He was reading a leather-bound Bible.

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