It was a pleasant, sunlit afternoon when he drew up before the house of Eden Foster. He turned his car around and parked facing back down the road. From now on every step he took, every minute he lived was tight with danger.
She answered the door herself. Her features were tight and pale, her eyes large. As she stepped back from the door, he took a quick look around. There was no one else in the room. He walked over and sat down with his back to a wall. They seemed to be alone, but he was quite sure they were not. Now, suddenly, now that the moment was upon him he was ready. It was coming, all right. To hell with it, he was ready. If they wanted trouble he was ready for it.
“Where is Erik?” he demanded. His tone was a little harsh.
Her lips tightened, and he saw some anger come into her eyes. He had started off wrong, damn it. “After all,” he said, more quietly, “he is my friend.”
“I know nothing about him. You have come to the wrong place.”
He shrugged. “If that is the way you want it.” He paused, then said, speaking calmly, “I have drawn maps. I have written a complete report and have had copies made. They will go to the United States government, to the state capital, to the Highway Patrol, to the FBI, and to various newspapers. If something happens to me, all will be alerted. I have given them a time schedule within which I shall act and within which they should hear from me.”
Her face grew whiter still. Her lips were stiff, and when she spoke she had a hard time framing the words. “You do not know what you do. Your own world will be destroyed.”
“If anything is done it will not be settled by me. The problem is in other hands if anything goes wrong for me.” He looked up at her. “I need your help.”
“My help? You are joking. I cannot help you. Even if I were so minded I could not. I am watched. I do not know by whom.” Her eyes held on his. Even now, in this moment when she was obviously frightened, she was beautiful. “I did not know how closely I was watched until now. They know you are here. And they know why you are here. I do not believe they intend for you to leave.”
“They are fools. Instead of stopping things, that will only open it wide.”
“The Hand rules. Nothing thwarts him.” She got to her feet suddenly. “Oh, you’re right! I would like to stay here! I would like to forget all that! I would like to be a part of your world forever, and not go back!
“I like it here. I like the way you live, the bright sunlight, the people. But I cannot! I am a slave! I am a tool used by The Hand.”
She paused again and then spoke recklessly. “I do not know if he hears. It may be that he does, but I must speak what I believe.
“I think The Hand is a man, simply a man, all-powerful in his world, but a man ignorant of your world, ignorant of anything and everything beyond his reach. He has never been thwarted. Nothing has ever been permitted to stand in his way and he cannot conceive of a power greater than his. And he has power, enormously great power. He has weapons which your science has not even dreamed of, and he will use them. Do not think he will not. And he can, if he so wishes, close all avenues to his world.
“Yes, I mean it. Long ago, when his world was younger and wiser, there were great advances in science, advances far beyond yours. Those advances ceased many years ago, but he has access to power such as you cannot believe, a power to destroy life. And he will do it. He has no fears of your world except of ideas. He knows little of you but despises you as weak and inefficient.
“You must understand. The Hand has never seen a newspaper or a book. He cannot read and can scarcely imagine it.”
“You have seen him?”
“I? Nobody has seen him! Perhaps the Lords of Shibalba who are his supporters. I doubt if even the Varanel have seen him. So far as anyone knows, he has never moved from the Forbidden area, and no one is allowed to approach him, but his eyes and ears are everywhere. Even now he may be hearing what I say.”
“How do you dare?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “I do not intend to go back.”
“You know nothing of the others? Of the dissenters who live in the mountains?”
“I have never heard of such people. I do not believe they exist.”
“However, they do exist and The Hand is aware, if you are not. They are descendants of people who returned from here—whom we call the Anasazi. They fled your world of evil and created their own world.”
“I do not believe that.”
He indicated a small sunflower he was wearing in his buttonhole, a practice he had started only a few days ago. “Do you know this flower?”
She shrugged. “I have seen it here. It is not permitted over there.”
“Not permitted?”
“It is not grown, and where grown, must be eradicated.”
“Why?”
She shrugged again. “It is a rule. We do not question rules.”
“It is a symbol, I believe—perhaps a symbol of rebellion. It is used at least by some of those who fled to the mountains.”
“So you say. How do you know this?”
He avoided the question. “You must have seen maps of our country? Of the state, at least? Have you not wondered that your land is so small? So limited in area? For so it must be. I believe much is kept from you.”
She was silent and then she said, “I believe it, too. Since coming here I have changed, but your country disturbs me. It is too … too open. I am bothered by this. In my country everything is regulated, organized. Everyone knows exactly where he is, what is important, what he can do.”
“And what he cannot do?”
“We do not think of that. We know where we live, where we work, where we go for amusement. It is enough.”
“What of Erik Hokart?”
She hesitated. “Nothing. I informed the Lords of Shibalba that he was missing, that officials here were disturbed that he was missing, and there would be trouble.”
“And?”
“Nothing. You see, they think so different from you. They cannot understand that one man disappearing would matter or be noticed. We think in another way than you. It is … it is like you and the Russians.”
“How do you mean?”
“Their newspaper people serve the government, so they believe yours do, too. They cannot accept the idea that newspapers are free to publish what they want. In Russia every newspaperman writes what the government wishes. Newspapermen gather information. Therefore they are spies.
“In our world if somebody disappears, no questions are asked, and …”
She got suddenly to her feet. “You must go! Go now!” She glanced again at her watch. “I had not realized it was so late. Please! Go at once!”
Without another word he stood up and started for the door. Then he stopped abruptly. The door was opening, and two men stepped in. He recognized them both.
Eden Foster stepped quickly back and they came for him. Of their intentions he had no doubt.
He left them none about his.
XXVIII
Instead of retreating or trying to escape—which he knew would be futile in any event—he moved in and, with a flip of his foot, kicked a chair into their path. The nearest rushing man tripped over the chair, and as he hit the floor, Raglan kicked him in the head.
The second man skidded to a halt and whipped a knife from his belt. Without slowing down, Raglan dropped his right hand to the table, scooped up a dish of guacamole standing on Eden’s sideboard, and slapped it into the man’s face. Then he kicked him in the crotch. The first man was struggling to get up, so Raglan swung a backhand blow with a wine bottle that stretched him out on the floor with a smashed ear and a bleeding scalp.
“They’re too confident,” Raglan explained. “They need to spend some time on the streets. I don’t believe anybody ever resisted them before.”
“Nobody would dare,” Eden said.
The second man was pawing the guacamole from his eyes. Mike Raglan picked up the fallen knife. “Lie down,” he said, “or I’ll give you a new waistline with this.”
He waved a hand at the mess the fight had created. “Sorry about this, Eden, but your boys need better manners.”