The Sons of the Bird. He suddenly felt very sly; they thought they had him, but he would fool them — they couldn’t do this to him and to Cynthia. He would smash every mirror in the place. He hurried out to the kitchen, where he kept a hammer in the catch-all drawer. He got it and came back to the bedroom. First, the big mirror —
He hesitated just as he was about to swing on it. Cynthia wouldn’t like this — seven years’ bad luck! He wasn’t superstitious himself, but — Cynthia wouldn’t like it! He turned to the bed with the idea of explaining it to her; it seemed so obvious — just break the mirrors and then they would be safe from the Sons of the Bird.
But he was stumped by her still face.
He thought of a way around it. They had to use a mirror. What was a mirror? A piece of glass that reflects. Very well — fix ’em so they wouldn’t reflect! Furthermore he knew how he could do it; in the same drawer with the hammer were three or four dime-store cans of enamel, and a small brush, leftovers from a splurge of furniture refinishing Cynthia had once indulged in.
He dumped them all into a small mixing bowl; together they constituted perhaps a pint of heavy pigment — enough, he thought, for his purpose. He attacked the big beveled glass first, slapping enamel over it in quick careless strokes. It ran down his wrists and dripped onto the dressing table; he did not care. Then the others —
There was enough, though barely enough, to finish the living-room mirror. No matter — it was the last mirror in the house — except, of course, the tiny mirrors in Cynthia’s bags and purses, and he had already decided that they did not count. Too small for a man to crawl through and packed away out of sight, anyhow.
The enamel had been mixed from a small amount of black and perhaps a can and a half, net, of red. It was all over his hands now; he looked like the central figure in an ax murder. No matter — he wiped it, or most of it, off on a towel and went back to his chair and his bottle.
Let ’em try now! Let ’em try their dirty, filthy black magic! He had them stymied.
He prepared to wait for the dawn.
The sound of the buzzer brought him up out of his chair, much disorganized, but convinced that he had not closed his eyes. Cynthia was all right — that is to say, she was still asleep, which was the best he had expected. He rolled up his tube and reassured himself with the sound of her heart.
The buzzing continued — or resumed; he did not know which. Automatically he answered it.
“Potbury,” came a voice. “What’s the matter? You asleep? How’s the patient?”
“No change, doctor,” he answered, striving to control his voice.
“That so? Well, let me in.”
Potbury brushed on by him when he opened the door and went directly to Cynthia. He leaned over her for a moment or two, then straightened up. “Seems about the same,” he said. “Can’t expect much change for a day or so. Crisis about Wednesday, maybe.” He looked Randall over curiously. “What in the world have you been doing? You look like a four-day bender.”
“Nothing,” said Randall. “Why didn’t you have me send her to a hospital, doctor?”
“Worst thing you could do for her.”
“What do you know about it? You haven’t really examined her. You don’t know what’s wrong with her. Do you?”
“Are you crazy? I told you yesterday.”
Randall shook his head. “Just double talk. You’re trying to kid me about her. And I want to know why.”
Potbury took a step toward him. “You are crazy — and drunk, too.” He looked curiously at the big mirror. “I want to know what’s been going on around here.” He touched a finger to smeared enamel.
“Don’t touch it!”
Potbury checked himself. “What’s it for?”
Randall looked sly. “I foxed ’em.”
“Who?”
“The Sons of the Bird. They come in through mirrors — but I stopped them.”