The Long Sleep

VII

The forest had looked deep and cool and serene, but it turned out to be no more extensive than the lawn, no less an illusion than everything that had come before it. In only twenty steps they had crossed the carpet of dry brown leaves, threaded their way through the maples and pines and oaks, left behind the smell of moist earth and green growing foliage and the shatter of insects. Beyond the trees was a sidewalk and a quiet residential street.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Joel said.

Mercury vapor lamps were spaced fifty feet apart on the far side of the street. Dragon-necked, they thrust into the center of the roadway and shed soft light on the neatly painted fronts of middle-class, white frame houses with contrastingly painted shutters. Some porches had swings. Some had no swings. Some had rockers and potted flowers. All the windows were dark, the houses either deserted or the occupants all asleep. The lawn directly across the street contained a white plaster bird-bath, a crystal ball on a plaster pedestal, and six hideous plastic ducks lined up along the walk: modern American bad taste, undeniably American. Some houses had fenced-in lawns; some did not. Here and there a weeping willow tree bent across a fence and dipped feathery branches over the sidewalk and street. Three cars were parked on the street: two late model fan shuttles and one older vehicle that was scraped and dented and rusting out along the fan skirt. This last one had a double fan system like the first electric hovercars that had been built in the 1980's ten years ago. Or, if Dr. Harttle had been telling the truth, well over two hundred years ago.

Behind them, footsteps sounded in the forest. Twigs snapped. Branches were thrust noisily aside.

He grabbed Allison's hand more tightly and ran for the nearest automobile.

Behind them, Henry Galing shouted, “Wait!”

Joel pulled open the car door. “Get in.”

Allison slid across the seat.

He got behind the wheel and slammed the door. The sound echoed along the quiet street.

The keys were in the ignition.

He knew then that they were never going to get away from Henry Galing and his fun house. He hadn't thought how he would start the shuttle, perhaps he would have had to cross the wires beneath the dashboard… But he knew this easy ride was a trap. They were meant to find this shuttle and use it. Nevertheless, he had to go ahead with it.

Twisting the key in the ignition, he stamped the starter. The engine purred. The blades beneath them stuttered, then lifted the car off the pavement.

He saw she had not pulled on her safety harness, and he made her latch it in place.

“Hold on,” he said.

As he pulled the car from the curb, he nearly struck Henry Galing who had run out of the forest and was trying to block their escape. The old man shouted something at them but his words were drowned out by the thundering blades. Joel pulled past him and took the shuttle down the deserted street.

The wheel was much too stiff. He could barely handle it. The damned shuttle bobbed and swayed, maneuvered like a tank with one broken tread.

“Be careful!” Allison said.

An intersection loomed ahead.

He made the mistake of trying to corner, and he suddenly found the wheel frozen altogether. He took his foot of the accelerator and discovered that was frozen too. The air speed brakes didn't work. They were completely out of control.

Allison screamed.

The fan shuttle tilted as if the gyros were as worn out as the rest of it, turned on its side and drove Allison down against him as far as her safety harness would permit.

Was this why the keys were in the ignition? Did Galing intend for them to die in the shuttle? If that were the case, what in the name of God had been the purpose of this entire charade?

A building lay directly ahead of them.

They struck the side of it and were pitched away like a scrap of paper in an ocean tide.

This is it, he thought. It's over now.

Galing has won.

The shuttle blades beneath them coughed, stuttered, cut in, cut out… The small craft rolled onto the roof with a resounding crash.

Joel was thrown against the steering wheel despite the safety harness, then was jerked upright again as the harness automatically compensated for the impact.

Metal screamed against macadam as they slid down the street, and sparks showered into the night air. An instant later they were brought up hard against the trunk of a willow tree and finally came to a full stop.

Alive.

But what about Allison?

Unconsciousness threatened, but he refused to sink into it. He saw that Allison was slumped against her restraining straps, not moving at all, face pale, mouth slack, eyes closed. He couldn't see any blood, no bruises on her face. She must be fine. Just unconscious. That was all. That had to be all.

He tried to force the door open on his side so that they could escape the wreckage before Galing showed up, but the door had been welded tight by the crash. He struggled with it for a long moment before leaning back in his harness. Calm down. Take it easy. He relaxed, trying to gather his wits, and he listened to the sigh of hot metal cooling down. Fluid dripped out of a ruptured line and hissed as it splashed on hot steel, and he could smell a thin but acrid smoke that rose out of the undercarriage.

Suddenly the door which he had struggled vainly to open was now opened easily, and he was confronted by the faceless man. Dark hair had fallen across the blank countenance. Hanging upside down in the overturned shuttle, supported by the safety harness, Joel had a strange view of the specter, on which made its featureless face seem even more hideous.

“Go away, he said. He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up, though he knew this dream just wouldn't go away.

“You didn't get far,” the specter said.

“You can't talk. You've got no mouth. I won't listen to you talk!” He knew he was slipping into hysteria, but he could not help it.

“I'm the sandman,” the specter said.

Joel opened his eyes.

The faceless man raised a chalky hand. Hundreds of tiny silver needles protruded from the palm in evenly spaced rows. They gleamed.

“No!” Joel said.

“The sandman.”

The specter reached out, touched him.

A cloud of steam hissed out of the undercarriage, whirled through the car, obscuring everything for one brief instant.

“Ill get you,” Joel said. “Ill get all of you.”

The sandman touched him again. The needles were cold and they stung.

At least he now knew that the creature's power was not at all supernatural. Of course, the knowledge did nothing to hearten him — or to save him. He fell asleep again, against his will…