Darker Tides: The Weird Tales of Eric Frank Russell by Russell Eric Frank

Author:Russell, Eric Frank [Russell, Eric Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction.Sci-Fi, Fiction.Horror, Short Fiction, Fiction.Dark Fantasy/Supernatural, Collection.Single Author
ISBN: 9780974058962
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 11526684
Publisher: Darkside Press
Published: 2020-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Big Shot

Oh, Thou who burn’st in Heart for those who burn

In Hell whose fires Thyself shall feed in turn;

How long be crying, “Mercy on them, God!”

Why, who art Thou to teach, and He to learn?

The horrible nausea passed away and Bull Rafferty’s spinning senses gradually slowed down to the point where he could regain command of them. Once more he could see and hear and feel and thus make contact with existence. It was comforting, though he would have been the last to admit it. No man likes to drown in a mental void. There is a loneliness in chaos, a terrible loneliness—not even the touch of a phantom hand.

With a mite of amazement he discovered that his feet still were walking forward, doggedly, with a dumb, animal stubbornness almost as if they had remained totally unaware of the momentary blankness above them, or as if they were entities apart from the squat, powerful body they carried.

There was something mighty peculiar about that. When a guy has a spasm he ought to flop. He shouldn’t continue to amble along in a dreamy maze, like a zombie. Bemused by this, Rafferty pondered unseeingly while his legs bore him onward.

Snap out of it, Bull, and think back a bit. You’ve got to know the score. The boys expect you invariably to know the score—and when you don’t they’ll say you’re getting old and feeble, and your mind’s slipping, and somebody ought to do something about it. Think back, Bull, and think hard.

Let me see now: there had been Frankel, white and sweaty, his eyes burning like traffic lights under the brim of his heavy hat. There had been a pomade stain on the front of the hat-band; he could visualize it clearly. And Frankel’s thin, hungry face sort of all screwed up with a regular twitch in the lower lid of his right eye. The signs had been easy to read: Frankel was hopped to the gills.

The sight hadn’t bothered Bull Rafferty. Getting up from behind his desk he’d walked straight at Frankel, confidently, aggressively, in a manner that did justice to his reputation. He had a tigerish self-assertiveness which many a time had paralysed hopheads tougher than Frankel.

It always worked.

It hadn’t worked.

What had gone wrong?

So deep was Rafferty’s preoccupation that he lumbered onward like a sleepwalker, his eyes open and seeing but not telling what they saw. It was the little squirt with the white hair who shocked him into wakefulness.

“Pardon me,” chipped in the little squirt, coming at him out of nowhere. “I think I’ve lost myself... somehow... I don’t know how.” He was aged, wizened, confused and uneasy. His expression was that of one hoping for the best while half-suspecting the worst. “Can you tell me where I am?”

Rafferty looked him over with open contempt. “You don’t know where you are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” The other was apologetic while his air of dreadful suspicion grew deeper. “Do you?”

“Sure,” said Rafferty, displaying all his usual confidence. “I’d be in a heck of a fix if I didn’t.

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