The Mad Metropolis by Philip E. High

Author:Philip E. High [High, Philip E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ace

Chapter Fifteen

HE SAID: "Perhaps they'll go away."

"No." Her face was pale. "No, if it's a machine, it will come in to see if all is well. If it's a man, he's probably on Mother's list of suitors and has been assured I'm in. He'll keep ringing until I answer."

He rose. "The machine cannot see me, a man can. I am sorry but I have to tell you this: if it's a man I shall have to kill him. Our whole plan, our only chance of being free again, depends at the moment on my nonexistence. If a man sees and reports the matter, that is the end."

"So you're going to kill him, just like that?"

"Miss Tremaine, can you suggest any other way? Obviously I cannot hold him prisoner, and if I knock him out he will regain consciousness later and still report the affair."

She put her hands over her face. "Oh God, I can't be here, not when you do it, I can't—"

"I am going to open the door. It may be a machine." He touched the release plate with his finger tip.

It was not a machine; it was a man. A big, dark, broad-shouldered although slightly flabby man, obviously intent on making a good impression. "Miss Tremaine, forgive me, the lateness of the hour, the intrusion but I was so taken with your beauty I had to come, I—" He stopped, suddenly aware of Cook. "Who the hell are you?"

"Does it matter? There are other names on the list."

"Not in front of mine. I have checked personally."

Cook shrugged, apparently relaxed. "What do you propose doing about it?" Even as he asked the question he was noting details. The man's hypnad was designed only to conceal his paunch and his thinning hair but it was being used now.

"I wouldn't!" The gun seemed to appear in Cook's hand so swiftly that the other winced.

"What the hell is this?"

" Keep your hands clear of your waist."

"You're insane, man—I have no weapons."

"Your projected image hasn't." He leapt suddenly and snatched. "What do you call this?"

The man staggered against the wall, hands raised as if to defend himself. "You'll pay for this, man."

"Perhaps, but at the moment the thought must hold little consolation for you—how long has Mother been arming her creeps?"

The other's hands clenched, then he said evenly. "We volunteered to serve Mother in her task of serving man. The weapon is not lethal."

"Not unless you adjust it." Cook glanced at it. "A psychosomatic paralysis gun—and you have adjusted it."

"No!"

"Yes. At a guess you were a Grade A psycho; that kind of perversion can only be re-directed, never cured." He sighed. "Mother, as a psychiatrist, is in the amateur class."

"You speak as an expert, no doubt." The other was smiling in a curiously oily way. "I am sure that Mother will value your opinion when you offer it. I, for my part, will be only too—ugh!" The man stopped suddenly, distorted liquid sounds coming from his suddenly open mouth. Then he raised his

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