The Director tore himself away from the papers, bowed low once again to the smoke-demon and spoke to it. The mouth of the smoky figure moved, and the Director answered him. They seemed to be having an argument.
Then the Director shrugged, bowed again, went to his intercom and pressed a button.
An attractive young woman came into the room with a steno pad and pencil. She saw the smoke-demon and her mouth widened into a scream. She ran to the door but was unable to open it.
She turned and saw the smoke-demon flowing to her, engulfing her.
During all this the Director was counting his piles of currency, oblivious to what was going on. But he had to look up when a brilliant light poured from the head of the smoke-demon, and the four hairy arms pulled the feebly struggling woman close to his body...
At that moment Quintero’s neck muscles could support him no longer. He fell and jostled the binoculars as he came down.
He could hear the loose part rattle around; and then it gave a hard click, as though it had settled into its final position.
Quintero picked himself up and massaged his neck with both hands. Had he been subject to an hallucination? Or had he seen something secret and magical that perhaps a few people knew about and used to maintain their financial positions—one more of the concealed and incredible things that people do?
He didn’t know the answer, but he knew that he had to witness at least one more of those visions. He stood on his head again and looked through the binoculars.
Yes, he could see! He was looking into a dreary furnished room. Within that room he saw a thin, potbellied man in his thirties, stripped to the waist, standing on his head with his stockinged feet pressed against the wall, looking upside down into a pair of binoculars that lay on the floor and were aimed at a wall.
It took him a moment to realize that the binoculars were showing him himself.
He sat down on the floor, suddenly frightened. For he realized that he was only another performer in humanity’s great circus, and he had just done one of his acts, just like the others. But who was watching? Who was the real observer?
He turned the binoculars around, and looked through the object-lenses. He saw a pair of eyes, and he thought they were his own—until one of them slowly winked at him.
THE PRIZE OF PERIL
Raeder lifted his head cautiously above the window sill. He saw the fire escape, and below it a narrow alley. There was a weather-beaten baby carriage in the alley, and three garbage cans. As he watched, a black-sleeved arm moved from behind the furthest can, with something shiny in its fist. Raeder ducked down. A bullet smashed through the window above his head and punctured the ceiling, showering him with plaster.
Now he knew about the alley. It was guarded, just like the door.
He lay at full length on the cracked linoleum, staring at the bullet hole in the ceiling, listening to the sounds outside the door. He was a tall man with bloodshot eyes and a two-day stubble. Grime and fatigue had etched lines into his face. Fear had touched his features, tightening a muscle here and twitching a nerve there. The results were startling. His face had character now, for it was reshaped by the expectation of death.
There was a gunman in the alley and two on the stairs. He was trapped. He was dead.
Sure, Raeder thought, he still moved and breathed; but that was only because of death’s inefficiency. Death would take care of him in a few minutes. Death would poke holes in his face and body, artistically dab his clothes with blood, arrange his limbs in some grotesque position of the graveyard ballet...
Raeder bit his lip sharply. He wanted to live. There had to be a way.
He rolled onto his stomach and surveyed the dingy cold-water apartment into which the killers had driven him. It was a perfect little one-room coffin. It had a door, which was watched, and a fire escape, which was watched. And it had a tiny windowless bathroom.
He crawled to the bathroom and stood up. There was a ragged hole in the ceiling, almost four inches wide. If he could enlarge it, crawl through into the apartment above...
He heard a muffled thud. The killers were impatient. They were beginning to break down the door.
He studied the hole in the ceiling. No use even considering it. He could never enlarge it in time.
They were smashing against the door, grunting each time they struck. Soon the lock would tear out, or the hinges would pull out of the rotting wood. The door would go down, and the two blank-faced men would enter, dusting off their jackets...
But surely someone would help him! He took the tiny television set from his pocket. The picture was blurred, and he didn’t bother to adjust it. The audio was clear and precise.
He listened to the well-modulated voice of Mike Terry addressing his vast audience.
“...terrible spot,” Terry was saying. “Yes folks, Jim Raeder is in a truly terrible predicament. He had been hiding, you’ll remember, in a third-rate Broadway hotel under an assumed name. It seemed safe enough. But the bellhop recognized him, and gave that information to the Thompson gang.”
The door creaked under repeated blows. Raeder clutched the little television set and listened.
“Jim Raeder just managed to escape from the hotel! Closely pursued, he entered a brownstone at one fifty-six West End Avenue. His intention was to go over the roofs. And it might have worked, folks, it just might have worked. But the roof door was locked. It looked like the end...But Raeder found that apartment seven was unoccupied and unlocked. He entered...”
Terry paused for emphasis, then cried: “—and now he’s trapped there, trapped like a rat in a cage! The Thompson gang is breaking down the door! The fire escape is guarded! Our camera crew, situated in a nearby building, is giving you a close-up now. Look, folks, just look! Is there no hope for Jim Raeder?”
Is there no hope, Raeder silently echoed, perspiration pouring from him as he stood in the dark, stifling little bathroom, listening to the steady thud against the door.
“Wait a minute! “Mike Terry cried. “Hang on, Jim Raeder, hang on a little longer. Perhaps there is hope! I have an urgent call from one of our viewers, a call on the Good Samaritan Line! Here’s someone who thinks he can help you, Jim. Are you listening, Jim Raeder?”
Raeder waited, and heard the hinges tearing out of rotten wood.
“Go right ahead, sir,” said Mike Terry. “What is your name, sir?”
“Er—Felix Bartholemow.”
“Don’t be nervous, Mr. Bartholemow. Go right ahead.”
“Well, okay. Mr. Raeder,” said an old man’s shaking voice, “I used to live at one five six West End Avenue. Same apartment you’re trapped in, Mr. Raeder—fact! Look, that bathroom has got a window, Mr. Raeder. It’s been painted over; but it has got a—”
Raeder pushed the television set into his pocket. He located the outlines of the window and kicked. Glass shattered, and daylight poured startlingly in. He cleared the jagged sill and quickly peered down.
Below was a long drop to a concrete courtyard.
The hinges tore free. He heard the door opening. Quickly Raeder climbed through the window, hung by his fingertips for a moment, and dropped.
The shock was stunning. Groggily he stood up. A face appeared at the bathroom window.
“Tough luck,” said the man, leaning out and taking careful aim with a snub-nosed .38.