"I tell you, there's no danger," Court snapped. His nerves, already tense with overwork and sleeplessness, were frayed beyond endurance. "Get outе" all of you, or you'll regret it!"
An ominous low roar went up from the mob. They surged forward, paused only when Court lifted his hand.
"Wait! I have a dozen men in the house, stationed at the windows, with guns aimed at you right now. Submachine-guns, some of them, and rifles. We can protect ourselves from lynch law."
The crowd wavered uncertainly. The oldster yelled a shrill protest. "We ain't lynchers, Mr. Court We're just aimin' to protect our folks. We got a car down the road a bit, and we aim to take your Plague victim to a hospital." Court laughed ironically.
"You poor idiot! You just said the Plague is contagious."
"Sure it is. But we got rubber gloves, and cotton pads soaked in antiseptic to tie over our mouths, and we'll wash in carbolic afterward. We just don't want our folks to run any risks."
"Rubber gloves!" Court snorted. "Only thick lead can protect you from the Plague. If you won't leave instantly, we'll use guns to convince you. And I warn you, I won't hesitate to do that if it's necessary."
"He ain't bluffing," one of the mob said nervously. "I saw a muzzle up there in that winder."
"Don't worry about it," the spokesman said. "We're comin' in, Mr. Court, unless you bring the man out to us."
As the crowd surged forward, Court raised his pistol and took steady aim at the leader.
"You set foot on the first step," he gritted, "and I'll put a bullet through your head."
The old man walked slowly, quietly, up the steps. Behind him came the others. Court's finger tightened on the trigger, yet he did not fire.
His face grew terrible at the conflict that raged within him. Stephen Court—man of ice and iron—torn by puerile emotion? Shoot! That was the logical thing to do. Shoot, to save Sammy, to save the experiment from these ignorant fools.
But the mob did not want to kill. Court knew that they were honest, hard-working men, who loved their families and wanted to protect them from danger.
The nearest was only a few steps from him. But Court did not fire, nor give the word that would have brought a searing blast from the upper windows. His lips twisted in agonized indecision.
From within the house came a scream. The door flung open and Marion Barton fled out, her face chalk-white. "Stephen! Quick!"
Court whirled, ignoring the besiegers. "What is it?"
"Sammy came into the lab! He was—"
A startled gasp came from the old man. He drew back, staring. A rippling wave of fear shook the crowd that had shuffled to the porch. With one arm around Marion, Court dragged her back. Just then, something came out of the door.
He knew it was Sammy. But the metamorphosis had been incredibly accelerated. Sammy was not even as human as he had been half an hour before.
His body could not be seen. A white shadow, with flickering nimbus edges, paused on the threshold. The pallid glow emanating from Sammy's flesh had become so brilliant that its lambent light entirely hid the frightful body.
Staring at him was like looking into the heart of an electric-light bulb, though the illumination was not strong enough to be blinding.
A shining, roughly man-shaped shadow, it stood on the threshold. And it whispered! A vague, wordless susurrus murmured out. Like the hum emitted by some electric contrivance, it was enigmatic and unhuman.
The shadow lurched forward. Its shimmering arms went around the old man in overalls. The spokesman shrieked as though the soul had been wrenched from his body. Then he fell, his body oddly shrunken, pale and lifeless.
Panic struck the mob. In all directions they fled back. The thing that had been Sammy seemed to glide down the steps in pursuit.
"Oh, my God!" Court whispered. His face was drawn with pain as he slowly took aim with his pistol. "Sammy—"
He did not finish. The shot snarled out in the night.
The glowing bulk was unharmed. With his breath catching in his throat, Court pumped bullet after bullet at it. It stumbled down the lawn, while the mob vanished along the slope.
"No use!" Court gritted between his teeth. "It absorbs every kind of energy, including kinetic."
He let out a shout. Glancing up, he pointed. From the windows above him came a burst of sound. Submachine-guns and rifles rattled lethally, concentrating their fire on the shining horror that moved into the night.
It vanished behind a tree and was gone. Marion gripped Court's arm.
"Poor Sammy! Can't we go after him?"
"That isn't Sammy," Court said grimly. "Not now. It—it's a horror, an alien thing out of another universe, perhaps. Yes, I'm going after it, Marion, but not till I've put on my lead suit. I'm not sure I can capture it, even then." He blew across the smoking muzzle of his gun. "A creature whose touch means instant death is loose in the countryside. And I don't even know if it can be killed!"
CHAPTER XI
The Man from Carthage
Scipio Agricola Africanus sat in a dungeon beneath the circus arena. Through a barred grating, he watched one gladiator disembowel another. The stroke, he thought, was clean and good for the men from Gaul were like wolves, dark, feral and quick. Scipio rather hoped he would be matched against them, rather than against lions or an elephant. There was something about the feel of steel matched against your own sword that put heart into a man.
An armored guard, coming along the corridor, pushed open the door of Scipio's cell. His hawk face peered in.
"Your turn soon," he said.
"Good," replied Scipio, with a pleasant oath. "I grow tired of battling fleas."
The soldier chuckled as he bent to adjust a greave.
"By my Lares, you have courage! Too bad your dream failed. I would not have objected to serving under such a man as you."
"I failed because none of my men had the courage of a rabbit," Scipio spat in disgust. "Faith, we could have taken Carthage almost without bloodshed."
"Had your army not fled, leaving you to face the Imperial Guard alone!" The soldier shook his head, grinning wryly. "Nothing but trouble since you came to Africa, Scipio. It was bad enough with those damned Romans yelling that Carthage must be destroyed, but at least they had not tried to destroy it. And what did you do?"
Scipio's eyes lighted. He was a huge, swarthy man, with the scarred face of a gargoyle. His nose had been broken so often that it sprawled shapelessly awry. Atop that monstrous face, the ringlets of short, curly black hair were incongruous.
"What did I do?" the adventurer asked. "Faith, I tried to serve your king, but he would not let me."
The guard choked and spluttered his outrage.
"Jupiter! You got drunk and dragged the king off to some low gambling hell. No wonder you had to flee to the mountains after that! Then you got some insane idea about creating an independent city of your own. That might have worked, if you had gone far enough into the Nubian country with your followers. But you decided to take Carthage. Carthage!"
The soldier made an infuriating roar of merriment.
"Come within the reach of my manacled hands," Scipio invited pleasantly, "and I'll tear off your head with considerable joy."
"Save that for the arena," said the soldier, moving back slightly. "Tonight the cries will announce that the Carthaginian Scipio is no more. Only, you are not a man of Carthage, come to think of it. Are you?"
"Why not?" The giant captive shrugged. "Rome is a melting pot. The blood of a dozen races mix in my veins. I am a citizen of Carthage now, at least for awhile. By the way, how do I die?"
"Elephant. They have a huge tusker whom they've driven musth with rage and hunger. You are to face him on equal terms, both of you unarmed." He glanced cautiously over his shoulder. "I am to accompany you to the arena gate. And if you happen to seize my sword and take it with you—Well, such things have happened."