I raised my hand. I tried to struggle to my feet again. Somehow, I managed to pull myself a few inches away from the gateway, but the Star Beast was far too strong for me, and the magic charms of Misquamacus held me like a weakly flapping fish in a net.
There was an electric typewriter, its keys thick with ice, lying on its side on the floor. It suddenly occurred to me that if I threw something like that at Misquamacus, or maybe at the Star Beast itself, it would give me a few seconds' diversion to pull myself free. That was how little I knew about the powers of occult beings — I was still treating them like cowboys and Indians. I reached out my frostbitten hands and lifted the typewriter up with tremendous effort. It had so much ice on it, it was nearly twice its normal weight.
I turned, I rolled over, and I hurled the typewriter toward the magic gateway and the dim outline of the Star Beast. Like everything else in this occult environment, it flew in a long slow motion arc, turning over and over as it flew, and it seemed to take an age to reach the circle.
I didn't know what was going to happen. I just lay there, frozen stiff and bunched up like a fetus, waiting for the moment when the tumbling typewriter would reach the Beast. I think I closed my eyes; I might even have slept for a moment. When you're freezing cold, all you can think of is sleep, and warmth, and giving in.
The typewriter reached the restless outline of the Star Beast, and then something extraordinary happened. In a glittering burst of metal and plastic, the typewriter exploded, and for a vivid second I saw something within that explosion. It vanished without a trace, but it was like an aggressive disembodied snarl. It had no shape and no form at all, but it left a fading mental image on the back of my eye, like a flash photograph taken in the dark.
The Star Beast cringed. Its serpentine coils and clouds seemed to roll back on themselves, like a ghostly sea anemone. The mournful wind rose and fell in an odd, disturbed shriek, and I knew that if I was ever going to get away, it would have to be now. I heaved myself on to my feet, and scrambled for the door. I didn't look back, but I almost collided with Singing Rock, and the next thing I knew I was sitting blindly in the corridor outside, and the door was firmly shut. Singing Rock was making protective signs on the door to keep Misquamacus temporarily imprisoned.
"You're crazy" said Singing Rock. "You're absolutely crazy!"
I rubbed the melting frost from my hair. "I'm still alive, though. And I did have a go at Misquamacus."
Singing Rock shook his head. "You didn't stand a chance. If I hadn't bombarded Misquamacus with protective spells, you'd have been fried fish by now."
I coughed, and looked up. "I know that, Singing Rock, and thanks. But I still had to try it. Jesus, that Star Beast is so cold. I feel like I just walked twenty miles in a blizzard." Singing Rock stood up and looked through the door. "Misquamacus doesn't seem to be moving. The Beast is gone now. I think it's time we got out of here ourselves."
"What are we going to do?" I asked, as Singing Rock helped me on to my feet. "More to the point — what do you think Misquamacus is going to do?"
Singing Rock shone the flashlight behind us for a brief instant, just to make sure that we weren't being followed. Then he said: "I've got a pretty good idea of what Misquamacus is up to, and I think the best thing we can do is get ourselves out of here. If he's doing what I think he's doing, life is going to become distinctly unhealthy around here."
"But we can't just leave him."
"I don't know what else we can do. He's not making his magic as consistently and strongly as he should, but he's still too powerful to touch."
We walked quickly down the corridors toward the elevator. It was dark and silent on the tenth floor, but our footsteps seemed muffled, like men running on soft grass. I was panting by the time we reached the last corner, and saw the welcome door of the elevator, still open and waiting for us. I dislodged my shoes from the door, and we pressed the button for eighteen. We lay back against the elevator walls in relief, and felt ourselves being carried upward to safety.
There was quite a reception committee waiting for us when we stepped out into the bright light of the eighteenth floor. Dr. Winsome had called in the police, and there were eight or nine armed officers standing around among the doctors and male nurses. The newspapers were there, too, and CBS television were just setting up their cameras. As we emerged from the elevator, there was a hubbub of questions and exclamations, and it was all I could do to push my way through.
Jack Hughes was sitting in the corner with his hand heavily bandaged. He looked pale and sick, and there was a male nurse with him, but he had obviously refused to be sent off the battlefield.
"How is it?" he asked me. "What's happening down there?"
Dr. Winsome, redder than ever, pushed his way forward and said: "I had to call the police, Mr. Erskine. It seems to me there are people's lives at risk. I had to do it for the safety of all concerned. This is Lieutenant Marino, and I think he wants to ask you some questions."
Behind Dr. Winsome, I saw the now-familiar face of Lieutenant Marino, with his hard smile and his brush-cut hair. I waved, and he nodded back.
"Mr. Erskine," he said, pushing his way closer. There were five or six newspaper reporters clustered all around us, with their notebooks out, and the television people had just switched on their glaring lights. "I just want to know a few details, Mr. Erskine."
"Can we talk somewhere private?" I asked. "This is hardly the place."
Lieutenant Marino shrugged. "The press are going to get hold of it sooner or later. Just tell us what's going on. Dr. Winsome here says you have a violent patient. Apparently he's already killed one man, injured this doctor here, and he's planning to kill some more."
I nodded. "That's true, in a way."
"In a way? What's that supposed to mean?"
"He's not exactly a patient And he didn't kill that man in the normal sense of murdering him. Look — it's impossible telling you now. Let's find ourselves a private office or something."
Marino looked around at the press and the TV cameras and the policemen and medics, and said: "Okay, if it's going to make it easier. Dr. Winsome — is there an office we can use?"
The press groaned in disappointment, and started to argue about their right to know the facts, but Lieutenant Marino was firm. I called Singing Rock, and together we locked ourselves with Lieutenant Marino and his deputy, Detective Narro, in a ward nurse's office. The press clustered around the door outside, and we spoke quickly and quietly so that they wouldn't hear.
"Lieutenant," I said, "we have a very difficult situation here and I don't know how to explain it to you."
Lieutenant Marino parked his feet on the desk and took out a Lark.
"Try me," he said, lighting up.
"Well, it's like this. The man down there on the tenth floor is a homicidal maniac. He's a Red Indian, and he's seeking revenge on the whites."
Lieutenant Marino coughed. "Go on," he said patiently.
"The only problem is, he's not a normal man. He has certain powers and abilities that ordinary people don't have."
"Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound?" asked Lieutenant Marino. "Faster than a speeding bullet?"
Singing Rock laughed, without amusement "You're nearer to the truth than you think, Lieutenant."
"You mean you got Superman down there? Or Super Redskin?"
I sat up, trying my darnedest to look sincere and believable.
"It sounds ludicrous, Lieutenant, but that's almost what we do have. The Red Indian down there is a medicine man, and he's using his magical powers in order to seek his revenge. Singing Rock here is a medicine man himself, of the Sioux, and he's been helping us cope. He's already saved several lives, and I think you ought to listen to what he has to say."