The Dark Other by Stanley G. Weinbaum (new ebook reader .txt) 📕

floor with a vicious shove, and turned his blazing eyes on Horker, who was drawing in his breath for a repetition of his roar. “Quiet!” he rasped, his red orbs boring down at the other. “Quiet, or I’ll muffle you!” Closing his eyes, the Doctor repeated his mighty shout.

The demon snatched the blanket from the couch, tossing it over the figure of the Doctor, where it became a billowing, writhing heap of brown wool. He turned his gaze on Pat, who was just struggling to her feet, and moved as if to advance toward her.

He paused. She had retrieved the Doctor’s revolver from the floor, and now faced him with the madness gone out of her eyes, supporting the weapon with both hands, the muzzle wavering toward his face.

“Drop it!” he commanded. She felt a recurrence of fascination, and an impulse to obey. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor’s head emerging from the blanket as he shook it off.

“Drop it!” repeated Nicholas Devine.

She closed her eyes, shutting out the vision of his dominant visage. With a surge of terror, she squeezed the trigger, staggering back to the couch at the roar and the recoil.

She opened her eyes. Nicholas Devine lay in the center of the room on his face; a crimson spot was matting the hair on the back of his head. She saw the Doctor raise a free hand; he was working clear of his bonds.

“Pat!” he said softly. He looked at her pale, sickened features. “Honey,” he said, “sit down till I get free. Sit down, Pat; you look faint.”

“Never faint!” murmured the girl, and pitched backward to the couch, with one clad and one bare leg hanging in curious limpness over the edge.

XXXI “Not Humanly Possible”

Pat opened weary eyes and gazed at a blank, uninformative ceiling. It was some moments before she realized that she was lying on the couch in the room of Nicholas Devine. Somebody had placed her there, presumably, since she was quite unaware of the circumstances of her awakening. Then recollection began to form⁠—Dr. Carl, the other, the roar of a shot. After that, nothing save a turmoil ending in blankness.

A sound of movement beside her drew her attention. She turned her head and perceived Dr. Horker kneeling over a form on the floor, fingering a white bandage about the head of the figure. Her recollections took instant form; she remembered the catastrophes of the evening⁠—last night, rather, since dawn glowed dully in the window. She had shot Nick! She gave a little moan and pushed herself to a sitting position.

The Doctor glanced at her with a sick, shaky smile. “Hello,” he said. “Come to, have you? Sorry I couldn’t give you any attention.” He gave the bandage a final touch. “Here’s a job I had no heart for,” he muttered. “Better for everyone to let things happen without interference.”

The girl, returning to full awareness, noticed now that the bandage consisted of strips of the Doctor’s shirt. She glanced fearfully at the still features of Nicholas Devine; she saw pale cheeks and closed eyes, but indubitably not the grim mien of the demon.

“Dr. Carl!” she whispered. “He isn’t⁠—he isn’t⁠—”

“Not yet.”

“But will he⁠—?”

“I don’t know. That’s a bad spot, a wound in the base of the brain. You’d best know it now, Pat, but also realize that nothing can happen to you. I’ll see to that!”

“To me!” she said dully. “What difference does that make? It’s Nick I want saved.”

“I’ll do my best for you, Honey,” said Horker with almost a hint of reluctance. “I’ve phoned Briggs General for an ambulance. Your faint lasted a full quarter hour,” he added.

“What can we tell them?” asked the girl. “What can we say?”

“Don’t you say anything, Pat. I’m not on the board for nothing.” He rose from his knees, glancing out of the window into the cool dawn. “Queer neighborhood!” he said. “All that yelling and a shot, and still no sign of interest from the neighbors. That’s Chicago, though,” he mused. “Lucky for us, Pat; we can handle the thing quietly now.”

But the girl was staring dully at the still figure on the floor. “Oh God!” she said huskily. “Help him, Dr. Carl!”

“I’ll do my best,” responded Horker gloomily. “I was a good surgeon before I specialized in psychiatry. Brain surgery, too; it led right into my present field.”

Pat said nothing, but dropped her head on her hands and stared vacantly before her.

“Better for you, and for him too, if I fail,” muttered the Doctor.

His words brought a reply. “You won’t fail,” she said tensely. “You won’t!”

“Not voluntarily, I’m afraid,” he growled morosely. “I’ve still a little respect for medical ethics, but if ever a case⁠—” His voice trailed into silence as from somewhere in the dawn sounded the wail of a siren. “There’s the ambulance,” he finished.

Pat sat unmoving as the sounds from outdoors detailed the stopping of the vehicle before the house. She heard the Doctor descending the steps, and the creak of the door. Though it took place before her eyes, she scarcely saw the white-coated youths as they lifted the form of Nicholas Devine and bore it from the room on a stretcher, treading with carefully broken steps to prevent the swaying of the support. Dr. Horker’s order to follow made no impression on her; she sat dully on the couch as the chamber emptied.

Why, she wondered, had the thought of Nick’s death disturbed her so? Wasn’t it but a short time since they had both contemplated it? What had occurred to alter that determination? Nick was dying, she thought mournfully; all that remained was for her to follow. There on the floor lay the revolver, and on the table, glistening in the wan light, reposed the untouched lethal draft. That was the preferable way, she mused, staring fixedly at its glowing contour.

But suppose Nick weren’t to die⁠—she’d have abandoned him to his terrible doom, left him to face a situation far more ominous than