Charles Halloway hunched away, half crouched, propped hard against the shelves, grinding his teeth to drown the sound of counting.
“You’re losing out, old man, my dear old fellow,” said Mr. Dark. “Five. Losing. Six. Losing very much. Seven. Really losing. Eight. Frittering away. Nine. Ten. My God, you fool! Eleven. Halloway! Twelve. Almost gone. Thirteen! Gone! Fourteen! Lost! Fifteen! Lost forever!”
Mr. Dark put down his arm with the watch on it.
Charles Halloway, gasping,, had turned away to bury his face in the smell of ancient books, the feel of old and comfortable leather, the taste of funeral dust and pressed flowers.
Mr. Dark stood in the door now, on his way out.
“Stay there,” he directed. “‘Listen to your heart. I’ll send someone to fix it. But, first, the boys . . .”
The crowd of unsleeping creatures, saddled upon tall flesh, strode quietly forth into darkness, borne with and all over upon Mr. Dark. Their cries and whines and utterances of vague but excruciating excitements sounded in his husky summoning:
“‘Boys? Are you there? Wherever you are . . . answer.”
Charles Halloway sprang forward, then felt the room spin and whirl him, as that soft, that easy, that most pleasant voice of Mr. Dark went calling through the dark. Charles Halloway fell against a chair, thought: Listen, my heart! sank down to his knees, he said, Listen to my heart! it explodes! Oh God, it’s tearing free!-and could not follow.
The Illustrated Man trod cat-soft in the labyrinths of shelved and darkly waiting books.
“Boys . . . ? Hear me . . . ?”
Silence.
“Boys . . .?”
42
Somewhere in the recumbent solitudes, the motionless but teeming millions of books, lost in two dozen turns right, three dozen turns left, down aisles, through doors, toward dead ends, locked doors, half-empty shelves, somewhere in the literary soot of Dickens’s London, or Dostoevsky’s Moscow or the steppes beyond, somewhere in the vellumed dust of atlas or Geographic, sneezes pent but set like traps, the boys crouched, stood, lay sweating a cool and constant brine.
Somewhere hidden, Jim thought: He’s coming!
Somewhere hidden, Will thought: He’s near!
“Boys . . . ?”
Mr. Dark came carrying his panoply of friends, his jewel-case assortment of calligraphical reptiles which lay sunning themselves at midnight on his flesh. With him strode the stitch-inked Tyrannosaurus rex, which lent to his haunches a machined and ancient wellspring mineral-oil glide. As the thunder lizard strode, all glass-bead pomp, so strode Mr. Dark, armored with vile lightning scribbles of carnivores and sheep blasted by that thunder and arun before storms of juggernaut flesh. It was the pterodactyl kite and scythe which raised his arms almost to fly the marbled vaults.
And with the inked and stencilled flashburnt shapes of pistoned or bladed doom came his usual crowd of hangers-on, spectators gripped to each limb, seated on shoulder blades, peering from his jungled chest, hung upside down in microscopic millions in his armpit vaults screaming bat-screams for encounters, ready for the hunt and if need be the kill. Like a black tidal wave upon a bleak shore, a dark tumult infilled with phosphorescent beauties and badly spoiled dreams, Mr. Dark sounded and hissed his feet, his legs, his body, his sharp face forward.
“Boys . . .?”
Immensely patient, that soft voice, ever the warmest friend to chilly creatures burrowed away, nested amongst dry books; so he scuttered, crept, scurried, stalked, tiptoed, wafted, stood immensely still among the primates, the Egyptian monuments to bestial gods, brushed black histories of dead Africa, stayed awhile in Asia, then sauntered on to newer lands.
“Boys, I know you hear me! The sign reads: SILFNCE! So, I’ll whisper: one of you still wants what we offer. Eh? Eh?”
Jim, thought Will.
Me, thought Jim. No! oh, no! not still! not me!
“Come out.” Mr. Dark purred the air through his teeth. “I guarantee rewards! Whoever turns himself in wins it all!
Bangity-bang!
My heart! thought Jim
Is that me? thought Will, or Jim!!?
“I hear you.” Mr. Dark’s lips quivered. “Closer now. Will? Jim? Isn’t it Jim who’s the, smart one? Come along, boy. . . !”
No! thought Will.
I don’t know anything! thought Jim, wildly.
“Jim, yes . . .” Mr. Dark wheeled in a new direction. “Jim, show me where your friend is.” Softly. “We’ll shut him up, give you the ride that would have been his if he’d used his head. Right, Jim?” A dove voice, cooing. “Closer. I hear your heart jump!”
Stop! thought Will to his chest.
Stop! Jim clenched his breath. Stop!!
“I wonder . . . are you in this alcove . . . ?”
Mr. Dark let the peculiar gravity of a certain group of stacks tug him forward.
“You here, Jim . . .? Or . . . over behind . . . ?”
He shoved a trolley of books mindlessly off on rubber rollers to bump through the night. A long way off, it crashed and spilled its contents to the floor like so many dead black ravens.
“Smart hide-and-seekers, both,” said Mr. Dark. “But someone’s smarter. Did you hear the carousel calliope tonight? Did you know, someone dear to you was down to the carousel? Will? Willy? William. William Halloway. Where’s your mother tonight?”
Silence.
“She was out riding the night wind, Willy-William. Around. We put her on. Around. We left her on. Around. You hear, Willy? Around, a year, another year, another, around, around!”
Dad! thought Will. Where are you!
In the far room, Charles Halloway, seated, his heart pounding, heard and thought, He won’t find them, I won’t move unless he does, he can’t find them, they won’t listen! they won’t believe! he’ll go away!
“Your mother, Will,” called Mr. Dark, softly. “Around and around, can you guess which direction, Willy?”
Mr. Dark circled his thin ghost hand in the dark air between the stacks.
“Around, around, and when we let your mother off, boy, and showed her herself in the Mirror Maze, you should have heard the one single sound she made. She was like a cat with a hair ball in her so big and sticky there was no way to gag it out, no way to scream around the hair coming out her nostrils and ears and eyes, boy, and her old old old. The last we saw of her, boy Willy, she was running off away from what she saw in the mirrors.
She’ll bang Jim’s house door but when his ma sees a thing, two hundred years old slobbering at the keyhole, begging the mercy of gunshot death, boy, Jim’s ma will gag the same way, like a hairballed cat sick but can’t be sick, and beat her away, send her beggaring the streets, where no one’ll believe, Will, such a kettle of bones and spit, no one’ll believe this was a rose beauty, your kind relations So Will, it’s up to us to run find, ran save her, for we know who she is-right, Will, right, Will, right, right, right?!”
The dark man’s voice hissed away to silence.
Very faintly now, somewhere in the library, someone was sobbing.
Ah . . .
The Illustrated Man gassed the air pleasantly from his dank lungs.
Yesssssssssss . . .
“Here . . .” he, murmured. “What? Filed under B for Boys? A for Adventure? H for Hidden. S for Secret. T for Terrified? Or filed under J for Jim or N for Nightshade, W for William, H for Halloway? Where are my two precious human books, so I may turn their pages, eh?,”
He kicked a place for his right foot on the first shelf of a towering stack.
He shoved his right foot in, put his weight there, and swung his left foot free.
“There.”
His left foot hit the second shelf, knocked space. He climbed. His right foot kicked a hole on the third shelf, plunged books back, and so up and up he climbed, to fourth shelf, to fifth, to six, groping dark library heavens, hands clutching shelfboards, then scrabbling higher to leaf night to find boys, if boys there were, like bookmarks among books.
His right hand, a princely tarantula, garlanded with roses, cracked a book of Bayeaux tapestries aspin down the sightless abyss below. It seemed an age before the tapestries struck, all askew, a ruin of beauty, an avalanche of gold, silver, and sky-blue thread on the floor.
His left hand, reaching the ninth shelf as he panted, grunted, encountered empty space-no books.
“Boys, are you here on Everest?”
Silence. Except for the faint sobbing, nearer now.
“Is it cold here? Colder? Coldest?”‘
The eyes of the Illustrated Man came abreast of the eleventh shelf.
Like a corpse laid rigid out, face down just three inches away, was Jim Nightshade.
One shelf further up in the catacomb, eyes trembling with tears, lay William Halloway.
“Well,” said Mr. Dark.
He reached a hand to pat Will’s head.
“Hello,” he said.
43
To Will, the palm of the hand that drifted up was like a moon rising.
Upon it was the fiery blue-inked portrait of himself. Jim, too, saw a hand before his face.
His own picture looked back at him from the palm.
The hand with Will’s picture grabbed Will.
The hand with Jim’s picture grabbed Jim.
Shrieks and yells.
The Illustrated Man heaved.
Twisting, he fell-jumped to the floor.
The boys, kicking,
