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Authors: Richard Matheson
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spasmodically at the drawer but it still stuck.
After a moment, Vince lowered the point of the pistol. “Don’t think I can’t pull it up quick,” he threatened.
“I don’t think anything,” Jane said and put her numbed fingers on the sleeve. She wondered why she didn’t faint.
Stan watched with fear-stricken eyes as Jane started pulling at Vince’s sleeve.
Vince started to shudder without control as the white-hot spears of pain jabbed at his arm and shoulder. He cut off one whine but a second came before he could control it. He forgot the sight of Jane’s body so close to him. Everything was lost in the overwhelming pain. The room seemed to swell and contract in lurches of dark and light.
What if I black out!
his mind cried out in fear.
You’ll practice ’til you collapse if need be!
He jerked away to escape and the coat came off. His mouth opened in a choking gasp of agony and he fell against the wall, his frail chest heaving. He felt a trickling of warm blood down his arm.
Jane had backed away and was looking at Vince, the black raincoat in her shaking hands. “You—you’d better go in and sit down,” she heard herself say.
“Don’t tell me—what to—do,” he gasped.
He looked at Stan and saw Stan straighten up abruptly, a look of nervous fright on his face.
He grabbed at his pistol. “What are you trying to do?” he shouted furiously.
Stan shook his head quickly. “Nothing, nothing.”
“Get in the other room!” Vince ordered furiously, “
Now!
”
Rigid with anguished frustration Stan moved away from the table.
Vince stood against the wall as the two of them moved past and entered the living room. He blinked his eyes and shook away the sweat dripping into them. He wanted to scream out in fury because the world was conspiring against him. No matter what he did, he was just driven further from his revenge. Damn it, why hadn’t he killed Bob that day in the agency?
Before going into the living room he glanced over at the table where Stan had been. He didn’t notice the slightly open drawer. His teeth gritted and he edged into the living room.
He started for the couch. “Come over here and fix my arm,” he said, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Hurry up or I’ll…”
He didn’t finish. A cloud of blackness seemed to rush up from the floor like a great dark bird. He stumbled back with a gasp of fright and almost lost consciousness.
Then his calves bumped into the couch edge and he fell onto it. The flaring pain in his left arm drove knives of consciousness into his brain. He saw them both looking at him.
“Don’t try anything!” he cried shrilly. “I swear to—!”
No!
But he couldn’t stop it. He sat there with the tears rushing down his cheeks and his thin chest shaking with sobs. Through the quivering prisms of his tears he saw them standing there, watching him.
I’d never reach him in time
, Stan was thinking.
He’d shoot me before I could reach him. There’s no chance
.
Jane stood staring at Vince. Only slowly was the shock departing, the sudden driving bolt of it that struck when Vince had pointed the gun at her. But now the gun was not pointing at her. And Vince’s face was the twisted, frightened face of a boy. She felt sick.
What a terrible product Vince’s father had put forth into the world. What a hideous testament to his distorted ambition: to produce the mirror of himself.
She found herself remembering Saul Raden as he had been the night of Vince’s debut in Carnegie Hall.
She remembered the almost hysterical ebullience of the man—the father reflecting the glory of his son. No more than that—the father taking the credit for the glory of his son. A modern Svengali—that’s what Saul Raden had been that night—gaunt and fever-charged, forgetting the past in a distended present. Repressing the knowledge that his own hands were useless twists of bone and meat that could no longer produce the surging glory of a Beethoven sonata or
After a moment, Vince lowered the point of the pistol. “Don’t think I can’t pull it up quick,” he threatened.
“I don’t think anything,” Jane said and put her numbed fingers on the sleeve. She wondered why she didn’t faint.
Stan watched with fear-stricken eyes as Jane started pulling at Vince’s sleeve.
Vince started to shudder without control as the white-hot spears of pain jabbed at his arm and shoulder. He cut off one whine but a second came before he could control it. He forgot the sight of Jane’s body so close to him. Everything was lost in the overwhelming pain. The room seemed to swell and contract in lurches of dark and light.
What if I black out!
his mind cried out in fear.
You’ll practice ’til you collapse if need be!
He jerked away to escape and the coat came off. His mouth opened in a choking gasp of agony and he fell against the wall, his frail chest heaving. He felt a trickling of warm blood down his arm.
Jane had backed away and was looking at Vince, the black raincoat in her shaking hands. “You—you’d better go in and sit down,” she heard herself say.
“Don’t tell me—what to—do,” he gasped.
He looked at Stan and saw Stan straighten up abruptly, a look of nervous fright on his face.
He grabbed at his pistol. “What are you trying to do?” he shouted furiously.
Stan shook his head quickly. “Nothing, nothing.”
“Get in the other room!” Vince ordered furiously, “
Now!
”
Rigid with anguished frustration Stan moved away from the table.
Vince stood against the wall as the two of them moved past and entered the living room. He blinked his eyes and shook away the sweat dripping into them. He wanted to scream out in fury because the world was conspiring against him. No matter what he did, he was just driven further from his revenge. Damn it, why hadn’t he killed Bob that day in the agency?
Before going into the living room he glanced over at the table where Stan had been. He didn’t notice the slightly open drawer. His teeth gritted and he edged into the living room.
He started for the couch. “Come over here and fix my arm,” he said, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Hurry up or I’ll…”
He didn’t finish. A cloud of blackness seemed to rush up from the floor like a great dark bird. He stumbled back with a gasp of fright and almost lost consciousness.
Then his calves bumped into the couch edge and he fell onto it. The flaring pain in his left arm drove knives of consciousness into his brain. He saw them both looking at him.
“Don’t try anything!” he cried shrilly. “I swear to—!”
No!
But he couldn’t stop it. He sat there with the tears rushing down his cheeks and his thin chest shaking with sobs. Through the quivering prisms of his tears he saw them standing there, watching him.
I’d never reach him in time
, Stan was thinking.
He’d shoot me before I could reach him. There’s no chance
.
Jane stood staring at Vince. Only slowly was the shock departing, the sudden driving bolt of it that struck when Vince had pointed the gun at her. But now the gun was not pointing at her. And Vince’s face was the twisted, frightened face of a boy. She felt sick.
What a terrible product Vince’s father had put forth into the world. What a hideous testament to his distorted ambition: to produce the mirror of himself.
She found herself remembering Saul Raden as he had been the night of Vince’s debut in Carnegie Hall.
She remembered the almost hysterical ebullience of the man—the father reflecting the glory of his son. No more than that—the father taking the credit for the glory of his son. A modern Svengali—that’s what Saul Raden had been that night—gaunt and fever-charged, forgetting the past in a distended present. Repressing the knowledge that his own hands were useless twists of bone and meat that could no longer produce the surging glory of a Beethoven sonata or
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