The Big Eye (28 page)

 

 

And everywhere the "Standing Room Only" sign was out.

 

 

David managed to travel two blocks. He was mauled, propelled by the
thick crowd, crushed, shoved along. He found the experience physically
exhausting.

 

 

Finally, almost in desperation, he decided on a movie and waited in
line. And after a two-hour wait he entered the darkened movie house.

 

 

A light domestic comedy, a farce, was on the screen, and once inside
the theater, it was different.

 

 

The people laughed in waves, they guffawed, they split their sides
hysterically, shrilly.

 

 

Within the theater they sat under a starry sky devoid of the Big Eye.

 

 

The roof of the rococo interior was designed as a romantic heaven,
splattered with tiny electric stars; it even sported a dull moon near
the second balcony. This heaven was free, wonderfully free, of any
foreign invader.

 

 

And so the audience laughed, and David laughed with them.

 

 

But when he finally came out on the sidewalk again he felt let down,
depressed. The real sky was overhead again, and although the Big Eye was
temporarily invisible in the wash of Broadway light, he knew it was there.

 

 

It was there and coming, closer and closer. . . .

 

 

It was midnight.

 

 

David came back to his room at the New Weston and found that Joe Morgan
had not yet returned.

 

 

For a few minutes he puttered around the room aimlessly, restlessly,
having no desire to go to bed.

 

 

The movie had provided him with a three-hour anesthesia. But now he needed
more, something different, something stronger, to take the pressure off.

 

 

He thought of Carol and her swollen abdomen and the nights that his
whole body had ached for want of her.

 

 

It began to ache now. . . .

 

 

He thought of the places with the neon signs, the curtained windows,
the names, "The Careless Hour," "The Oasis," "Katie's," and the others,
licensed and available, and the beckoning signs, "Hostesses" . . .

 

 

The phone rang.

 

 

The operator asked him to wait a moment, Palomar was calling.

 

 

Then suddenly Carol's voice came over the wire. She was hysterical,
sobbing.

 

 

"David! David! You've got to come back right away!"

 

 

"What is it, Carol? What's the matter?"

 

 

"It -- it's Mrs. Dawson. She had an automobile accident just after you
left -- died an hour ago. And Dr. Dawson's had a stroke!"

 

 

For three agonizing hours David waited in the hotel room until Joe
Morgan returned.

 

 

Then they took a cab for the airport.

 

 

 

 

13.

 

 

At San Diego, while Joe Morgan was getting the car, David phoned Carol.

 

 

"Mrs. Dawson was driving one of the station wagons, David," Carol
explained tearfully. "The roads up here are slippery from the ice -- and,
well, the car turned over. She lingered for hours, and Dr. Wilk did
everything he could. But it was no use."

 

 

At the moment David's mind couldn't concentrate on Mrs. Dawson. She was
dead; that was gone and done with now. He was thinking of the Old Man.

 

 

"How about Dr. Dawson, Carol? How's he taking it?"

 

 

"I -- David, I'm afraid. When he heard the news he had a heart
attack -- almost collapsed. Dr. Wilk ordered him to bed, but he wouldn't
go. He insisted on staying at Mrs. Dawson's bedside -- till -- till "

 

 

Carol's voice broke, and she was unable to finish.

 

 

David told her that he and Morgan were just starting out in the car,
and she said:

 

 

"Better come right to Dr. Dawson's house, David. I'll be there -- everybody
on the staff is there now. And, darling, be careful when you get upon
the mountain. It's beginning to snow hard."

 

 

The last few miles to Palomar were a nightmare of driving. The snow
whipped in horizontally against the windshield, a relentless tattoo
propelled by a screaming wind.

 

 

Finally, however, they plowed through the observatory road, up the
incline, and stopped in front of the "Residence" where the Daw-sons
lived. The road and driveway were clogged with cars, and the house was
brilliantly lit. As David and Joe Morgan slogged through the snow toward
the door they saw that the rooms within were crowded with people, their
shadows moving restlessly behind the snow-frozen windows.

 

 

It was just getting dark before David had a chance to talk to Dr. Wilk.

 

 

The colony physician had finally come out of the Old Man's room, and
his face was grave as he answered David's anxious question.

 

 

"Dr. Dawson's in fairly bad shape at the moment, David. The shock didn't
do his heart any good. He'll have to stay in bed -- get a complete rest for
a few weeks. That's the physical picture. But there's another one -- perhaps
even more serious."

 

 

"You mean -- his mind?"

 

 

Dr. Wilk nodded. "We'll have to wait and see. He acted very strangely
near the end."

 

 

David gripped the physician by the lapels of his coat. "What do you
mean. Dr. Wilk?"

 

 

"It's a little early to say anything definite as yet. But I am quite
positive, David, that Dr. Dawson has been out of his mind for the past
few hours. Just after Mrs. Dawson died he said something very strange."

 

 

"Yes? What was it. Dr. Wilk?"

 

 

"He kept moaning that he had to stand there and watch his wife die,
that he could have saved her, but there was nothing he could do."

 

 

He could have saved her, but there was nothing he could do. . . .

 

 

David tried to analyze that, but it didn't make sense.

 

 

"What about Mrs. Dawson? Was she unconscious at the end?"

 

 

The physician nodded.

 

 

"And she never had a chance?"

 

 

"On the contrary, David, she did. She was suffering from shock, severe
contusions, and internal injuries. But at the beginning she had a fairly
good chance. The trouble was that she gave up -- she didn't have any will
to fight."

 

 

"You mean she didn't want to live?"

 

 

"I'm sure that was the case," said Dr. Wilk. "It's a phenomenon that we
in the medical profession have noted recently in an increasing number of
borderline cases similar to hers. We've always said that it's instinctive
for a human being to fight for his life, to want to live." The physician
hesitated. "But now I don't know "

 

 

"You think the planet affected her somehow. Doctor?"

 

 

"Yes. My theory is that Mrs. Dawson knew, deep in her subconscious mind,
that she had little time left, even if she did recover. And this militated
against her fight to survive, broke her will to resist. Perhaps it's
wrong to rationalize, but it's the only explanation I can offer. And as
I said, our medical associations have several reports of the same thing
happening elsewhere in the country. Patients who could have won through
simply gave up."

 

 

"And you explained this theory to Dr. Dawson, sir?"

 

 

The physician nodded, then put on his hat and coat. "It's a great loss
to Palomar, David. Emily Dawson was a fine woman. I don't know how Dr.
Dawson is going to get along without her -- for the remainder of the time
we have left."

 

 

"Perhaps I'd better stay here with him tonight," said David mechanically.

 

 

"No," answered the physician. "That won't be necessary. I've already
asked Francis to sit up with Dr. Dawson for the rest of the night. And
in the morning I'll arrange for a day and night nurse."

 

 

When David and Carol went out they found it impossible to move the car
in the deepening and drifting snow. And so, with heads down against the
fierce, battering smash of the snow-needled wind, they plodded through
the snow toward their cottage.

 

 

As he stumbled along, David thought bitterly, Why did Emily Dawson,
why did anyone have to die now? Why wasn't there a moratorium on death
under the Big Eye ? To die now was a tragedy far deeper, more profound,
than ever before.

 

 

Emily Dawson was near sixty; she was an old woman by calendar years.
Under normal standards she was almost ready to go. But there were no
longer any normal standards, and the calendar was different and brand new.

 

 

By the new calendar, in this, the Year Two, Emily Dawson had died a
young woman, with almost half a lifetime left to live.

 

 

"David! David!"

 

 

David woke suddenly out of an uneasy slumber to find Carol shaking him.
He opened his eyes to look up uncomprehendingly into her frightened
face. Then, half drugged with sleep, he realized that the doorbell was
ringing insistently.

 

 

"Someone's at the door, David," Carol whispered. "The doorbell's been
ringing for over a minute. I can't imagine who it could be out in this
storm now. It's almost one o'clock."

 

 

David, lying warm in bed, lingered a moment, hoping the ringing would
stop. But it continued, became more insistent, more urgent than ever.
Finally he cursed softly, got out of bed, put on a robe, and went
downstairs. The storm literally shook the house, and he could hear the
windowpanes rattle.

 

 

He wondered savagely what damned fool was out there in the blizzard at
this time of night, pumping his doorbell.

 

 

He fumbled with the latch, flung open the door. The cold wind blasted
a barrage of snow into the living room. David blinked at the impact,
tried to make out the snow-coated face of the muflBed figure in the
doorway.

 

 

"Dr. Hughes! Dr. Hughes, sir!"

 

 

It was Francis, the steward. He came in, and David slammed the door
behind him.

 

 

"Francis, for God's sake, what are you doing out in -- "

 

 

"Dr. Hughes, it's Dr. Dawson. He's -- disappeared!"

 

 

"What?"

 

 

Francis began to slammer piteously. "Dr. Hughes, it's my fault -- it's
all my fault. I'm afraid I dozed ofE for a little while in Dr. Dawson's
library. When I awoke I went upstairs and looked into his room. He --
he was gone!"

 

 

David seized the steward by the shoulders, shook him savagely. "Francis,
are you sure?"

 

 

"Yes, sir. I went all through the house. I looked into -- I looked into
Mrs. Dawson's room -- in the attic -- in the cellar -- everywhere. He's out in
this blizzard somewhere. Dr. Hughes. My God, he's out in this terrible
storm."

 

 

"Where? Where'd he go?"

 

 

"I don't know, sir. I don't know. But his clothes are still in his
room. He must be in his pajamas -- his robe. He's unprotected, Dr. Hughes.
He'll freeze to death unless we find him. Lord, lord, he'll freeze
to death! I didn't know what to do -- where to look. I came straight
here -- straight to you. I was so upset -- I even forgot to phone. Dr.
Hughes, he's out in this blizzard. He must have gone out the back way.
I don't know, I didn't hear a thing!" The tears began running down
Francis's cheeks; he was on the verge of hysteria. "It's my fault, sir.
I'm to blame. If we can't find him before -- "

 

 

"Stop it, Francis!" yelled David. "For God's sake, stop it!" He went to
a decanter, poured out a stiff shot of whisky. "Here, drink this!"

 

 

The steward took the glass with a shaking hand, spilled half the drink,
managed to swallow the rest.

 

 

"Now wait for me here," David said to him. "I'll get some clothes on
and be right with you."

 

 

He drew on his trousers over his pajamas, then shoes and a mackinaw,
rapidly telling Carol what had happened as he dressed.

 

 

"David," said Carol, "where on earth could he have gone -- in this snow?"

 

 

"Not very far," grunted David. "But I've got a hunch he's gone to the
observatory."

 

 

"The observatory? On a night like this? Why?"

 

 

"Don't ask me why. I don't know. It's just a hunch, and I may be wrong."

 

 

He raced downstairs, and together with Francis he plunged out into
the storm.

 

 

The wind slashed at them, hammered them as they floundered through the
drifts. They could see nothing before them; the murky white wall slanted
in at them, blotted out their vision ten feet ahead. They saw no tracks
in the snow, but that proved nothing. If Dr. Dawson had come this way
ten minutes before, the snow would have already buried his footprints.

 

 

As David plowed along, his head bent against the screaming wind and his
arm interlocked with Francis's, a nagging doubt began to seep through
him. Perhaps the Old Man hadn't gone to the observatory at all. There
would be no one there now, no work in progress, not on a night like
this. Maybe he'd gone the other way, thought David desperately, down
the road. There was no way of telling. They were just guessing.

 

 

The Old Man didn't know what he was doing; the loss of his wife, as Dr.
Wilk had pointed out, must have driven him out of his mind. It was suicide
to walk out in this damned blizzard with just pajamas and a robe. Even
through his heavy mackinaw and mittens David could feel the numbing cut of
the wind. If the Old Man had walked out just before Francis had awakened,
if he had gone to the observatory, there was still a chance. If not . . .