Part 39 (2/2)

”We, your servants,” said Ames, signing the words, ”beseech your presence, Lord of Night and of Life Eternal, Ruler of the Souls of men in all Thy vast dominion.Prentice started to rise, but Dystal grasped his jacket. ”No,” he said. ”Wait. Wait another minute.

This is something you ought to see.”

”. . . we live to serve you, grant us . . .”

”He's begging the devil to appear,” whispered Dystal.

”. . . tonight, and offer the greatest and most treasured gift. Accept our offering!” ”Accept it!”

cried the others.

”What the h.e.l.l is this, anyway?” Prentice demanded, feverishly.

Then Ames stopped talking, and the rest were silent. Ames raised his left hand and lowered it.

Chris c.u.mmings and Bud Reiker bowed and walked backwards into the shadows where Prentice could not see them.

Charlotte Ames walked to the six-sided structure with the candles and picked up a long, thin object.

She returned and handed this to her husband. It was a knife.

”_Killnotshaltthou!_” screamed Ed Chambers, and he stepped across the pentagram to the sheet-shrouded table.

Prentice rubbed his eyes.

”Shhh.”

Bud Reiker and Chris c.u.mmings returned to the center of light then. They were carrying a bundle. It was wrapped in blankets.

The bundle thrashed and made peculiar m.u.f.fled noises. The men lifted it onto the table and held it.

Ames nodded and stepped down from the block of wood. He walked to the table and halted, the long-bladed butcher knife glittering in the glow of the candles.

”To Thee, O Lord of the Underground, we made this offering! To Thee, the rarest gift of all!”

”What is it?” Prentice asked. ”What is this gift?”

Dystal's voice was ready and eager. ”A virgin,” he said.

Then they removed the blanket.

Prentice felt his eyes bursting from their sockets, felt his heart charging the walls of his chest.

”Ann,” he said, in a choked whisper. ”Ann!” The knife went up.

Prentice scrambled to his feet and fought the dizziness. ”Dystal,” he cried.

”Dystal, for G.o.d's sake, what are they doing? Stop them. You hear me? Stop them!”

”I can't,” said Matthew Dystal, sadly. ”It's too late. I'm afraid your wife said a few things she shouldn't have, Prentice. You see--we've been looking for a real one for such a long time . . .”

Prentice tried to lunge, but the effort lost him his balance. He fell to the ground. His arms and legs were growing numb, and he remembered, suddenly, the bitter taste of the drink he'd had.

”It really couldn't have been avoided, though,” Dystal said. ”I mean, the boy knew, and he'd have told you eventually. And you'd have begun investigating, and--oh, you understand. I told Lucian we should have bought the place, but he's so obstinate; thinks he knows everything! Now, of course, we'll have to burn it, and that does seem a terrible waste.” He shook his head from side to side. ”But don't you worry,” he said. ”You'll be asleep by then and, I promise, you won't feel a thing. Really.”

Prentice turned his eyes from the window and screamed silently for a long time.

PERCHANCE TO DREAM.

by Charles Beaumont

”Please sit down,” the psychiatrist said, indicating a somewhat worn leather couch.

Automatically, Hall sat down. Instinctively, he leaned back. Dizziness flooded through him, his eyelids fell like sashweights, the blackness came. He jumped up quickly and slapped his right cheek, then he slapped his left cheek, hard.

”I'm sorry, Doctor,” he said.

The psychiatrist, who was tall and young and not in the least Viennese nodded. ”You prefer to stand?” he asked, gently.

”Prefer?” Hall threw his head back and laughed. ”That's good,” he said. ”_Prefer!_”

”I'm afraid I don't quite understand.”

”Neither do I, Doctor.” He pinched the flesh of his left hand until it hurt. ”No, no: that isn't true. I do understand. That's the whole trouble. I do.”

”You--want to tell me about it?”

”Yes. No.” It's silly, he thought. You can't help me. No one can. I'm alone! ”Forget it,” he said and started for the door.

The psychiatrist said, ”Wait a minute.” His voice was friendly, concerned; but not patronizing.

”Running away won't do you much good, will it?”

Hall hesitated.

”Forgive the cliche. Actually, running away is often the best answer. But I don't know yet that yours is that sort of problem.”

”Did Dr. Jackson tell you about me?”

”No. Jim said he was sending you over, but he thought you'd do a better job on the details. I only know that your name is Philip Hall, you're thirty-one, and you haven't been able to sleep for a long time.”

”Yes. A long time ...” To be exact, seventy-two hours, Hall thought, glancing at the clock.

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