Keith Laumer - A Plague of Demons

He patted back a yawn.

“Just how are British interests involved, Mr.—ah—Jones?”

“Well, this dog was intelligent,” I said.

“Well!” His eyebrows went up. “I’m sure I don’t—”

Footsteps were coming along the hall. I turned. A husky, black-haired man with deep-set black eyes came into the room, looked at me, ignoring Phipps. I saw the redheaded marine in the hall behind him. I felt my pulse start to beat a little faster.

“What is it you want here?” he snapped.

“Ah, Mr. Clomesby-House, Mr. Jones, of the American Treasury Department,” Phipps said, adjusting a look of alert interest on his dried-out features. I surmised that Clomesby-House was his boss.

“Mr. Jones was just lodging a complaint regarding a—um—dog,” Phipps said.

Clomesby-House narrowed his eyes at me. “What dog is this?”

“I realize it sounds a little strange,” I said, smiling diffidently, “but—well, let me start at the beginning.”

“Just one moment.” The black-eyed man held up a hand. “Perhaps we’d better discuss this matter in private.” He stepped back, waved a hand toward the door. Phipps looked surprised.

“Certainly,” I said. “It sounds crazy, but—”

I followed Clomesby-House along a corridor, with Joel beside me and the marine trailing. At the door to a roomy office, I paused, eyeing the marine.

“Ah—this is pretty confidential,” I said behind my hand. “Perhaps the guard should wait outside?”

Clomesby-House shot me a black look, opened his mouth to object.

“Unless you’re afraid I might be dangerous, or something,” I added, showing him a smirk.

He snorted. “That’s all, Davis. Return to your post.”

I closed the door carefully, went across and took a chair by the desk behind which the black-eyed man had seated himself. Joel sat on my left.

“Tell me just what it is you’ve seen,” Clomesby-House said, leaning forward.

“Well.” I laughed shyly. “It sounds pretty silly, here in a nice clean office—but some funny things have been happening to me lately. They all seem to center around the dogs…”

He waited.

“It’s a secret spy network—I’m sure of it,” I went on. “I have plenty of evidence. Now, I don’t want you just to take my word for it. I have a friend who’s been helping me—”

His dark eyes went to Joel. “This man knows of this, too?”

“Oh, he’s not the one I meant. He just gave me a lift over. I’ve told him a little.” I chuckled again. “But he says it’s all in my head. I had a little accident some months ago—have a metal plate in my skull, as a matter of fact— But never mind that. My friend and I know better. These dogs—”

“You have seen them—often?”

“Well, every now and then.”

“And why did you come here—to the British Consulate?” he shot at me.

“I’m coming to that part. You see—well, actually, it’s a little hard to explain. If I could just show you…”

I looked anxious—like a nut who wants to reveal the location of a flying saucer, but is a little shy about butterfly nets. “If you could possibly spare the time—I’d like you to meet my friend. It’s not far.”

He was still squinting at me. His fingers squeaked as he tensed them against the desk-top. I remembered Julius exhibiting the same mannerism—a nervous habit of the not-men when they had a decision to make. I could almost hear him thinking; it would be simplicity itself for him to summon the strait-jacket crew, let them listen to my remarks about intelligent dogs, and let nature take its course. But on the other hand, what I had to say just might alert someone, cause unwelcome inquiries, invite troublesome poking about…

He came to a decision. He stood, smiling a plaster smile.

“Perhaps that would be best,” he said. “There is only one person besides yourselves—” he glanced at Joel— “who knows of this?”

“That’s right; it’s not the kind of thing a fellow spreads around.” I got to my feet. “I hope it’s not too much trouble,” I said, trying to look a little embarrassed now. Flying-saucer viewers aren’t accustomed to willing audiences.

“I said I would accompany you,” Clomesby-House snapped. “We will go now—immediately.”

“Sure—swell,” I said. I scrambled to the door and held it for him. “I have my car—”

“That will not be necessary. We will take an official vehicle.”

I showed him a sudden suspicious look. After all, I didn’t want just anybody to see my saucer. “But no driver,” I specified. “Just you and me and Joel here.”

He gave a Prussian nod. “As you wish. Come along.”

He led the way to the Consulate garage on the roof, dismissed the marine on duty, and took the controls of a fast, four-seater dispatch heli. I got in beside him, and Joel sat in the rear.

I gave directions for an uninhabited area to the northwest—Yerkes National Forest—and we lifted off, hurtled out across the sprawl of city lights and into darkness.

Forty-five minutes later, with my nose against the glass, I stared down at a vast expanse of unbroken blackness spread out below.

“This is the place,” I said. “Set her down right here.”

Clomesby-House shot me a look that would have curdled spring water. “Here?” he growled.

I nodded brightly. It was as good a place as any for what I had in mind. He hissed, angled the heli sharply downward. I could sense that he was beginning to regret his excessive caution in whisking me away to a lonely place where he could deal with me and my imaginary accomplice privately. He had wasted time and fuel on an idiot who was no more than a normal mental case after all. I could almost hear him deciding to land, kill me and Joel with a couple of chops of his jack-hammer hands, and hurry back to whatever zombies did in their leisure hours. The thought of caution didn’t so much as cross his mind. After all, what were we but a pair of soft, feeble humans?

I thought of the arm he and his friends had cost me, and felt both fists—the live and the dead—clenching in anticipation.

Clomesby-House was either an excellent pilot or a fool. He whipped the heli in under the spreading branches of a stand of hundred-foot hybrid spruce, grounded it without a jar. He slammed a door open, letting in a wintry blast, and climbed out. The landing lights burned blue-white pools on the patchy snow, flickering as the rotor blades spun to a stop.

“Stay behind me, Joel,” I said quickly. “No matter what happens, don’t interfere. Just keep alert for the dog-things; you understand?”

He gave me a startled look. “Are they gonna come here, Jones?”

“I hope not.” I jumped out, stood facing Clomesby-House. Behind me, Joel hugged himself, staring around at the great trees.

“Very well,” the not-man said, his black eyes probing me like cold pokers. “Where is the other man?” He stood in a curious slack position, like a manikin that hasn’t been positioned by the window dresser. Out here, with just two soon-to-be-dead humans watching, it wasn’t necessary to bother with all the troublesome details of looking human.

I went close to him, stared into his face.

“Never mind all that,” I said. “It was just a come-on. It’s you I want to talk to. Where did you come from? What do you want on Earth?”

All the expression went out of his face. He stood for a moment, as though considering a suggestion.

I knew the signs; he was communing with another inhuman brain, somewhere not too distant. I stepped up quickly, hit him in the pit of the stomach with all my strength.

He bounced back like a tackle dummy hit by a swinging boom, crashed against a tree-trunk, rebounded—still on his feet. In the instant of contact, I had felt something break inside him—but it wasn’t slowing him down. He launched himself at me, hands outstretched. I met him with a straight right smash to the head that spun him, knocked him to the ground. He scrabbled, sending great gouts of frozen mud and snow flying. He came to his feet, lunged at me, reaching—