I'll Kill You Tomorrow

By Helen Huber

Illustrated by Kelly Freas

It was not a sinister silence.
No silence is sinister until it acquires
a background of understandable
menace. Here there was only
the night quiet of Maternity, the
silence of noiseless rubber heels on
the hospital corridor floor, the
faint brush of starched white
skirts brushing through doorways
into darkened and semi-darkened
rooms.

But there was something wrong
with the silence in the "basket
room" of Maternity, the glass-walled
room containing row on
row, the tiny hopes of tomorrow.
The curtain was drawn across the
window through which, during
visiting hours, peered the proud
fathers who did the hoping. The
night-light was dim.

The silence should not have been
there.

Lorry Kane, standing in the
doorway, looked out over the rows
of silent baskets and felt her blonde
hair tighten at the roots. The tightening
came from instinct, even before
her brain had a chance to
function, from the instincts and
training of a registered nurse.

Thirty-odd babies grouped in
one room and—complete silence.

Not a single whimper. Not one
tiny cry of protest against the annoying
phenomenon of birth.

Thirty babies—dead? That was
the thought that flashed, unbidden,
into Lorry's pretty head. The absurdity
of it followed swiftly, and
Lorry moved on rubber soles between
a line of baskets. She bent
down and explored with practiced
fingers.

A warm, living bundle in a white
basket.

The feeling of relief was genuine.
Relief, even from an absurdity,
is a welcome thing. Lorry
smiled and bent closer.

Staring up at Lorry from the
basket were two clear blue eyes.
Two eyes, steady and fixed in a
round baby face. An immobile,
pink baby face housing two blue
eyes that stared up into Lorry's
with a quiet concentration that
was chilling.

Lorry said, "What's the matter
with you?" She spoke in a whisper
and was addressing herself. She'd
gone short on sleep lately—the only
way, really, to get a few hours with
Pete. Pete was an interne at General
Hospital, and the kind of a
homely grinning carrot-top a girl
like Lorry could put into dreams as
the center of a satisfactory future.

But all this didn't justify a case
of jitters in the "basket room."

Lorry said. "Hi, short stuff," and
lifted Baby Newcomb—Male, out
of his crib for a cuddling.

Baby Newcomb didn't object.
The blue eyes came closer. The
week-old eyes with the hundred-year-old
look. Lorry laid the bundle
over her shoulder and smiled
into the dimness.

"You want to be president,
Shorty?" Lorry felt the warmth of
a new life, felt the little body wriggle
in snug contentment. "I
wouldn't advise it. Tough job."
Baby Newcomb twisted in his blanket.
Lorry stiffened.

Snug contentment?

Lorry felt two tiny hands clutch
and dig into her throat. Not just
pawing baby hands. Little fingers
that reached and explored for the
windpipe.

She uncuddled the soft bundle,
held it out. There were the eyes.
She chilled. No imagination here.
No spectre from lack of sleep.

Ancient murder-hatred glowing
in new-born eyes.

"Careful, you fool! You'll
drop this body." A thin piping
voice. A shrill symphony in
malevolence.

Fear weakened Lorry. She found
a chair and sat down. She held the
boy baby in her hands. Training
would not allow her to drop Baby
Newcomb. Even if she had fainted,
she would not have let go.

The shrill voice: "It was stupid
of me. Very stupid."

Lorry was cold, sick, mute.

"Very stupid. These hands are
too fragile. There are no muscles in
the arms. I couldn't have killed
you."

"Please—I ..."

"Dreaming? No. I'm surprised
at—well, at your surprise. You
have a trained mind. You should
have learned, long ago, to trust
your senses."

"I don't understand."

"Don't look at the doorway. Nobody's
coming in. Look at me. Give
me a little attention and I'll explain."

"Explain?" Lorry pulled her
eyes down to the cherubic little
face as she parroted dully.

"I'll begin by reminding you that
there are more things in existence
than your obscene medical books
tell you about."

"Who are you? What are you?"

"One of those things."

"You're not a baby!"

"Of course not. I'm ..." The
beastly, brittle voice drifted into silence
as though halted by an intruding
thought. Then the thought
voiced—voiced with a yearning at
once pathetic and terrible: "It
would be nice to kill you. Someday
I will. Someday I'll kill you if I
can find you."

"Why? Why?" Insane words in
an insane world. But life had not
stopped even though madness had
taken over. "Why?"

The voice was matter-of-fact
again. No more time for pleasant
daydreams. "I'm something your
books didn't tell you about. Naturally
you're bewildered. Did you
ever hear of a bodyless entity?"

Lorry shuddered in silence.

"You've heard of bodyless entities,
of course—but you denied
their existence in your smug world
of precise tidy detail. I'm a bodyless
entity. I'm one of a swarm. We
come from a dimension your mind
wouldn't accept even if I explained
it, so I'll save words. We of the
swarm seek unfoldment—fulfillment—even
as you in your stupid,
blind world. Do you want to hear
more?"

"I ..."

"You're a fool, but I enjoy practicing
with these new vocal chords,
just as I enjoyed flexing the fingers
and muscles. That's why I revealed
myself. We are, basically of
course, parasites. In the dimension
where we exist in profusion, evolution
has provided for us. There, we
seek out and move into a dimensional
entity far more intelligent
than yourself. We destroy it in a
way you wouldn't understand, and
it is not important that you should.
In fact, I can't see what importance
there is in your existing at
all."

"You plan to—kill all these
babies?"

"Let me congratulate you.
You've finally managed to voice an
intelligent question. The answer is,
no. We aren't strong enough to kill
them. We dwelt in a far more delicate
dimension than this one and
all was in proportion. That was our
difficulty when we came here. We
could find no entities weak enough
to take possession of until we came
upon this roomful of infants."

"Then, if you're helpless ..."

"What do we plan to do? That's
quite simple. These material entities
will grow. We will remain attached—ingrained,
so to speak.
When the bodies enlarge sufficiently ..."

"Thirty potential assassins...."
Lorry spoke again to herself, then
hurled the words back into her own
mind as her sickness deepened.

The shrill chirping: "What do
you mean, potential? The word
expresses a doubt. Here there
is none." The entity's chuckle
sounded like a baby, content over
a full bottle. "Thirty certain assassins."

"But why must you kill?"

Lorry was sure the tiny shoulders
shrugged. "Why? I don't know. I
never thought to wonder. Why
must you join with a man and propagate
some day? Why do you feel
sorry for what you term an unfortunate?
Explain your instincts and
I'll explain mine."

Lorry felt herself rising. Stiffly,
she put Baby Newcomb back into
his basket. As she did so, a ripple
of shrill, jerky laughter crackled
through the room. Lorry put her
hands to her ears. "You know I
can't say anything. You'd keep
quiet. They'd call me mad."

"Precisely."

Malicious laughter, like driven
sleet, cut into her ears as she fled
from the room.

Peter Larchmont, M.D.,
was smoking a quick cigarette by
an open fire-escape door on the
third floor. He turned as Lorry
came down the corridor, flipped
his cigarette down into the alley
and grinned. "Women shouldn't
float on rubber heels," he said. "A
man should have warning."

Lorry came close. "Kiss me. Kiss
me—hard."

Pete kissed her, then held her
away. "You're trembling. Anticipation,
pet?" He looked into her
face and the grin faded. "Lorry,
what is it?"

"Pete—Pete. I'm crazy. I've
gone mad. Hold me."

He could have laughed, but he
had looked closely into her eyes
and he was a doctor. He didn't
laugh. "Tell me. Just stand here.
I'll hang onto you and you tell
me."

"The babies—they've gone mad."
She clung to him. "Not exactly
that. Something's taken them over.
Something terrible. Oh, Pete! Nobody
would believe me."

"I believe the end result," he
said, quietly. "That's what I'm for,
angel. When you shake like this I'll
always believe. But I'll have to
know more. And I'll hunt for an
answer."

"There isn't any answer, Pete. I
know."

"We'll still look. Tell me more,
first."

"There isn't any more." Her
eyes widened as she stared into his
with the shock of a new thought.
"Oh, Lord! One of them talked to
me, but maybe he—or it—won't
talk to you. Then you'll never
know for sure! You'll think
I'm ..."

"Stop it. Quit predicting what
I'll do. Let's go to the nursery."

They went to the nursery and
stayed there for three-quarters of
an hour. They left with the tinny
laughter filling their minds—and
the last words of the monstrous entity.

"We'll say no more, of course.
Perhaps even this incident has been
indiscreet. But it's in the form of a
celebration. Never before has a
whole swarm gotten through. Only
a single entity on rare occasions."

Pete leaned against the corridor
wall and wiped his face with the
sleeve of his jacket. "We're the
only ones who know," he said.

"Or ever will know." Lorry
pushed back a lock of his curly
hair. She wanted to kiss him, but
this didn't seem to be the place or
the time.

"We can never tell anyone."

"We'd look foolish."

"We've got a horror on our
hands and we can't pass it on."

"What are we going to do?"
Lorry asked.

"I don't know. Let's recap a little.
Got a cigarette?"

They went to the fire door and
dragged long and deep on two
from Lorry's pack. "They'll be
quiet from now on. No more talking—just
baby squalls."

"And thirty little assassins will
go into thirty homes," Lorry said.
"All dressed in soft pink and blue,
all filled with hatred. Waiting, biding
their time, growing more clever."
She shuddered.

"The electric chair will get them
all, eventually."

"But how many will they get in
the meantime?"

Pete put his arms around her
and drew her close and whispered
into her ear. "There's nothing we
can do—nothing."

"We've got to do something."
Lorry heard again the thin, brittle
laughter following her, taunting
her.

"It was a bad dream. It didn't
happen. We'll just have to sleep it
off."

She put her cheek against his.
The rising stubble of his beard
scratched her face. She was grateful
for the rough touch of solid
reality.

Pete said, "The shock will wear
out of our minds. Time will pass.
After a while, we won't believe it
ourselves."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"It's got to be that way."

"We've got to do something."

Pete lowered his arm wearily.
"Yeah—we've got to do something.
Where there's nothing that
can be done. What are we—miracle
workers?"

"We've got to do something."

"Sure—finish out the watch and
then get some sleep."

Lorry awoke with the lowering
sun in her window. It was
a blood red sun. She picked up the
phone by her bedside. "Room 307
Resident's extension."

Pete answered drowsily. Lorry
said, "Tell me—did I dream, or
did it really happen."

"I was going to ask you the same
thing. I guess it happened. What
are you doing?"

"Lying in bed."

"So am I. But two different beds.
Things are done all wrong."

"Want to take a chance and
sneak over? I've got an illegal coffee
pot."

"Leave the door unlocked."

Lorry put on the coffee. She
showered and got into her slip. She
was brushing her hair when Pete
came in. He looked at her and extended
beckoning, clutching fingers.
"The hell with phantoms.
Come here."

After a couple of minutes, Lorry
pulled away and poured the coffee.
She reached for her uniform. Pete
said, "Don't put it on yet."

"Too dangerous—leaving it off."

He eyed her dreamily. "I'll
dredge up will power. I'll also get
scads of fat rich clients. Then we'll
get married so I can assault you
legally."

Lorry studied him. "You're not
even listening to yourself. What is
it, Pete? What have you dreamed
up?"

"Okay. I've got an idea. You
said something would have to be
done."

"What?"

"A drastic cure for a drastic
case. With maybe disaster as the
end product."

"Tell me."

"I'll tell you a little, but not too
much."

"Why not all?"

"Because if we ever land in
court. I want you to be able to say
under oath, 'He didn't tell me what
he planned to do.'"

"I don't like that."

"I don't care if you like it or not.
Tell me, what's the one basic thing
that stands out in your mind about
these—entities?"

"That they're ..."

"Fragile?"

"Yes—fragile."

"Give me some more coffee."

Lorry demanded to know what
was in Pete's mind. All she got
was kissed, and she did not see
Pete again until eleven o'clock that
night. He found her in the corridor
in Maternity and motioned her
toward the nursery. He carried a
tray under a white towel. He said,
"You watch the door. I'm going
inside. I'll be about a half an
hour."

"What are you going to do?"

"You stay out here and mind
your business. Your business will
be to steer any nosey party away.
If you can't, make noise coming
in."

Doc Pete turned away and entered
the nursery. Lorry stood at
the doorway, in the silence, under
the brooding night-light, and
prayed.

Twenty-five minutes later, Pete
came out. His face was white and
drawn. He looked like a man who
had lately had a preview of Hell's
inverted pleasures. His hands
trembled. The towel still covered
the tray. He said, "Watch them
close. Don't move ten steps from
here." He started away—turned
back. "All hell is scheduled to
break loose in this hospital shortly.
Let's hope God remains in charge."

Lorry saw the sick dread of his
heart underneath his words.

It could have been a major
scandal. An epidemic of measles
on the maternity floor of a modern
hospital indicates the unforgivable
medical sin—carelessness. It was
hushed up as much as possible,
pending the time when the top
people could shake off the shock
and recover their wits. The ultimate
recovery of thirty babies was
a tribute to everyone concerned.

Wan, done-in, Doc Pete drank
coffee in Lorry's room. Lorry gave
him three lumps of sugar and said,
"But are you sure the sickness
killed the entities?"

"Quite sure. Somehow they
knew when I made the injections.
They screamed. They knew they
were done for."

"It took courage. Tell me: why
are you so strong, so brave? Why
are you so wonderful?"

"Cut it out. I was scared stiff.
If one baby had died, I'd have
gone through life weighing the cure
against the end. It isn't easy to risk
doing murder—however urgent
the need."

She leaned across and kissed
him. "And you were all alone. You
wouldn't let me help. Was that
fair?"

He grinned, then sobered. "But
I can't help remembering what
that—that invisible monster said:
'Never before has a whole swarm
gotten through. Only a single entity
on rare occasions.'

"I can't help wondering what
happens to those single entities. I
think of the newspaper headlines
I've seen: Child Kills Parents in
Sleep. Youth Slays Father. I'll
probably always wonder—and I'll
always remember...."

Lorry got up and crossed to him
and put her arms around him.
"Not always," she whispered.
"There will be times when I'll
make you forget. For a little while,
anyhow."

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction November 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.