Free You're All Alone (illustrated) by Fritz Leiber Page A

care what Dris—or you—do in your private lives. But if he’s taking chances to cheat with this girl, when he knows that the four men in black hats are hunting for us, he’s endangering us all. And if that’s the case I’ll erase him so fast that— What’s that?”
    Carr stiffened. Looking down he saw that he had knocked over a stupid little porcelain pekinese doorstop. He started for the bathroom door, but he had hardly taken the first painfully, cautious step when he heard, from that direction, the faint sound of movement. He froze, then turned toward the hallway. He heard the stamp of high heels, a throaty exclamation of surprise from Wilson, a softly pattering rush, the paralyzing fighting-squall of a cat, a smash as if a cane or umbrella had been brought down on a table, and Wilson’s, “Damn!”
    Next Carr caught a glimpse of Hackman. She had on a pearl gray evening dress, off the shoulders, and a mink wrap over her arm. She was coming down the hall, but she didn’t see him.
    At the same moment the cat Gigolo landed in the faultless hair, claws raking. Hackman screamed.
    The ensuing battle was too quick for Carr to follow it clearly. Most of it was out of his sight, except for the shadows. Twice more the cane or umbrella smashed down, Wilson and Hackman yelled at each other, the cat squalled.
    Then Wilson shouted, “The door!” There was a final whanging blow, followed by, “Damn!”
    FOR THE next few moments, only heavy breathing from the hallway, then Hackman’s voice, rising to a vindictive wail, “Bitch! Look what it did to my cheek. Oh, why must there be cats!”
    Then Wilson, grimly businesslike: “It’s trapped on the stairs. We can get it.”
    Hackman: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d brought the hound.”
    Wilson: “The hound! This afternoon you thought differently. Do you remember what happened the first time you brought the hound here? And do you remember what happened to Dris?”
    Hackman: “It was his own fault that he got his hand snapped off. He shouldn’t have teased it. Besides, the hound likes me.”
    Wilson: “Yes, I’ve seen him look at you and lick his chops. We’re wasting time, Hackman. You’ll have a lot more than a scratched cheek—or a snapped-off hand—to snivel about if we don’t clear up this mess right away. Come on. To begin with, we’ve got to kill that cat.”
    Carr heard footsteps, then the sound of Wilson’s voice growing fainter as he ascended the stairs, calling wheedlingly, “Here, kitty,” and a few moments later Hackman’s joined to with a sugariness that made Carr shake: “Here, kitty, kitty.”
    Carr tiptoed across the room and peered through the bathroom door. The white-tiled cubicle was empty, but beyond it he could see another bedroom that was smaller but friendlier. There was a littered dressing table with lamps whose little pink shades were awry. Beside that was a small bookcase overflowing with sheet music piled helter-skelter.
    His heart began to pound as he crossed the bathroom’s white tiles.
    But there was something strange about the bedroom he was approaching. Despite the lively adolescent disorder, there was a museum feel to it, like some historic room kept just as its illustrious occupant had left it. The novel open face down on the dressing table was last year’s best-seller.
    He poked his head through the door. Something moved beside him and he quickly turned his head.
    He had only a moment to look before the blackjack struck. But in that instant, before the cap of pain was pulled down over his eyes and ears, blacking out everything, he recognized his assailant.
    The cords in the neck stood out, the cheeks were drawn back, exposing the big front teeth like those of a rat. Indeed the whole aspect—watery magnified eyes, low forehead, taut and spindle-limbed figure—was that of a cornered rat.
    It was the small dark man with glasses.

CHAPTER X
I’ve told you to forget the secret, but I’ve got to admit that’s a