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Speaker 1: An Incident on Route twelve by James H. Schmitz. This

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is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the

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public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit

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LibriVox dot org. Read for LibriVox by Dale Growthman. He

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was already a thief, prepared to steal again. He didn't

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know that he himself was only booty. An incident on

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Route twelve by James H. Schmitz. Phil Garfield was thirty

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miles south of the little town of Redmond on Route

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twelve when he was startled by a series of sharp,

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clanking noises. They came from under the packard's hood. The

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car immediately began to lose speed. Garfield jammed down on

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the accelerator, had a sense of sick helplessness at the

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complete lack of response from the motor. The packard rolled

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onetting rid of its momentum, and came to a stop.

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Phil Garfield swore shakily. He checked his watch, switching off

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the headlights, and climbed out onto the dark road. A

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delay of even half an hour here might be disastrous.

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It was past midnight, and he had another one hundred

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and ten miles to cover to reach the small private

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airfield where Madge waited for him and the thirty thousand

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dollars in the suitcase on the packard's front seat if

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he didn't make it before daylight. He thought of the

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bank guard. The man had made a clumsy play at

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being a hero, and that had set off the fool

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woman who'd run screaming into their line of fire. One dead,

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perhaps two. Garfield hadn't stopped to look at the evening paper,

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but he knew they were hunting him. He glanced up

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and down the road, no other headlights in sight at

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the moment, no light from a building showing on the

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forest hills. He reached back into the car and brought

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out the suitcase, his gun, a big flashlight, and the

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box of shells which had been standing beside the suitcase.

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He broke the box open, shoved a handful of shells

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and the thirty eight into his coat pocket, then took

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suitcase and flashlight over to the shoulder of the road

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and set them down. There was no point in groping

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about under the Packard's hood. When it came to mechanics.

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Phil Garfield was a moron and well aware of it.

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The car was useless to him now except as bait,

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But as bait it might be very useful should he

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leave it standing where it was no Garfield decided to

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anyone driving past it would merely suggest a necking party

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or a drunk sleeping off his load before continuing home.

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He might have to wait an hour or more before

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someone decided to stop. He didn't have the time. He

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reached in through the window, hauled the top of the

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steering wheel towards him, and put his weight against the

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rear window frame. The packard began to move slowly backwards

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at a slant across the road. In a minute or two,

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he had it in position, not blocking the road entirely,

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which would have aroused immediate suspicion, but angled across it,

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lights out, empty, both front doors open, and inviting a passer.

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By his investigation. Garfield carried the suit case and the

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flashlight across the right hand shoulder of the road and

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moved up among the trees and undergrowth of the slope

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above the shoulder, placing the suit case between the bushes.

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He brought out the thirty eight, clicked the safety off,

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and stood waiting. Some ten minutes later, a set of

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headlights appeared, speeding up Route twelve from the direction of Redmond.

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Phil Garfield went down on one knee before he came

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within range of the lights. Now he was completely concealed

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by the vegetation. The car slowed as it approached, breaking

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nearly to a stop sixty feet from the stalled packard.

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There were several people inside. Garfield heard voices, then a

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woman's loud laugh. The driver tapped his horn inquiringly twice,

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moved the car slowly forward as the headlights went past him.

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Garfield got to his feet among the bushes, took a

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step down toward the road, raising the gun. Then he

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caught the distant gleam of a second set of headlights

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approaching from Redmond. He swore under his breath and dropped

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back out of sight. The car below him reached the packard,

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edged cautiously around it, rolled on with a sudden roar

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of acceleration. The second car stopped when it was still

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a hundred yards away, the packard caught in the motionless

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glare of its lights. Garfield heard a steady purr of

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the powerful engine. For almost a minute, nothing else happened.

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Then the car came gliding smoothly on stopped again, no

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more than thirty feet to Garfield's left. He could see

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it now through the screening brush, a big job, a long,

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low four door sedan. The motor continued to purr. After

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a moment, a door on the far side of the

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car opened and slammed shut. A man walked quickly out

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into the beam of the head lights and started toward

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the packard. Phil Garfield rose from his scrouching position, the

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thirty eight in his right hand, flashlight in his left.

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If the driver was alone, the thing was now cinched.

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But if there was somebody else in the car, somebody

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capable of fast decisive action, a slip in the next

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ten seconds might cost him the sedan and quite probably

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his freedom and life. Garfield lined up the thirty eight

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sights steadily on the center of the approaching man's head.

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He let his breath out slowly as the fellow came

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level with him in the road, and squeezed off one shot.

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Instantly he went bounding down the slope to the road.

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The bullet had flung the man sideways to the pavement.

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Garfield darted past him to the left, crossing the beam

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of the headlights and was in darkness again on the

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far side of the road, snapping on his flashlight as

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he split it up to the car. The motor hummed

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quietly on the flashlight showed the seats empty. Garfield dropped

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the light, jerked both doors open in turn, gun pointed

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into the car's interior. Then he stood still for a moment, weak,

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almost dizzy with relief. There was no one inside the

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sedan was his. The man he had shot through the

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head lay face down on the road, his hat flung

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a dozen feet away from him. Route twelve still stretched

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out in the dark silence to east and west. There

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should be enough time to clean up the job before

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anyone else came along. Garfield brought the suitcase down and

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put it on the front seat of the sedan, then

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started back to get his victim off the road and

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out of sight. He scaled the man's hat into the bushes,

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bent down, grasped the ankles, and started to haul him

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towards the left side of the road, where the ground

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dropped off sharply beyond the shoulder. He made a high

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squealing sound and began to Writhe violently shocked. Garfield dropped

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the legs and hurriedly took the gun from his pocket,

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moving back a step. The squealing noise rose in intensity

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as the wounded man quickly flopped over twice, like a

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struggling fish, arms and legs sawing about with startling energy.

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Garfield clicked off the safety pumped three shots into his

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victim's back. The grizzly squeals ended abruptly. The body continued

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to jerk for another second or two, then lay still.

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Garfield shoved the gun back into his pocket. The unexpected

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interruption had unnerved him. His hands shook as he reached

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down again for the stranger's angles. Then he jerked his

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hands back and straightened up. Startled. From the side of

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the man's chest. A few inches below the right arm,

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something like a thick black stick three feet long, protruded

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now through the material of the coat. It shone gleaming

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wetly in the light from the car. Even in that

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first uncomprehending instant, something in its appearance brought a surge

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of sick disgust to Garfield's throat. Then the stick bent

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slowly halfway down its length, forming a sharp angle, and

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its tip opened into what could have been three blunt

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black claws, which scrambled clumsily against the pavement. Very faintly.

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The squealing began again, and the body's back arched up,

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as if another stick like arm were pushing desperately against

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the ground beneath it. Garfield acted in a blur of horror.

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He emptied the thirty eight into the thing at his feet,

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almost without realizing he doing it. Then dropping the gun,

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he seized one of the ankles, ran backwards to the

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shoulder of the road, dragging the body behind him in

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the darkness. At the edge of the shoulder, he let

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go of it, stepping around to the other side, and

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with two frantically savage kicks, sent the body plunging over

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the shoulder and down the steep slope beyond. He heard

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it crash through the bushes for some seconds, then stop.

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He turned and ran back to the sedan, scooping up

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his gun as he went past. He scrambled into the

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driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him. His

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hand shook violently on the steering wheel as he pressed

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down on the accelerator. The motor roared into life, and

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the big car surged forward. He edged it past the

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packard cursing aloud in horrified shock, jammed down the accelerator

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and went flashing up Root twelve, Darkness racing beside him

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and behind him. What had it been? Something that wore

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what seemed to be a man's body like a suit

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of clothes, moving the body as a man moves, driving

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a man's car, roach armed, roach legs itself. Garfield drew

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a long, shuddering breath. Then, as he slowed for a curve,

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there was a spark of ruddish light in the rear

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view mirror. He stared at the spark for an instant

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brake the car to a stop, rolled down the window,

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and looked back far behind him. Along Route twelve, a

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fire burned approximately at the point where the packard had

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stalled out, where something had gone rolling off the road

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into the bushes, something Garfield added mentally, that found fiery

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automatic destruction when death came to it, so that its

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secrets would remain unrevealed. But for him, the fire meant

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the end of a nightmare. He rolled the window up,

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took out a cigarette, lit it, and pressed the accelerator

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in incredulous fright. He felt the nose of the car

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tilt upward. Headlights sweeping up from the road into the trees.

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Then the headlights winked out beyond the windscreen. Dark tree

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branches floated down towards him, the night sky beyond. He

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reached frantically for the door handle. A steel wrench clamped

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silently about each of his arms, drawing them in against

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his sides, immobilizing them there. Garfield gasped, looked up at

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the mirror and saw a pair of faintly gleaming red

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eyes watching him from the rear of the car. Two

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of the things, the second one stood behind him, out

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of sight, holding him. They'd been in what had seemed

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to be the trunk compartment, and they had come out.

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The eyes in the mirror vanished. A moist black roach

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arm reached over the back of the seat beside Garfield,

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picked up the cigarette he had dropped, extinguished it with

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rather horrible human motions, then took up Garfield's gun and

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drew back out of sight. He expected a shot, but

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none came. One doesn't fire a bullet through a suit

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one intends to wear. It wasn't until that thought occurred

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to him that tough Phil Garfield began to scream. He

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was still screaming. Minutes later, when beyond the windshield, the

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spaceship floated into view among the stars. The end of

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an incident on Route twelve by James H. Schmitz