gray-and-brown wolf spider held a struggling black cricket in its slender, tapering legs.
Kathryn stared desperately across the lab at the large window into the office beyond. Inside she could see the figure of Dr. Polchak already seated again at his work. Her eyes slowly traced the path of the aisleway to her left, pausing at each glass case to imagine the unspeakable horror it might contain. The aisle seemed so much narrower now than at first sight. She measured the distance from her present location to the doorway beside the large window. It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet. Or was it seventy-five? Or a hundred?
It might as well be ten miles.
With her left hand she turned her collar up high and squeezed it tight, completely covering her neck. With her right hand she clutched the front of her blouse, wadding it into a ball. She hunched her shoulders forward and pinned her arms tight against her torso. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her legs felt thick and rubbery. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped slowly forward like a tightrope walker on a windy day.
She forced herself to stare directly ahead, though the hideous temptation to turn and look directly into each terrarium was almost irresistible. From the corners of her eyes she watched each glass case pass slowly by—nothing more than blurs of brown and green and tan—but in her mind’s eye she imagined swarms of wriggling insects sucking up to the glass, pressing up against the terrarium lids, their hairlike antennae protruding through the screened tops, probing the air, stretching toward her, reaching for her.
The office door was directly ahead of her now, no more than thirty feet away. She was halfway there, but the thought that keptforcing its way into her mind was that she was now directly in the center of this living nightmare. She felt herself begin to lose her balance, and a wave of panic and nausea almost overwhelmed her. She imagined falling suddenly to one side, drawn irresistibly by the darkness behind the glass, reaching out to stop herself. Then she imagined her hands crashing through the glass and reaching helplessly into the black abyss.
The panic swelled up within her like a tidal surge. She commanded her legs to run for the office door, but they seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the glass cases begin to slide toward her, and those behind her seemed to swirl in and pursue her like paper boxes whipped into the draft of a passing car. She looked like a toddler taking its last hurried steps before collapsing into the arms of a waiting parent—but to Kathryn, it felt as though she were running down an endless, windowed hallway for all eternity.
With a crash, the office door flew open and Kathryn burst into the room. Nick looked up from his microscope with a start and saw Kathryn, still tightly clutching her collar and blouse, trembling and panting like a spent mare. He rose from his stool and walked slowly toward her.
“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “are you cold?”
“Dr. Polchak,” she growled through clenched teeth, “I need your help—and I need it right now!”
For a moment he stood perfectly still, observing her. Then he slowly reached out and took hold of the hand still clutching at her collar. He pulled gently but said nothing. She resisted. He pulled again, steadily, until she understood and slowly loosened her grip. With his other hand he tugged at the clenched fist on her blouse. He softly lowered both hands to her sides and then began to straighten and smooth her collar and blouse. As he worked, his eyes began to float over her once again, watching, examining, studying.
“Have a seat,” Nick said as he returned to his stool. Kathryn looked around the office for the first time. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, and impossibly crowded. The largest single item in the office was a tall stainless steel unit that looked like a double-wide refrigerator
Kathryn stared desperately across the lab at the large window into the office beyond. Inside she could see the figure of Dr. Polchak already seated again at his work. Her eyes slowly traced the path of the aisleway to her left, pausing at each glass case to imagine the unspeakable horror it might contain. The aisle seemed so much narrower now than at first sight. She measured the distance from her present location to the doorway beside the large window. It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet. Or was it seventy-five? Or a hundred?
It might as well be ten miles.
With her left hand she turned her collar up high and squeezed it tight, completely covering her neck. With her right hand she clutched the front of her blouse, wadding it into a ball. She hunched her shoulders forward and pinned her arms tight against her torso. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her legs felt thick and rubbery. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped slowly forward like a tightrope walker on a windy day.
She forced herself to stare directly ahead, though the hideous temptation to turn and look directly into each terrarium was almost irresistible. From the corners of her eyes she watched each glass case pass slowly by—nothing more than blurs of brown and green and tan—but in her mind’s eye she imagined swarms of wriggling insects sucking up to the glass, pressing up against the terrarium lids, their hairlike antennae protruding through the screened tops, probing the air, stretching toward her, reaching for her.
The office door was directly ahead of her now, no more than thirty feet away. She was halfway there, but the thought that keptforcing its way into her mind was that she was now directly in the center of this living nightmare. She felt herself begin to lose her balance, and a wave of panic and nausea almost overwhelmed her. She imagined falling suddenly to one side, drawn irresistibly by the darkness behind the glass, reaching out to stop herself. Then she imagined her hands crashing through the glass and reaching helplessly into the black abyss.
The panic swelled up within her like a tidal surge. She commanded her legs to run for the office door, but they seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the glass cases begin to slide toward her, and those behind her seemed to swirl in and pursue her like paper boxes whipped into the draft of a passing car. She looked like a toddler taking its last hurried steps before collapsing into the arms of a waiting parent—but to Kathryn, it felt as though she were running down an endless, windowed hallway for all eternity.
With a crash, the office door flew open and Kathryn burst into the room. Nick looked up from his microscope with a start and saw Kathryn, still tightly clutching her collar and blouse, trembling and panting like a spent mare. He rose from his stool and walked slowly toward her.
“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “are you cold?”
“Dr. Polchak,” she growled through clenched teeth, “I need your help—and I need it right now!”
For a moment he stood perfectly still, observing her. Then he slowly reached out and took hold of the hand still clutching at her collar. He pulled gently but said nothing. She resisted. He pulled again, steadily, until she understood and slowly loosened her grip. With his other hand he tugged at the clenched fist on her blouse. He softly lowered both hands to her sides and then began to straighten and smooth her collar and blouse. As he worked, his eyes began to float over her once again, watching, examining, studying.
“Have a seat,” Nick said as he returned to his stool. Kathryn looked around the office for the first time. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, and impossibly crowded. The largest single item in the office was a tall stainless steel unit that looked like a double-wide refrigerator
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