symptom of a new onslaught,
was influencing his awareness, ringing everyday objects with a halo of
imminence -- sadness, lurking peril, intoxication. As soon as the block
was clear, Breton got out of the car, withdrew the rifle and closed his
raincoat around it, grasping the stock through the slit pocket. Night
breezes tugged at him from many directions, exploring his form like
blind men's fingers while he walked awkwardly with the concealed burden.
As he neared the 50th Avenue entrance, the first visual disturbances
began. A fugitive glimmer of light trembled in the field of his right
eye and slowly spread, exhibiting its prismatic complexities. Breton was
reminded of a swarm of water beetles, tumbling on each other, splitting
sunlight with the movement of their oily bronze backs. He was glad it
was not the falling black star; the fortification figures took longer
to develop, giving him more time.
Breton went into the park and headed towards its center along paths on
which dry fallen leaves rolled with metallic crackles. A few people,
mostly couples, were sitting on benches near the lighted paths, but
he veered away across the grassy central area and was swallowed by the
anonymous darkness in a matter of seconds. He brought the rifle out from
under his coat and self-consciously raised it to his face to check the
infrared scope, but his right eye was dazzled with marching colors and he
remembered he had no choice other than to trust his previous zeroing-in
work. The blanket of living brilliance was nearing its maximum when he
found the three elms.
He went to within thirty yards of the triangular group, twisted his left
arm through the rifle's broad leather sling and dropped down on one knee
in the classical marksman's position. The damp earth made an oval patch
of coldness on his leg. I must be crazy, he thought, but he could hear
himself whispering Kate's name over and over again. He touched the brim
of his hat and a low humming sound came from it as the high-efficiency
batteries strapped to his body began delivering power. Simultaneously,
the hypodermic gun built into the circuit fired a cloud of kinin into
the shaven patch above his right temple. He felt its icy sting, then
agony coiled languorously through his head as the chemical spread in the
cerebral arteries. Breton noted abstractedly that there were no people
about -- all his painstaking work to produce an arrangement which would
not attract too much attention had been quite unnecessary -- then the
sheet of prismatic geometries began to shrink, abruptly. It was time.
"Kate!" he screamed. " Kate! "
She was moving uncertainly through the darkness, her pale blue dress
A black shape moved from under the ragged archway of the elm trees,
keening unhappily, like a loathsome bird of prey. It closed with Kate,
arms upraised, and she sobbed once with fear. Breton put the thick
crosshairs onto the black silhouette, but his finger hesitated on
the trigger. Their bodies were close together -- suppose the bullet
passed right through both? He raised his left arm a fraction and
fired instinctively as the crosshairs intersected fleetingly on the
head. The rifle jarred against his shoulder, and the dark head was
no longer a head. . . .
Breton lay for a long time with his face pressed down into a microcosm
of grassy roots. Under his left hand the rifle barrel grew warm from
the single shot, then cooled again, and still he was unable to move.
He was in the grip of an exhaustion so intense that each thought required
eons of dogged effort to drive it through to completion. How long, he
wondered, have I been lying here? The fear that somebody would come along
and find him lying there nagged at him incessantly, gradually reaching a
thundering urgency, but he might as well have been trapped in a dead body.
His mind, too, felt different. Pressures had been relieved, potentials had
been discharged by the fantastic cerebral orgasm of the
was influencing his awareness, ringing everyday objects with a halo of
imminence -- sadness, lurking peril, intoxication. As soon as the block
was clear, Breton got out of the car, withdrew the rifle and closed his
raincoat around it, grasping the stock through the slit pocket. Night
breezes tugged at him from many directions, exploring his form like
blind men's fingers while he walked awkwardly with the concealed burden.
As he neared the 50th Avenue entrance, the first visual disturbances
began. A fugitive glimmer of light trembled in the field of his right
eye and slowly spread, exhibiting its prismatic complexities. Breton was
reminded of a swarm of water beetles, tumbling on each other, splitting
sunlight with the movement of their oily bronze backs. He was glad it
was not the falling black star; the fortification figures took longer
to develop, giving him more time.
Breton went into the park and headed towards its center along paths on
which dry fallen leaves rolled with metallic crackles. A few people,
mostly couples, were sitting on benches near the lighted paths, but
he veered away across the grassy central area and was swallowed by the
anonymous darkness in a matter of seconds. He brought the rifle out from
under his coat and self-consciously raised it to his face to check the
infrared scope, but his right eye was dazzled with marching colors and he
remembered he had no choice other than to trust his previous zeroing-in
work. The blanket of living brilliance was nearing its maximum when he
found the three elms.
He went to within thirty yards of the triangular group, twisted his left
arm through the rifle's broad leather sling and dropped down on one knee
in the classical marksman's position. The damp earth made an oval patch
of coldness on his leg. I must be crazy, he thought, but he could hear
himself whispering Kate's name over and over again. He touched the brim
of his hat and a low humming sound came from it as the high-efficiency
batteries strapped to his body began delivering power. Simultaneously,
the hypodermic gun built into the circuit fired a cloud of kinin into
the shaven patch above his right temple. He felt its icy sting, then
agony coiled languorously through his head as the chemical spread in the
cerebral arteries. Breton noted abstractedly that there were no people
about -- all his painstaking work to produce an arrangement which would
not attract too much attention had been quite unnecessary -- then the
sheet of prismatic geometries began to shrink, abruptly. It was time.
"Kate!" he screamed. " Kate! "
She was moving uncertainly through the darkness, her pale blue dress
A black shape moved from under the ragged archway of the elm trees,
keening unhappily, like a loathsome bird of prey. It closed with Kate,
arms upraised, and she sobbed once with fear. Breton put the thick
crosshairs onto the black silhouette, but his finger hesitated on
the trigger. Their bodies were close together -- suppose the bullet
passed right through both? He raised his left arm a fraction and
fired instinctively as the crosshairs intersected fleetingly on the
head. The rifle jarred against his shoulder, and the dark head was
no longer a head. . . .
Breton lay for a long time with his face pressed down into a microcosm
of grassy roots. Under his left hand the rifle barrel grew warm from
the single shot, then cooled again, and still he was unable to move.
He was in the grip of an exhaustion so intense that each thought required
eons of dogged effort to drive it through to completion. How long, he
wondered, have I been lying here? The fear that somebody would come along
and find him lying there nagged at him incessantly, gradually reaching a
thundering urgency, but he might as well have been trapped in a dead body.
His mind, too, felt different. Pressures had been relieved, potentials had
been discharged by the fantastic cerebral orgasm of the
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