Dead Ringer By LESTER DEL REY Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS _There was nothing, especially on Earth, which could set him free--the truth least of all!_ Dane Phillips slouched in the window seat, watching the morning crowdson their way to work and carefully avoiding any attempt to read Jordan'sold face as the editor skimmed through the notes. He had learned to makehis tall, bony body seem all loose-jointed relaxation, no matter what hefelt. But the oversized hands in his pockets were clenched so tightlythat the nails were cutting into his palms. Every tick of the old-fashioned clock sent a throb racing through hisbrain. Every rustle of the pages seemed to release a fresh shot ofadrenalin into his blood stream. _This time_, his mind was pleading. _Ithas to be right this time.... _ Jordan finished his reading and shoved the folder back. He reached forhis pipe, sighed, and then nodded slowly. "A nice job of researching, Phillips. And it might make a good feature for the Sunday section, atthat. " It took a second to realize that the words meant acceptance, forPhillips had prepared himself too thoroughly against another failure. Now he felt the tautened muscles release, so quickly that he would havefallen if he hadn't been braced against the seat. He groped in his mind, hunting for words, and finding none. There wasonly the hot, sudden flame of unbelieving hope. And then an almostblinding exultation. * * * * * Jordan didn't seem to notice his silence. The editor made a neat pile ofthe notes, nodding again. "Sure. I like it. We've been short of shockstuff lately and the readers go for it when we can get a fresh angle. But naturally you'd have to leave out all that nonsense on Blanding. Hell, the man's just buried, and his relatives and friends--" "But that's the proof!" Phillips stared at the editor, trying topenetrate through the haze of hope that had somehow grown chilled andunreal. His thoughts were abruptly disorganized and out of his control. Only the urgency remained. "It's the key evidence. And we've got to movefast! I don't know how long it takes, but even one more day may be toolate!" Jordan nearly dropped the pipe from his lips as he jerked upright topeer sharply at the younger man. "Are you crazy? Do you seriously expectme to get an order to exhume him now? What would it get us, other thanlawsuits? Even if we could get the order without cause--which we can't!" Then the pipe did fall as he gaped open-mouthed. "My God, you believeall that stuff. You expected us to publish it _straight_!" "No, " Dane said thickly. The hope was gone now, as if it had neverexisted, leaving a numb emptiness where nothing mattered. "No, I guess Ididn't really expect anything. But I believe the facts. Why shouldn'tI?" He reached for the papers with hands he could hardly control and beganstuffing them back into the folder. All the careful documentation, thefingerprints--smudged, perhaps, in some cases, but still evidence enoughfor anyone but a fool-- "Phillips?" Jordan said questioningly to himself, and then his voice wastaking on a new edge. "Phillips! Wait a minute, I've got it now! _Dane_Phillips, not _Arthur_! Two years on the _Trib. _ Then you turned up onthe _Register_ in Seattle? Phillip Dean, or some such name there. " "Yeah, " Dane agreed. There was no use in denying anything now. "Yeah, Dane Arthur Phillips. So I suppose I'm through here?" Jordan nodded again and there was a faint look of fear in hisexpression. "You can pick up your pay on the way out. And make itquick, before I change my mind and call the boys in white!" * * * * * It could have been worse. It had been worse before. And there was enoughin the pay envelope to buy what he needed--a flash camera, a littlefolding shovel from one of the surplus houses, and a bottle of goodscotch. It would be dark enough for him to taxi out to OakhavenCemetery, where Blanding had been buried. It wouldn't change the minds of the fools, of course. Even if he coulddrag back what he might find, without the change being completed, theywouldn't accept the evidence. He'd been crazy to think anything couldchange their minds. And they called _him_ a fanatic! If the facts he'ddug up in ten years of hunting wouldn't convince them, nothing would. And yet he had to see for himself, before it was too late! He picked a cheap hotel at random and checked in under an assumed name. He couldn't go back to his room while there was a chance that Jordanstill might try to turn him in. There wouldn't be time for Sylvia'sdetectives to bother him, probably, but there was the ever-presentdanger that one of the aliens might intercept the message. He shivered. He'd been risking that for ten years, yet the likelihoodwas still a horror to him. The uncertainty made it harder to take thanany human-devised torture could be. There was no way of guessing what analien might do to anyone who discovered that all men were nothuman--that some were ... Zombies. There was the classic syllogism: _All men are mortal; I am a man;therefore, I am mortal. _ But not Blanding--or Corporal Harding. It was Harding's "death" that had started it all during the fighting onGuadalcanal. A grenade had come flying into the foxhole where Dane andHarding had felt reasonably safe. The concussion had knocked Dane out, possibly saving his life when the enemy thought he was dead. He'd cometo in the daylight to see Harding lying there, mangled and twisted, withhis throat torn. There was blood on Dane's uniform, obviously spatteredfrom the dead man. It hadn't been a mistake or delusion; Harding hadbeen dead. It had taken Dane two days of crawling and hiding to get back to hisgroup, too exhausted to report Harding's death. He'd slept for twentyhours. And when he awoke, Harding had been standing beside him, with awhole throat and a fresh uniform, grinning and kidding him for runningoff and leaving a stunned friend behind. It was no ringer, but Harding himself, complete to the smallest personalmemories and personality traits. * * * * * The pressures of war probably saved Dane's sanity while he learned toface the facts. All men are mortal; Harding is not mortal; therefore, Harding is not a man! Nor was Harding alone--Dane found enough evidenceto know there were others. The _Tribune_ morgue yielded even more data. A man had faced sevenfiring squads and walked away. Another survived over a dozen attacks byprofessional killers. Fingerprints turned up mysteriously "copied" fromthose of men long dead. Some of the aliens seemed to heal almostinstantly; others took days. Some operated completely alone; some seemedto have joined with others. But they were legion. Lack of a clearer pattern of attack made him consider the possibility ofhuman mutation, but such tissue was too wildly different, and theinvasion had begun long before atomics or X-rays. He gave up trying tounderstand their alien motivations. It was enough that they existed insecret, slowly growing in numbers while mankind was unaware of them. When his proof was complete and irrefutable, he took it to hiseditor--to be fired, politely but coldly. Other editors were lesspolite. But he went on doggedly trying and failing. What else could hedo? Somehow, he had to find the few people who could recognize facts andwarn them. The aliens would get him, of course, when the story broke, but a warned humanity could cope with them. _Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. _ Then he met Sylvia by accident after losing his fifth job--a girl whohad inherited a fortune big enough to spread his message in paid adsacross the country. They were married before he found she washard-headed about her money. She demanded a full explanation for everycent beyond his allowance. In the end, she got the explanation. Andwhile he was trying to cash the check she gave him, she visited Dr. Buehl, to come back with a squad of quiet, refined strong-arm boys whomade sure Dane reached Buehl's "rest home" safely. Hydrotherapy ... Buehl as the kindly firm father image ... Analysis ... Hypnosis that stripped every secret from him, including his worstchildhood nightmare. His father had committed a violent, bloody suicide after one of the manyquarrels with Dane's mother. Dane had found the body. [Illustration] Two nights after the funeral, he had dreamed of his father's face, horror-filled, at the window. He knew now that it was a normalnightmare, caused by being forced to look at the face in the coffin, butthe shock had lasted for years. It had bothered him again, after hisdiscovery of the aliens, until a thorough check had proved without doubtthat his father had been fully human, with a human, if tempestuous, childhood behind him. * * * * * Dr. Buehl was delighted. "You see, Dane? You _know_ it was a nightmare, but you don't really believe it even now. Your father was an alienmonster to you--no adult is quite human to a child. And thatliteral-minded self, your subconscious, saw him after he died. So thereare alien monsters who return from death. Then you come to from aconcussion. Harding is sprawled out unconscious, covered withblood--probably your blood, since you say he wasn't wounded, later. "But after seeing your father, you can't associate blood withyourself--you see it as a horrible wound on Harding. When he turns outto be alive, you're still in partial shock, with your subconsciousdominant. And that has the answer already. There are monsters who comeback from the dead! An exaggerated reaction, but nothing reallyabnormal. We'll have you out of here in no time. " No non-directive psychiatry for Buehl. The man beamed paternally, chuckling as he added what he must have considered the clincher. "Anyhow, even zombies can't stand fire, Dane, so you can stop worryingabout Harding. I checked up on him. He was burned to a crisp in a hotelfire two months ago. " It was logical enough to shake Dane's faith, until he came across MiloBlanding's picture in a magazine article on society in St. Louis. According to the item, Milo was a cousin of _the_ Blandings, whosefather had vanished in Chile as a young man, and who had just rejoinedthe family. The picture was of Harding! An alien could have gotten away by simply committing suicide and beingcarried from the rest home, but Dane had to do it the hard way, watchinghis chance and using commando tactics on a guard who had come to accepthim as a harmless nut. In St. Louis, he'd used the "Purloined Letter" technique to hide--goingback to newspaper work and using almost his real name. It had seemed towork, too. But he'd been less lucky about Harding-Blanding. The man hadbeen in Europe on some kind of a tour until his return only this lastweek. Dane had seen him just once then--but long enough to be sure it wasHarding--before he died again. This time, it was in a drunken auto accident that seemed to be none ofhis fault, but left his body a mangled wreck. * * * * * It was almost dark when Dane dismissed the taxi at the false address, amile from the entrance to the cemetery. He watched it turn back down theroad, then picked up the valise with his camera and folding shovel. Heshivered as he moved reluctantly ahead. War had proved that he wouldnever be a brave man and the old fears of darkness and graveyards werestill strong in him. But he had to know what the coffin contained now, if it wasn't already too late. It represented the missing link in his picture of the aliens. Whathappened to them during the period of regrowth? Did they revert to theirnatural form? Were they at all conscious while the body reshaped itselfinto wholeness? Dane had puzzled over it night after night, with noanswer. Nor could he figure how they could escape from the grave. Perhaps a mancould force his way out of some of the coffins he had inspected. Thesoil would still be soft and loose in the grave and a lot of the coffinsand the boxes around them were strong in appearance only. A determinedcreature that could exist without much air for long enough might makeit. But there were other caskets that couldn't be cracked, at leastwithout the aid of outside help. What happened when a creature that could survive even the poison ofembalming fluids and the draining of all the blood woke up in such acoffin? Dane's mind skittered from it, as always, and then came back toit reluctantly. There were still accounts of corpses turned up with the nails and hairgrown long in the grave. Could normal tissues stand the current tricksof the morticians to have life enough for such growth? The possibilitywas absurd. Those cases had to be aliens--ones who hadn't escaped. Eventhey must die eventually in such a case--after weeks and months! It tooktime for hair to grow. And there were stories of corpses that had apparently fought and twistedin their coffins still. What was it like for an alien then, going slowlymad while it waited for true death? How long did madness take? He shivered again, but went steadily on while the cemetery fenceappeared in the distance. He'd seen Blanding's coffin--and the big, solid metal casket around it that couldn't be cracked by any amount ofeffort and strength. He was sure the creature was still there, unless ithad a confederate. But that wouldn't matter. An empty coffin would alsobe proof. * * * * * Dane avoided the main gate, unsure about whether there would be awatchman or not. A hundred feet away, there was a tree near theornamental spikes of the iron fence. He threw his bag over and beganshinnying up. It was difficult, but he made it finally, dropping ontothe soft grass beyond. There was the trace of the Moon at times throughthe clouds, but it hadn't betrayed him, and there had been no alarm wirealong the top of the fence. He moved from shadow to shadow, his hair prickling along the base of hisneck. Locating the right grave in the darkness was harder than he hadexpected, even with an occasional brief use of the small flashlight. Butat last he found the marker that was serving until the regular monumentcould arrive. His hands were sweating so much that it was hard to use the smallshovel, but the digging of foxholes had given him experience and theground was still soft from the gravediggers' work. He stopped once, asthe Moon came out briefly. Again, a sound in the darkness above left himhovering and sick in the hole. But it must have been only some animal. He uncovered the top of the casket with hands already blistering. Then he cursed as he realized the catches were near the bottom, makinghis work even harder. He reached them at last, fumbling them open. The metal top of the casketseemed to be a dome of solid lead, and he had no room to maneuver, butit began swinging up reluctantly, until he could feel the polished woodof the coffin. Dane reached for the lid with hands he could barely control. Fear wasthick in his throat now. What could an alien do to a man who discoveredit? Would it be Harding there--or some monstrous thing still changing?How long did it take a revived monster to go mad when it found no way toescape? He gripped the shovel in one hand, working at the lid with the other. Now, abruptly, his nerves steadied, as they had done whenever he was inreal battle. He swung the lid up and began groping for the camera. His hand went into the silk-lined interior and found nothing! He was toolate. Either Harding had gotten out somehow before the final ceremony ora confederate had already been here. The coffin was empty. * * * * * There were no warning sounds this time--only hands that slipped underhis arms and across his mouth, lifting him easily from the grave. Amatch flared briefly and he was looking into the face of Buehl's chiefstrong-arm man. "Hello, Mr. Phillips. Promise to be quiet and we'll release you. Okay?"At Dane's sickened nod, he gestured to the others. "Let him go. And, Tom, better get that filled in. We don't want any trouble from this. " Surprise came from the grave a moment later. "Hey, Burke, there's nocorpse here!" Burke's words killed any hopes Dane had at once. "So what? Ever hear ofcremation? Lots of people use a regular coffin for the ashes. " "He wasn't cremated, " Dane told him. "You can check up on that. " But heknew it was useless. "Sure, Mr. Phillips. We'll do that. " The tone was one reserved forhumoring madmen. Burke turned, gesturing. "Better come along, Mr. Phillips. Your wife and Dr. Buehl are waiting at the hotel. " The gate was open now, but there was no sign of a watchman; if oneworked here, Sylvia's money would have taken care of that, of course. Dane went along quietly, sitting in the rubble of his hopes while thebig car purred through the morning and on down Lindell Boulevard towardthe hotel. Once he shivered, and Burke dug out hot brandied coffee. Theyhad thought of everything, including a coat to cover his dirt-soiledclothes as they took him up the elevator to where Buehl and Sylvia werewaiting for him. She had been crying, obviously, but there were no tears orrecriminations when she came over to kiss him. Funny, she must stilllove him--as he'd learned to his surprise he loved her. Under differentcircumstances ... "So you found me?" he asked needlessly of Buehl. He was operating onpurely automatic habits now, the reaction from the night and his failurenumbing him emotionally. "Jordan got in touch with you?" Buehl smiled back at him. "We knew where you were all along, Dane. Butas long as you acted normal, we hoped it might be better than the home. Too bad we couldn't stop you before you got all mixed up in this. " "So I suppose I'm committed to your booby-hatch again?" Buehl nodded, refusing to resent the term. "I'm afraid so, Dane--for awhile, anyhow. You'll find your clothes in that room. Why don't youclean up a little? Take a hot bath, maybe. You'll feel better. " * * * * * Dane went in, surprised when no guards followed him. But they hadthought of everything. What looked like a screen on the window had beenrecently installed and it was strong enough to prevent his escape. Blessed are the poor, for they shall be poorly guarded! He was turning on the shower when he heard the sound of voices comingthrough the door. He left the water running and came back to listen. Sylvia was speaking. "--seems so logical, so completely rational. " "It makes him a dangerous person, " Buehl answered, and there was nofalse warmth in his voice now. "Sylvia, you've got to admit it toyourself. All the reason and analysis in the world won't convince himhe's wrong. This time we'll have to use shock treatment. Burn over thosememories, fade them out. It's the only possible course. " There was a pause and then a sigh. "I suppose you're right. " Dane didn't wait to hear more. He drew back, while his mind fought toaccept the hideous reality. Shock treatment! The works, if what he knewof psychiatry was correct. Enough of it to erase his memories--a part ofhimself. It wasn't therapy Buehl was considering; it couldn't be. It was the answer of an alien that had a human in its hands--one whoknew too much! He might have guessed. What better place for an alien than in the guiseof a psychiatrist? Where else was there the chance for all the refined, modern torture needed to burn out a man's mind? Dane had spent ten yearsin fear of being discovered by them--and now Buehl had him. Sylvia? He couldn't be sure. Probably she was human. It wouldn't makeany difference. There was nothing he could do through her. Either shewas part of the game or she really thought him mad. Dane tried the window again, but it was hopeless. There would be noescape this time. Buehl couldn't risk it. The shock treatment--orwhatever Buehl would use under the name of shock treatment--would beginat once. It would be easy to slip, to use an overdose of something, tomake sure Dane was killed. Or there were ways of making sure it didn'tmatter. They could leave him alive, but take his mind away. In alien hands, human psychiatry could do worse than all the medievaltorture chambers! * * * * * The sickness grew in his stomach as he considered the worst that couldhappen. Death he could accept, if he had to. He could even face thechance of torture by itself, as he had accepted the danger while tryingto have his facts published. But to have his mind taken from him, a stepat a time--to watch his personality, his ego, rotted away under him--andto know that he would wind up as a drooling idiot.... He made his decision, almost as quickly as he had come to realize whatBuehl must be. There was a razor in the medicine chest. It was a safety razor, ofcourse, but the blade was sharp and it would be big enough. There was notime for careful planning. One of the guards might come in at any momentif they thought he was taking too long. Some fear came back as he leaned over the wash basin, staring at histhroat, fingering the suddenly murderous blade. But the pain wouldn'tlast long--a lot less than there would be under shock treatment, andless pain. He'd read enough to feel sure of that. Twice he braced himself and failed at the last second. His mind flashedout in wild schemes, fighting against what it knew had to be done. The world still had to be warned! If he could escape, somehow ... If hecould still find a way.... He couldn't quit, no matter how impossiblethings looked. But he knew better. There was nothing one man could do against thealiens in this world they had taken over. He'd never had a chance. Manhad been chained already by carefully developed ridicule againstsuperstition, by carefully indoctrinated gobbledegook about insanity, persecution complexes, and all the rest. For a second, Dane even considered the possibility that he was insane. But he knew it was only a blind effort to cling to life. There had beenno insanity in him when he'd groped for evidence in the coffin and foundit empty! He leaned over the wash basin, his eyes focused on his throat, and hishand came down and around, carrying the razor blade through a lethalsemicircle. * * * * * Dane Phillips watched fear give place to sickness on his face as thepain lanced through him and the blood spurted. He watched horror creep up to replace the sickness while the bleedingstopped and the gash began closing. By the time he recognized his expression as the same one he'd seen onhis father's face at the window so long ago, the wound was completelyhealed. --LESTER DEL REY Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ November 1956. 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.