“This pyromaniac of yours; he’s going to talk. They’ll lock him up if he does and he won’t be able to—”
“Shut up; I see.”
“Hurry ! ‘ You’re going to lose—”
“Shut up so I can concentrate. Ah, I got him.”
“Listen, Mr. Davis, I…I didn’t mean it that way at all. I got such a splitting headache, I just couldn’t think straight and I didn’t know what I was saying. I was’ just saying anything to get out of here, so I could go—”
“OH, that’s different, Wally.’ But why quit, just because you got a headache? Sure, leave now and go to your doctor. But come back— today or tomorrow or next week, whenever it’s O. K. again. Man, you don’t have to quit just to go home, if you’re sick.”
“All right, Mr. Davis. Sorry I gave that impression. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Maybe even today.”
That’s it, Wally, you got him fooled now. Tell him you’re going to see a doc, and that’ll give you an excuse to go out for a while. That’ll let you buy some more matches, because you couldn’t get the ones back you put in the trash box, not without attracting attention…
You’re going out to get more matches, and you know what you’re going to do with them, don’t you, Wally? You’re going to lose a thousand lives and a billion dollars’ worth of materials and lots of valuable time off the armament program, but it’ll be a beautiful fire, Wally. The whole sky will be red, red as blood, Wally.
Tell him-—
“Look, Mr. Davis, I’ve had these headaches before. They’re sharp and awful while they last, but they last only a few hours. Tell you what;
I can come back at five and work four hours then to make up for this afternoon. That be all right?”
“Why, sure—if you’re feeling all right by then and are sure it won’t hurt you. We are behind, and every hour you can put in counts.”
“Thanks, Mr. Davis. I’m sure I can. So long.”
“Nice work getting out of that one, Darveth. And night will be better anyway.”
“Night is always better.”
“Boy, oh, boy. I’m sure going to be around to watch. Remember Chicago? And Black Tom? And Rome?”
“This will top them.”
“But those Greeks, Hermes and Ulysses and that gang. Won’t they get together maybe and try to stop it? And some of the legends from other countries on that side might join in. You ready for trouble, Darveth?” ‘
“Trouble? Phooey, nobody believes in those mugs enough to give them any power; I could push ’em all off with my little finger. And look who’d help us, if they did start trouble. Siegfried and Sugimoto and that gang.”
“And the Romans.”
“The Romans? No, they’re not interested in this war. They don’t like Mussolini much. No, there won’t be trouble. One of my imps could handle the whole gang.”
“Swell. Save me a box seat, Darveth.”
The night was strange. At seven o’clock, when he’d been working two hours, it began to get dark.
And it seemed to Wally Smith that darkness itself was something alien.
He knew, with part of his mind, that he was working, just as he always worked. He knew that he talked and joked with the other men on the shift. Men, he knew well because he’d often before worked several hours overtime and thus overlapped the evening shift.
His body worked without his own volition. He picked up things that should be picked up, and put them down where they should be put down, and he made out cards and file memos and bills of lading. It was as though his hands worked of themselves and his voice spoke of itself.
There was another part of Wally Smith that must have been the real part. It seemed to stand back at a distance and watch his body work and listen to his voice speak. A Wally Smith that stood helpless on the edge of an abyss of horror.. Knowing, now. The wall pushed through, knowing everything. About Darveth.
And knowing that at nine o’clock, on his way out of the building he would pass that corner room where he’d carefully planted the heap of rubbish. Highly inflammable rubbish; stuff that would catch fire from a single match and flare high, setting fire to the wall behind It before anyone would even know it was there. And behind that wall—
There were, only two things left to do. Turn the handle that shut off the sprinkler system. Light one match—
One yellow-flaming match, then the red hell of consuming fire. Holocaust. Fire they could never stop, once it was started. Building after building turning to flame-red; body after body turning to charred black as men, killed or stunned by the explosions, cooked in a flaming hell.
It was a strange mix-up, the mind of Wally Smith. Nightmare visions that seemed familiar because he’d seen them in dreams when he was a child. Fantastic beings that he’d never been able to describe or identify, as a child. But now he knew, at least vaguely, who and what they were. Things out of myth and legend. Things that weren’t.
But that were, somehow, in that nightmare plane.
He even heard them—not their voices, but their thoughts expressed in no language. And names, sometimes, that were the same in any language. Over and again, the name Darveth, and somehow it was something of fire named Darveth that was making him do what he was doing and going to do.
He saw and heard and felt, in loathing terror, while his hands made out shipping tickets and his voice cracked casual jokes with the other men around him.
And watched the clock. A minute to nine.
Wally Smith yawned. “Well,” he said, “guess I’ll call it a night. So long, boys.”
He walked over to the clock, put his time card into the slot, and punched out.
Put on his hat and coat. Started down the hallway.
Then he was out of sight of the others, and not yet in sight of the guard at the door, and his movements were suddenly stealthy. He walked like a panther as he turned in at the door of the deserted stock room. The room where everything was ready.
Here it comes. The match was in his hand; his hand was striking the match. The flame. As the first flame he had ever seen, dancing on the end of a match in his father’s hand. While Wally’s stubby little fingers, all those years ago, had reached out for the thing on the end of the stick. The thing that flared there, ever-shape-changing; yellow-red-blue wonder, magic beauty, The flame.
Wait until the stick has caught fire, too, wait until it’s well ablaze, so stooping down won’t blow it out. A flame’s a tender thing, at first.
“No!” cried another part of his mind. “Don’t! Wally, don’t—”
But you can’t stop now, Wally, you can’t “don’t” because Darveth, the fire demon, is in the driver’s seat. He’s stronger than you are, Wally; he’s stronger than any of the others in that nightmare world you’re looking into. Yell for help, Wally, it won’t do you any good.
Yell to any of them. Yell to old Moloch; he won’t listen to you. He’s going to enjoy this, too. Most of them are. Not all. Thor’s standing to one side, not particularly happy about what’s going to happen because he’s a fighting man, but he isn’t big enough to tangle with Darveth. None of them are, over there.
Fire’s king, and all the fire elementals are dancing a dervish dance. Others watching. There’s white-bearded Zeus and someone with a head like a crocodile standing beside him. And Dagon riding Scylla—all the creatures men have conceived, and conceiving—
But none of them will help you, Wally. You’re on your own. And you’re bending over now, with the match. Shielding it with your palm so it won’t blow out in the draft from the open door.