cover the entrance. The blades widened as they grew, toughened, twined rapidly in and out of the side-poles of the rose arbor which framed the entrance to the walk, forming an impassable barrier.
St. Cyr turned and faced the other way.
The hedge behind which he had hidden only a few minutes ago had begun to join in with the harmony of growth—no, the cacophony. It sprouted new branches. Actually, they looked more like vines, highly flexible vines covered with wicked inch-long thorns. A dozen of these ropy tentacles had almost reached him. As he watched, they rose from the ground like snakes responding to the music of a flute, stood higher and higher still until they towered over him.
At the last instant he realized what they intended. They would fall and embrace him, squeeze him firmly in a
crosshatch of thorns. He screamed, fell, rolled to the left barely fast enough to avoid them as they dropped where he had been.
The vines thrashed agitatedly.
He could hear things growing all around him, bursting forth like gardens he had seen filmed with stop-action photography.
He got up and ran.
He passed through the entrance to another walkway before he noticed it, and he was elated that, unconsciously, he had fooled the garden. He was on his way out of it.
Hallucinations.
He paid no attention to the bio-computer now. He was in no mood to listen to anything except the incredible roar of growing things, which he fancied was as loud as the continuous explosion at the base of a major waterfalls.
Be calm. Hallucination.
On both sides the trees shot up, growing so fast that they would soon punch out the sky.
"Sky" is basically an abstract term. You are hallucinating.
He had gone a hundred feet down the flagstone path when, immediately before him in the leaping, dancing chaos of the garden, a silver and black wolf appeared. It was larger than he was, and it was bearing down on him.
He tried to side-step; could not.
Silver claws slashed down across his shoulder, dug deep, ripped loose, carried away a spray of blood.
He stumbled and fell.
The wolf swept by him, turned to attack again.
This is no hallucination, St. Cyr thought. Not this part about the wolf. The wolf is real.
Affirmed.
He didn't need to have it affirmed. He felt as if he had lost his arm, though he could look at it and see that it was still there, gushing blood but still attached.
The wolf swooped in at him, moving so quickly and gracefully that it seemed almost to have wings.
He twisted.
The claws caught his shirt, ripped it, passed by.
"Help!"
The word sounded alien, as if someone else had spoken it. He looked around, saw he was alone, realized it was himself that had called out. "Help! Help!"
He had no way of knowing how loud it was. His voice might have been a whisper. His altered perceptions, however, told him it sounded like an amplified scream. Indeed, each time he shouted he could see the sound waves spiraling outward from his mouth, some of them catching on the trees and shattering there, others spearing right through the growth and carrying on, seeking ears. The shattered sounds lay on the grass like broken bottles, gleaming green and yellow.
The wolf came back, got its claws into him again, into the same shoulder as before, tore, twisted, snarled loudly as its grip broke and blood spattered.
He remembered that Dorothea had one arm torn off and was missing several toes.
Suddenly, above the sound of the growing plants and above the hissing, growling fury of the wolf, something boomed with the impact of a ton of rock dropped on a sheet of tin.
He felt the sound of it smash down on all sides, covering up the broken-bottle sounds of his own voice.
The glittering fragments of this sound were bright red, like blood, broken sound… on all sides of him…
He looked up from the glass blood that was
really
sound, and he saw that the wolf was gone. He looked behind, but he did not see it in that direction either. Of course, as rapidly as the
St. Cyr turned and faced the other way.
The hedge behind which he had hidden only a few minutes ago had begun to join in with the harmony of growth—no, the cacophony. It sprouted new branches. Actually, they looked more like vines, highly flexible vines covered with wicked inch-long thorns. A dozen of these ropy tentacles had almost reached him. As he watched, they rose from the ground like snakes responding to the music of a flute, stood higher and higher still until they towered over him.
At the last instant he realized what they intended. They would fall and embrace him, squeeze him firmly in a
crosshatch of thorns. He screamed, fell, rolled to the left barely fast enough to avoid them as they dropped where he had been.
The vines thrashed agitatedly.
He could hear things growing all around him, bursting forth like gardens he had seen filmed with stop-action photography.
He got up and ran.
He passed through the entrance to another walkway before he noticed it, and he was elated that, unconsciously, he had fooled the garden. He was on his way out of it.
Hallucinations.
He paid no attention to the bio-computer now. He was in no mood to listen to anything except the incredible roar of growing things, which he fancied was as loud as the continuous explosion at the base of a major waterfalls.
Be calm. Hallucination.
On both sides the trees shot up, growing so fast that they would soon punch out the sky.
"Sky" is basically an abstract term. You are hallucinating.
He had gone a hundred feet down the flagstone path when, immediately before him in the leaping, dancing chaos of the garden, a silver and black wolf appeared. It was larger than he was, and it was bearing down on him.
He tried to side-step; could not.
Silver claws slashed down across his shoulder, dug deep, ripped loose, carried away a spray of blood.
He stumbled and fell.
The wolf swept by him, turned to attack again.
This is no hallucination, St. Cyr thought. Not this part about the wolf. The wolf is real.
Affirmed.
He didn't need to have it affirmed. He felt as if he had lost his arm, though he could look at it and see that it was still there, gushing blood but still attached.
The wolf swooped in at him, moving so quickly and gracefully that it seemed almost to have wings.
He twisted.
The claws caught his shirt, ripped it, passed by.
"Help!"
The word sounded alien, as if someone else had spoken it. He looked around, saw he was alone, realized it was himself that had called out. "Help! Help!"
He had no way of knowing how loud it was. His voice might have been a whisper. His altered perceptions, however, told him it sounded like an amplified scream. Indeed, each time he shouted he could see the sound waves spiraling outward from his mouth, some of them catching on the trees and shattering there, others spearing right through the growth and carrying on, seeking ears. The shattered sounds lay on the grass like broken bottles, gleaming green and yellow.
The wolf came back, got its claws into him again, into the same shoulder as before, tore, twisted, snarled loudly as its grip broke and blood spattered.
He remembered that Dorothea had one arm torn off and was missing several toes.
Suddenly, above the sound of the growing plants and above the hissing, growling fury of the wolf, something boomed with the impact of a ton of rock dropped on a sheet of tin.
He felt the sound of it smash down on all sides, covering up the broken-bottle sounds of his own voice.
The glittering fragments of this sound were bright red, like blood, broken sound… on all sides of him…
He looked up from the glass blood that was
really
sound, and he saw that the wolf was gone. He looked behind, but he did not see it in that direction either. Of course, as rapidly as the
Similar Books
