The Shrinking Man by Richard Matheson Page A

gaze pausing momentarily on various of the dark cave openings formed by the piled rock. What if the spider were hiding in one of them? Heart thudding in slow, heavy beats, he moved over the broken slope until he found a flat stone he could move.
    This he pushed with agonizing slowness across the floor, jamming it up against the step. He straightened up and stepped back. The stone was a little higher than his knees. He’d need another one.
    Returning to the hill of rocks, he continued searching until he’d found a similar stone plus a piece of bark. Added to the original stone, these two extra pieces would just about make up the needed height. Moreover, there was a groove in the bark onto which the end of the straw might fit.
    Grunting with satisfaction, he pushed the dead weight of the second stone back to the step. There, teeth clamped, body shaking with taut-muscled exertion, he managed to lift it to the top of the first stone, something giving in his back as he did it. Straightening up, he felt a flare of pain in his back muscles. You’re coming apart, Carey, he told himself. It was amusing.
    The second stone teetered a little on the first, he discovered. He had to cram pieces of torn cardboard into the gaps between the two facing surfaces. That done, he climbed up on top of it and jumped up and down. So far, his little platform was secure.
    Worriedly he looked over at the giant, still working on the water heater—but for how long? He jumped down off the top stone, gasping at the pain in his back, and limped back to the hill. Sore throat, aching back, twitching arms. What next? A cold wind blew over him and he sneezed. Pneumonia next, he thought. It was—well, almost—amusing.
    The scrap of bark was easier to transport. He carried the thin end of it on his shoulder and walked, bent over, dragging the bark behind him. It was getting colder. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what he was going to do when he got out in the yard. If it was so cold, wouldn’t he freeze to death? He pushed the thought aside.
    He slid the bark over the top of the two stones, then stood leaning against his structure, looking at it.
    No, now that they were close together, he could see that the straw end was too thick to fit into the groove in the bark. He blew out a breath through gritted teeth. Troubles, troubles. Another anxious glance at the giant. How could he tell how much time there was? What if he got up two steps and the giant finished and went back up? If he weren’t crushed to death by those monstrous shoes, he would be, at the very least, stranded on the high, darkened step, unable to see well enough to get down again.
    But he wasn’t going to think of that. That was it, the end, the finale. He got out now or—No, there was no
or
. He wouldn’t let there be one.
    Picking up a tiny scrap of rock, he climbed to the top of his platform and scraped at the groove, tearing away stringy fibers until the slot was wide enough to accommodate the end of the straw. He threw down the piece of rock and, lifting the hem of his robe, mopped his sweaty face dry.
    He stood there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, letting his muscles unknot. There’s no
time
for rest, his brain scolded. But he answered it, I’m sorry, I’ve got to rest or I’ll never make the top. He’d have to take a chance on the length of time the giant would be working. He’d never make the summit in one all-out effort, that was clear.
    That was when the thought occurred to him. What am I doing all this for?
    For a moment it stopped him cold. What
was
he doing it for? In a matter of days it would all be over. He would be gone. Why all this exertion, then? Why this pretense at continuing an existence that was already doomed?
    He shook his head. It was dangerous to think like that. Dwelling on it could end him. For in the final analysis, everything he had done and was doing was illogical. Yet he couldn’t stop. Was it that he didn’t believe that