By Dean R. Koontz
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She was sitting up in bed, perhaps seventy years old, with a seven-shot automatic in both hands, stretched out in front of her, the safety off. " Pete groaned. " she said. " "Drop yours," he said. " "Because you've probably never fired a gun, you'd miss me, and then you'd make me hurt you. " She looked at the automatic, then wrinkled her nose. "I suppose they are," she said. She threw the weapon on the floor. "That's fine," he said, picking it up. " she asked. Before he could even think of an answer, she smiled stupidly, yawned and passed out, first dropping forward until her face rested on her blanketed knees, then toppling sideways.
He saw the first triplet reach the top of the steps, running. Behind, the second triplet's head popped into view on the stairs as it followed. He shoved forward, into the ebony of the tube, got his balance, hunched his shoulders, held his head low—and ran. The white sphere still rolled around the edges of his consciousness, keeping a close fix on his position. He thrust it out, again and again, only to watch it return, moments later, undiminished. He wanted to follow the thread back to the eight-fingered creature who controlled the featureless robotic minds, but he could not spare the time and the energy while they were so close on his trail.
Yellow trees, turning black in autumn . . Flowers that pull up their roots and walk, . . One after another, the shatered fragments of the other-worldly visions flowed through his mind, sharp but not unpleasant. He stabbed into the deepest regions of that mind, looked at the eyeless creature's innermost desires and hopes, understood only a fraction of them, whirled, twisted, and looked elsewhere. As he had hoped, his sudden atack and attempt at intimacy had disconcerted the eyeless creature on the other end.