Duel by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page B

great open field on which
the glossy spaceships stood lined before their hangars. Farther yet, one would catch sight of the river, the metal ships resting along shore, delicate froth streaming from their sterns caused by the never-ending operation of their vents.
    Again, one would glide over the city proper, seeking some sign of life in the broad avenues, the network of streets, the painstaking pattern of dwellings in the living area, the metal fastness of the commercial section.
    The search would be fruitless.
    All movement below would be seen to be mechanical. And, knowing what city this was, one’s eyes would stop the search for citizens and seek out those squat metal structures which stood a half mile apart. These circular buildings housed the never-resting machines, the humming geared servants of the city’s people.
    These were the machines that did all: cleared the air of impurities, moved the walks and opened the doors, sent their synchronized impulses into the traffic lights, operated the fountains and the spaceships, the river vessels and the ventilators.
    These were the machines in whose flawless efficacy the people of the city placed their casual faith.
    At the moment, these people were resting on their pneumatic couches in rooms. And the music that seeped from their wall speakers, the cool breezes that flowed from their wall ventilators, the very air they breathed—all these were of and from the machines, the unfailing, the trusted, the infallible machines.
    Now there was a buzzing in ears. Now the city came alive.
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    There was a buzzing, buzzing.
    From the black swirl of slumber, you heard it. You wrinkled up your classic nose and twitched the twenty neural rods that led to the highways of your extremities.
    The sound bore deeper, cut through swaths of snooze and poked an
impatient finger in the throbbing matter of your brain. You twisted your head on the pillow and grimaced.
    There was no cessation. With stupored hand, you reached out and picked up the receiver. One eye propped open by dint of will, you breathed a weary mutter into the mouthpiece.
    â€œCaptain Rackley!” The knifing voice put your teeth on edge.
    â€œYes,” you said.
    â€œYou will report to your company headquarters immediately!”
    That swept away sleep and annoyance as a petulant old man brushes chessmen from his board. Stomach muscles drew into play and you were sitting. Inside your noble chest, that throbbing meat ball, source of blood velocity, saw fit to swell and depress with marked emphasis. Your sweat glands engaged in proper activity, ready for action, danger, heroism.
    â€œIs it … ?” you started.
    â€œReport immediately!” the voice crackled, and there was a severe click in your ear.
    You, Justin Rackley, dropped the receiver—plunko—in its cradle and leaped from bed in a shower of fluttering bedclothes.
    You raced to your wardrobe door and flung it open. Plunging into the depths, you soon emerged with your skintight pants, the tunic for your forty-two chest. You donned said trousers and tunic, flopped upon a nearby seat and plunged your arches into black military boots.
    And your face reflected oh-so-grim thoughts. Combing out your thick blond hair, you were sure you knew what the emergency was.
    The Rustons! They were at it again!
    Awake now, you wrinkled your nose with conscious aplomb. The Rustons made revolting food for thought with their twelve legs, sign of alien progenitors, and their exudation of foul reptilian slime.
    As you scurried from your room, leaped across the balustrade and down the stairs, you wondered once again where these awful Rustons had originated, what odious interbreeding produced their monster race.
You wondered where they lived, where proliferated their grisly stock, held their meetings of war, began the upward slither to those great Earth fissures from which they massed in attack.
    With nothing approaching answers to these endless questions, you