Steel by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online

fingers.
    â€œIt’s done,” the doctor said.
    Mrs. Lord gasped. “ No ,” she said. She could not believe.
    Eunice did not weep. “He is with the angels now,” she said.
    â€œLet justice be done,” said the son of dead Iverson Lord.
    *   *   *
    It was a gray place.
    No flames. No licking smoke. No pallor of doom obscured his sight. Only gray—mediocre gray—unrelieved gray.
    Iverson Lord strode through the gray place.
    â€œThe absence of retributive heat and leak-eyed wailing souls is pre-eminently encouraging,” he said to himself.
    Striding on. Through a long gray hall.
    â€œAfter-life,” he mused. “So all is not symbolic applesauce as once I had suspected.”
    Another hallway angled in. A man came walking out briskly. He joined the scholar. He clapped him smartly on the shoulder.
    â€œGreetings, mate!” said the man.
    Iverson Lord looked down his mobile, Grecian nose.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he said, distaste wrinkling his words.
    â€œWhat do you know?” said the man. “How’s life treating you? What do you know and what do you say?”
    The semanticist drew back askance. The man forged on, arms and legs pumping mightily.
    â€œWhat’s new?” he was saying. “Give me the lowdown. Give me the dirt.”
    Two side halls. The man buzzed into one gray length. Another man appeared. He walked beside Iverson Lord. The poet looked at him narrowly. The man smiled broadly.
    â€œNice day, isn’t it?” he said.
    â€œWhat place is this?” asked Iverson Lord.
    â€œNice weather we’ve been having,” said the man.
    â€œI ask, what place is this?”
    â€œLooks like it might turn out nice,” said the man.
    â€œCraven!” snapped Iverson Lord, stopping in his tracks. “Answer me!”
    The man said, “Everybody complains about the weather but nobody…”
    â€œSilence!”
    The semanticist watched the man turn into a side hallway. He shook his head. “Grotesque mummery,” he said.
    Another man appeared.
    â€œHi, you!” cried Iverson Lord. He ran. He clutched the man’s gray sleeve. “What place is this?”
    â€œYou don’t say?” said the man.
    â€œYou will answer me, sirrah!”
    â€œIs that a fact?” said the man.
    The poet sprayed wrath upon the man. His eyes popped. He grabbed at the man’s gray lapels. “You shall give intelligence or I shall throttle you!” he cried.
    â€œHonest?” said the man.
    Iverson Lord gaped. “What density is this?” he spoke incredulously. “Is this man or vegetable in my hands?”
    â€œWell, knock me down and pick me up,” said the man.
    Something barren and chilling gripped the poet. He drew back muttering in fear.
    Into an enormous room. Grey.
    Voices chattered. All alike.
    â€œIt’s swell here,” said a voice. “It isn’t black as pitch.”
    â€œIt isn’t cold as ice,” said another.
    The poet’s eyes snapped about in confused fury. He saw blurred forms, seated, standing, reclining. He backed into a gray wall.
    â€œIt isn’t mean as sin,” a voice said.
    â€œIt isn’t raining cats and dogs,” said another.
    â€œAvaunt.” The ancient lips framed automatically. “I say…”
    â€œGee whiz, but it’s super dandy swell-elegant!” a voice cried happily.
    The poet sobbed. He ran. “Surcease,” he moaned. “Surcease.”
    â€œI’m in the plumbing game,” said a man running beside him.
    Iverson Lord gasped. He raced on, looking for escape.
    â€œIt’s a rough game, the plumbing game,” said the man.
    A side hall. Iverson Lord plunged in frantically.
    He ran past another room. He saw people cavorting around a gray maypole.
    â€œBy George!” they cried in ecstasy. “Great Guns! Holy Mackerel! Jiminy Cricket!”
    The scholar clapped