Read The Puppet Masters for Free Online

the city a glowing fairyland look. Off to the east, where the Bomb had landed, there were no old buildings at all and the area was an Easter basket of color—giant Easter eggs, lighted from within.
    I’ve seen the Capital at night oftener than most, because of my business, and, while I like the place, I had not thought much about it. But tonight I had that “Last Ride Together” feeling. It was so beautiful it hurt but it was not its beauty that choked me up; it was knowing that down under those warm lights were people, alive and individual people, going about their lawful occasions, making love or having spats, whichever suited them…doing whatever they damn well pleased, each under his own vine and his own fig tree with nobody to make him afraid, as it says.
    I thought about all those gentle, kindly people (with only an occasional heel) and I thought about them each with a gray slug clinging to the back of his neck, twitching his legs and arms, making his voice say what the slug wished, going where the slug wanted to go.
    Hell’s bells—life under the commissars couldn’t be that bad. I know—I’ve been behind the Curtain.
    I made myself a solemn promise: if the parasites won. I’d arrange to be dead before I would let one of those things ride me the way one had ridden Barnes. For an agent it would be simple; just bite my nails—or, if your hands happen to be off, there are a couple of other ways. The Old Man planned for all professional necessities.
    But the Old Man had not planned such arrangements for such a purpose and I knew it. It was the Old Man’s business—and mine—to keep those people down there safe, not to run out on them when the going got rough.
    I turned away from the window. There was not a confounded thing I could do about it now; I decided that what I needed was company. The room contained the usual catalog of “escort bureaus” and “model agencies” that you’ll find in almost any big hotel except maybe the Martha Washington. I thumbed through it, looking the girls over, then slammed it shut. I didn’t want a whoopee girl; I wanted one particular girl—one who would as soon shoot as shake hands and would bite in the clinches. And I did not know where she had gone.
    I always carry a tube of “tempus fugit” pills; most agents do, as one never knows when giving your reflexes a jolt will get you through a tight spot. Despite the scare propaganda, tempos pills are not habit-forming, not the way the original hashish is.
    Nevertheless a purist would say I was addicted to them, for I had the habit of taking them occasionally to make a twenty-four hour leave seem like a week. I admit that I enjoyed the mild euphoria which the pills induced as a side effect. Primarily, though, they just stretch out your subjective time by a factor of ten or more—chop time into finer bits so that you live longer for the same amount of clock and calendar.
    What’s wrong with that? Sure, I know the horrible example story of the man who died of old age in a calendar month through taking the pills steadily, but I took them only once in a while.
    Maybe he had the right idea. He lived a long and happy life—you can be sure it was happy—and died happy at the end. What matter that the sun rose only thirty times? Who is keeping score and what are the rules anyhow?
    I sat there, staring at my tube of pills and thinking that I had enough to keep me hopped up and contented for what would be, to me, at least two “years”. If I wanted to, I could crawl in my hole and pull it in after me.
    I took out two pills and got a glass of water. Then I put them carefully back in the tube, put on my gun and phone, left the hotel and headed for the Library of Congress.
    On the way I stopped in a bar for a quick one and looked at a newscast. There was no news from Iowa, but when is there any news from Iowa?
    At the Library I went to the general catalog, put on blinkers, and started scanning for references. “Flying