Brother to the Machine
by Richard Matheson
Page Four
   
   He sat up. He couldn't stay where he was.  Already they might be
searching the park, their cold eyes scanning the hills, moving like a
horrible tide through this last outpost where old people where allowed
to think if they were able to.
  He got up and staggered around clumsily and started up the path,
stiff-legged, looking for the lake.  He turned a bend and walked in a
weaving line.  He heard whistles.  He heard a distant shout.
They were looking for him.
  Even here in the citizen's park where he thought he could escape.....
And find the lake in peace.
  He passed an old shut down merry-go-round.  He saw the little
wooden horses in gay poses, galloping high and motionless, caught
fast in time.  Green and orange with heavy tassels, all thick covered
with dust.
  He reached a sunken walk and started down it.  There were gray stone
walls on both sides.  Sirens were all around in the air.  They knew he
was loose and they were coming to get him now.  A man could not
escape.  It was not done.
   He shuffled across the road and moved up the path.  Turning, he saw,
far off, men running.  They wore black uniforms and they were waving at
him.  He hurried on, his feet thudding endlessly on the concrete walk.
  He ran off the path and up a hill and tumbled into the grass.
He crawled into scarlet-leaved bushes and watched through waves of
dizziness as the men of the Control Police dashed by.  Then he got up
and started off, limping, his eyes staring ahead.
  At last, the shifting, dull glitter of the lake.  He hurried on now,
stumbling and tripping.  Only a little way.  He lurched across a field.
The air was thick with the smell of rotting grass.  He crashed through
the bushes and there were shouts and someone fired a gun.  He looked
back stiffly to see the men running after him..... he plunged into the
water, flopping on his chest with a great splash.  He struggled forward,
walking on the bottom until the water had flooded over his chest, his
shoulders, his head.  Still, walking while it washed into his mouth and
filled his throat and weighted his body, dragging him down.
  His eyes were wide and staring as he slid gently forward onto his face
on the bottom.  His fingers closed in the silt and he made no move.
  Later, the Control Police dragged him out and threw him in the black
truck and drove off.....
and, inside, the technician tore off the sheeting and shook his head at
the sight of tangled coils and water-soaked machinery.
  "They go bad," he muttered as he probed with pliers and picks,
"... they crack up and think they are men and go wandering.
Too bad they don't work as good as people."
copyright 1952 by Greenleaf Publications