Selected Stories by Fritz Leiber Read Online Free PDF

have supreme power over man and his animals and his machines. You rule this city and all others. I recognize that. Therefore spare me.”
Again the titter, closer. “Why, Mr. Wran, you never talked like this before. Do you mean it?”
“The world is yours to do with as you will, save or tear to pieces,” he answered fawningly, as the words automatically fitted themselves together into vaguely liturgical patterns. “I recognize that. I will praise, I will sacrifice. In smoke and soot and flame I will worship you forever.”
The voice did not answer. He looked up. There was only Miss Millick, deathly pale and swaying drunkenly. Her eyes were closed. He caught her as she wobbled toward him. His knees gave way under the added weight and they sank down together on the roof edge.
After a while she began to twitch. Small wordless noises came from her throat, and her eyelids edged open.
“Come on, we’ll go downstairs,” he murmured jerkily, trying to draw her up. “You’re feeling bad.”
“I’m terribly dizzy,” she whispered. “I must have fainted. I didn’t eat enough. And then I’m so nervous lately, about the war and everything, I guess. Why, we’re on the roof! Did you bring me up here to get some air? Or did I come up without knowing it? I’m awfully foolish. I used to walk in my sleep, my mother said.”
As he helped her down the stairs, she turned and looked at him. “Why, Mr. Wran,” she said, faintly, “you’ve got a big smudge on your forehead. Here, let me get it off for you.” Weakly she rubbed at it with her handkerchief. She started to sway again and he steadied her.
“No, I’ll be all right,” she said. “Only I feel cold. What happened, Mr. Wran? Did I have some sort of fainting spell?”
He told her it was something like that.
    Later, riding home in an empty elevated car, he wondered how long he would be safe from the thing. It was a purely practical problem. He had no way of knowing, but instinct told him he had satisfied the brute for some time. Would it want more when it came again? Time enough to answer that question when it arose. It might be hard, he realized, to keep out of an insane asylum. With Helen and Ronny to protect, as well as himself, he would have to be careful and tight-lipped. He began to speculate as to how many other men and women had seen the thing or things like it, and knew that mankind had once again spawned a ghost world, and that superstition once more ruled.
    The elevated slowed and lurched in a familiar fashion. He looked at the roofs again, near the curve. They seemed very ordinary, as if what made them impressive had gone away for a while.

The Girl with the Hungry Eyes
    ALL RIGHT, I’LL TELL YOU why the Girl gives me the creeps. Why I can’t stand to go downtown and see the mob slavering up at her on the tower, with that pop bottle or pack of cigarettes or whatever it is beside her. Why I hate to look at magazines any more because I know she’ll turn up somewhere in a brassiere or a bubble bath. Why I don’t like to think of millions of Americans drinking in that poisonous half-smile. It’s quite a story—more story than you’re expecting.
    No, I haven’t suddenly developed any long-haired indignation at the evils of advertising and the national glamor-girl complex. That’d be a laugh for a man in my racket, wouldn’t it? Though I think you’ll agree there’s something a little perverted about trying to capitalize on sex that way. But it’s okay with me. And I know we’ve had the Face and the Body and the Look and what not else, so why shouldn’t someone come along who sums it all up so completely, that we have to call her the Girl and blazon her on all the billboards from Times Square to Telegraph Hill?
    But the Girl isn’t like any of the others. She’s unnatural. She’s morbid. She’s unholy.
Oh it’s 1948, is it, and the sort of thing I’m hinting at went out with witchcraft? But you see I’m not altogether sure myself what I’m