A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, December 1949 — page 118: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“¥FooTS INVISIBLE By Robert Arthur You hear it now? That tread behind vious following through measureless time and distance—implacable, invincible— until you have paid your last farthing for the breach of a law not made by man. Copyright 1940 by Popular Publications, Ino. with storm. Rain beat down as if from an angry heaven, and beneath its force all the noises of a metropolis blended oddly, so that to Jorman they sounded like the muted grumble of the city itself. He himself’ was comfortable enough, however. The little box-sized newsstand beside the subway entrance was tight against the rain. The window that he kept open to hear prospective customers, take in change, and pass out papers let in a wet chill, but a tiny oil heater in one corner gave out a glow of warmth that beat it back. A midget--radio shrilled sweetly—a woman’s soprano voice and Foxfire, his toy wire-haired terrier, snored at his feet. Jorman reached up and switched the radio off. There were times when it gave him pleasure. But more often he preferred to listen to life itself, as it poured past his stand like a river. Tonight, though, even Times Square was deserted to the storm gods, who romped up and down its length, sportively deluging streets and sidewalks and shop fronts with water. Jorman listened and could not hear a single footstep, though his inner time sense—re-enforced by a radio announcement a moment before— told him it was barely half past twelve. He lit a pipe—a pipe had more taste than a cigarette—and puffed contentedly. After a moment he lifted his head. Foot- steps were approaching: slow, measured, fan\iliar footsteps. They paused in front 118 “Tv NIGHT was dark, and violent — —_ al an “Se of his stand momentarily, and he smiled. “Hello, Clancy,” he greeted the beat cop. “A nice night for ducks.” “Tf I only had web feet,” the big officer grumbled, “’twould suit me fine. You’re a funny one, now, staying out so late on a night like this, and not a customer in sight.” “T like it,” Jorman grinned. listen to the storm. Makes my imagina- tion work.” “Mine, too,” Clancy grunted. “But the only thing it can imagine is my own apart- ment, with a hot tub and a hot toddy waitin’. Arrgh!”’ = He shook himself, and with a goodnight trampled onward. = Jorman heard the officer’s footsteps diminish. There was silence for a while, save for the rush of the rain and the occa- sional splashing whir of a cab sloshing past. Then he heard more steps. This time they came toward him from the side street, and he listened intently to them, head cocked a little to one side. They were—he searched for the right descriptive—well, odd. Shu ffle- shuffle, as if made by large feet encased in sneakers, and slid along the pavement for a few inches with each step. Shuffle-shuffle—_ shu ffle-shuffie, they came toward him slowly, hesitantly, as if the walker were pausing every few feet to look about him. Jorman wondered whether the ap- proaching man could be a cripple. A club- ‘ foot, perhaps, dragging one foot with each step. For a moment he had the absurd thought that the sounds were made by Gomi (a) books-com “Like to 23