Out of the Sea

Anyone but Webb Fallon would have been worried sick. He was down to his last five dollars and quart of Scotch. His girl Madge had sketched him categorically in vitriol, and married somebody else. His job on the Los Angeles Observer was, like all the jobs he’d ever had, finally, definitely, and for all time, cancelled.

Being Webb Fallon, he was playing a fast game of doubles on the volley-ball court at Santa Monica Beach, letting the sun and the salt air clear off a hangover.

When he came off the court, feeling fine and heading for the water, big Chuck Weigal called to him.

“So the Observer finally got wise to you, huh? How come?”

Fallon grinned, his teeth white against the mahogany burn of his hard, lean oval face. His corded body gleamed in the hot sun, and his slanting grey-green eyes were mockingly bright.

“If you must know,” he said, “I was busy drowning my sorrows on the night of the big quake, two weeks ago. I didn’t know anything about it until I read the papers next morning. The boss seemed to think I was a little--er--negligent.”

Weigal grunted. “I don’t wonder. A quake as bad as the ’Frisco one, and you sleep through it! Phew!”

Fallon grinned, and went on. About half-way down the beach a bright yellow bathing suit caught his eye. He whistled softly and followed it into the water. After all, now that Madge was gone....

He knew the girl by sight. Fallon had an eye for blonde hair and Diana-esque figures. That was one thing Madge and he had fought about.

The girl swam like a mermaid. Fallon lengthened his stroke, came up beside her, and said, “Hello.”

She blinked salt water out of sapphire blue eyes and stared. “I know you,” she said. “You’re Webb Fallon.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You needn’t be. I know a girl named Madge, too.”

“Oh.” Fallon’s grey-green eyes narrowed. His lean face looked suddenly ugly, like a mean dog. Or more like a wolf, perhaps, with his thin straight lips and slanting eyes.

“What did Madge tell you about me?” he asked softly.

“She said you were no good.” The blue eyes studied his face. “And,” added the girl deliberately, “I think she was right.”

“Yeah?” said Fallon, very gently. He hadn’t yet got over his cold rage at being jilted for a dull, prosperous prig. The girl’s face was like a mask cut out of brown wood and set with hard sapphires. He made a tigerish, instinctive movement toward it.

A wave took them unawares, knocked them together and down in a struggling tangle. They broke water, gasping in the after-swirl.

Then, quite suddenly, the girl screamed.

It was a short scream, strangled with sea-water, but it set the hairs prickling on Fallon’s neck. He looked past the girl, outward.

Something was rising out of the sea.

* * * * *

Webb Fallon, standing shoulder-deep in the cold water, stared in a temporary paralysis of shock. The thing simply couldn’t be.

There was a snout armed with a wicked sword. That and the head behind it were recognizable as those of a swordfish. But the neck behind them was long and powerful, and set on sloping shoulders. Members like elongated fins just becoming legs churned the surface. A wholly piscine tail whipped up gouts of spray behind the malformed silver body.

Fallon moved suddenly. He grabbed the girl and started toward shore. The Thing emitted a whistling grunt and surged after them.

Waves struck them; the aftersuck pulled at their legs. They floundered, like dreamers caught in nightmare swamps. And Fallon, through the thrashing and the surf and the sea-water in his ears, began to hear other sounds.