“No,” she replied, with evident relief. “Not bacon.”
“Then how about a string of sausages? Rich and racy, ground from happy hogs,” he suggested with ill-advised humor. Lois retched daintily.
“Not sausages,” the girl answered, somewhat unevenly. “The thought of it makes me ill. I would like a drink of water, though.” Camp poured a glass for her, and watched silently as she swallowed it in one quick gulp. “That was good,” she smiled. “That took the edge off my appetite.”
Camp blinked. “Oh?” he said. “But you can’t live on water!”
Lois arched one thin eyebrow. “No? I can try.”
And again something seemed to click in place inside the man’s mind. The preposterous contradictions of the whole damned, fantastic set-up seemed to point to some huge, shadowy, indistinct conclusion far off in the distance—and, he thought, he feared for his sanity.
“Lois,” he said firmly, “sit down.” She obeyed, and he assumed a commanding posture above her. “Now,” Camp went on, “what precisely is wrong with me or the world—or perhaps just you? I still don’t know how you, of all the living things on Earth, survived whatever happened; I still don’t know what it was that did happen; I don’t know a single thing about your disappearance last night . . . and I don’t think you’d tell me the truth anyway.”
“But—” she began.
“None of that!” he snapped, and slammed his hand down hard on the tabletop. Marvin squeaked shrilly and scurried into Camp’s pocket.
“If I’ve guessed right,” Camp intoned, “you’ve got some ungodly peculiar friends!”
THERE was a faint scratching noise behind him. Camp whirled, his hard fists poised and ready for anything.
Ready for anything but what he saw. For it was Lois there in the cabin’s doorway.
He shot one quick, unbelieving glance at the girl sitting quietly in the chair behind him, and then looked at her exact twin only two or three meters away. They were, he saw unbelievingly, alike in every detail.
The two girls stared at each other in obvious confusion. It was plainly apparent to Camp that something had gone wrong with the plans of one—or both.
“What the hell is this?” he growled helplessly. There was no answer.
He strode to the cabin door and stood before it, blocking it with his broad shoulders. “Neither one of you two phonies gets out of here until I find out what’s going on,” he rasped. “You!” This to the second Lois. “Where’d you come from?”
“From—from Isle Royale,” she faltered. “Something fishy grabbed me when I was only half—”
He stopped her with a choppy motion of one bronzed hand. “That’s enough,” he said curtly. He eyed the two girls angrily.
“I don’t know what’s going on, or what your game is,” he said, “but I’m going to give you one chance to talk before I put the screws on. One chance . . . will you talk now, or shall I get tough?”
No answer, except an apprehensive stirring.
“Okay,” he lipped. “I haven’t forgotten what happened when I ran the generator last night. I’m going to turn it over now, and we’ll see which one of you throws the first fit.”
A quick glance assured him that the cabin’s two ports were too small to allow the passage of even the girl’s slim bodies. He stepped outside, and slammed the door and bolted it.
As soon as he had started the generator he raced back to the cabin. He knew that blue sparks must now be chasing themselves around the brushes of the generator, and he watched the girls carefully.
And then . . . both girls collapsed in horrible, writhing convulsions!
Camp stared in horrified fascination at their frenzied, whipping contortions. Every theory of his was shot, now; he was certain that neither girl was Lois. But if neither one was the girl he knew—what were they?
Their struggles were pitiable, but Camp could be diamond-hard when the necessity arose. Grimly unheeding of their screams he waited for the next development. The discoloration he had seen last night spread simultaneously over the skins of the two sufferers, a rash that seemed to extend itself into a silky, dark-hued coating.
“My God!” he cried thinly. The girls were melting—losing their forms! Slumping into ovoid, tapering creatures that flopped about the floor, each whipping eight short tentacles in open discomfort. Suddenly, then, he knew. These creatures—it had been one of them which he had seen slip over the side of his boat last night, not carrying an unconscious girl but halfway transformed from human to monster!
CHAPTER FIVE
Restoration
“GAH!” Camp said feelingly. He tumbled backwards out of the suddenly cramped cabin and grabbed up the rifle. Marvin, in his pocket, protested sleepily at the sudden commotion.
A metallic click accompanied the introduction of a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle, and Camp felt better. He peered cautiously into the comparative darkness of the cabin.
A clear, curiously gentle voice seemed to sound in his brain.
“Earthman,” it said. “Turn off your motors. We will not harm you.”
Camp thought it over for a second, and switched off the motors, though not letting his hand stray too far from the starter button.
“Who said that?” he demanded, suspiciously eyeing the two limply relaxed creatures.
One of them oozed forward a trifle. “That’s far enough!” Camp warned hastily.
“I did,” came that clear voice again.
“Yeah?” Camp said. His hand hovered indecisively over the starter switch. “Start at the beginning of everything and tell me all about it.” Cradling the rifle in the crook of his elbow he fished a cigarette from his pocket and applied the flame of a small briquet to its tip . . .
“THE name of our race,” the thing began, “would mean nothing to you. It is sufficient only to say that we have come from another dimensional plane coexistent with your Earth, bound in certain relationships with your world by natural laws.
“We have always been a quiet, peaceable people, previously ignorant of death, for the world from which we come does not know that terrible phenomenon. Our science had overcome that, had passed beyond the point in the histories of all worlds whereat the vibrations of the mind gain dominance over matter; by a very small expenditure of effort we can mould any mass to serve our needs.”
Camp snorted blueish smoke. “Go on,” he drawled amiably, settling the rifle into a more comfortable position. He felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. “Go on. I may as well tell you that you don’t actually exist, that I’m only dreaming you, but go ahead anyway. What brought you to Earth, or shouldn’t I ask that?”
The creature’s soft, wistful eyes regarded him steadily. “From another world alien to us,” it continued. “They were a race of conquerors, and to us were as horrible as we must seem to you. They had weapons, and they conducted a swift, merciless war upon us. Most of my people were killed, since we could do no such thing as taking the lives of our foes, even to save our race from total extinction.”
The other alien being wriggled forward. When it “spoke,” Camp was astounded to detect a difference of timber and expression in the tone of the telepathed words.
“So,” the thing said, continuing the rather one-sided conversation, “we left our world. The handful—literally—of us that were left was rotated into this plane and onto this planet, whose existence the experiments of our scientists had led us to suspect. But . . . our people could not live with yours. We are terrifically sensitive to certain types of electrical radiations, as you have seen, and the myriad power-operated machines which made things pleasant and comfortable for you would have meant our deaths.”
“Um,” remarked Camp, and slapped Marvin’s sharp little teeth away from his thigh.
“I’m a lone cowhand,” the small lizard announced, somewhat irrelevantly. Camp scowled. “So?” he prompted. “What then?”
The thing hesitated, and looked at its companion.
Then, “Ther
e is a third plane parallel with our own and this one, but it is a bleak world of eternal gloom, lit only by terrifying sheets of radiation from random stars which dip over its surface. To both your race and mine it would normally be uninhabitable—in fact, we would be unable to survive there under any conditions—but it was thought that all the inhabitants of Earth, all living things, could be placed under suspended animation and rotated into this plane. They would come to no harm, and would know absolutely nothing of what had been done to them. In time we would awaken them and bring them back to their home; we know, you see, that in ten years or so, as you measure time, our enemies will have destroyed themselves.”
CAMP nodded slowly. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “You had a hell of a nerve, though, to do what you did, but I suppose you had some justification. I suppose, too, that I’m crazy, but I believe you. I’m willing to call the war off and play on your side.”
“Thank you,” the creatures said together.
“And as a friend,” went on one of them, “we ask you not to use any equipment that would generate sparks or short radio waves if you can possibly help it. You’ve seen what it does to us.”
Camp stowed the rifle in a corner where it would be out of the way, but not too unhandy in case of need. These disturbing creatures, with their seal-and-octopus bodies and quiet mental voices, were spooky enough, and while they might be on the level, he thought, still it was best to take no chances.
“Okay,” he agreed, however. “Mind if I ask a favor in return? I’d rather you assumed human forms whenever you can, around me. It’s a trifle disconcerting to find such lofty ideals and intellects in such—er—unusual—bodies.”
The two creatures blurred and expanded swiftly. Again they were twin Lois Temples.
“Ah—no,” Camp said hurriedly. “Could one of you change to some other person? I hate to be such a bother, really, but . . .”
One of the girls said, “Think of a person; we can imitate his form.”
Camp searched his mind for friends, and smiled ruefully as he failed to correctly visualize a single person. When he looked up he gasped.
“Hugo!” he exclaimed. “Hugo Menden!”
“No,” corrected the image. “His body idealized by you. I found this figure in the back of your mind, surrounded with much respect and sorrow. Who was Hugo Menden?”
“A rather close friend of mine,” Camp explained. “He died in space, while we were bound for Venus.” His thoughts rambled for a moment. There was something buzzing around in his brain . . .
“Yeah,” Camp said suddenly. “Look, I got an idea! Why don’t you people go to Venus? I just got back from there, and I know it’s approximately the same as Earth. Certainly it offered me no particular inconvenience, and should present none to you. Then you can return my people to their homes, and everybody will be happy.
Manden’s figure nodded gravely. “Splendid,” he said simply.
Camp’s jubilant expression suddenly faded, and he looked comically woeful and downcast.
“Yeah,” he said dully. “Yeah, but I’ve only got one space-sphere, and that won’t hold more than three or four of you. There was another ship at Newark, but that was dismantled for repairs or something before I left. Certainly I can’t build one . . . can’t you people do something about it? You did say that you could—ah—mould any mass to suit your needs.”
“Not to that extent,” Menden revised hastily. “By using the full power of all our minds, we might have, at one time; but now there are too few of us left. So few, I think, that one space-sphere will be quite large enough to carry us all. There are only twenty-seven of my race alive.”
Camp tossed his cigarette butt into the water and watched it hiss into black extinction.
“Sure,” he protested, “but even twenty-seven are too many to put in the ship. How are you going to manage it?”
Menden smiled. “Simple,” he told Camp. “We can put all but three or four in a state of suspended animation for the length of the voyage.”
But Camp was yet unsatisfied. “That’s fine,” he said. “That part’s okay, but I just thought of something else. What, precisely, will you do about fuel?”
“No,” Lois told him. “The sphere can be moved by telekinesis—mind-power. Three of us can do it.”
CAMP stood by a smooth-lined, waist-high machine, so-called by him though, as far as he could see, it had no moving parts whatsoever. At his side stood Menden, and shadowing the scene was the great, round bulk of the space-sphere.
“Not very big,’ commented Camp, indicating the odd machine. “How does the thing work?”
Menden stepped forward and inserted a fist-sized ball, its surface dotted with an intricate pattern of perforations, into a socket in the device.
“Its action is largely mental,” he obligingly explained. “That small globe is a sort of matrix which has been impregnated with the proper thought patterns to set up the automatic operation.”
“Stop right there,” Camp said. “I can see that it’d be too deep for me to understand.” He cast a sidelong glance at his companion. “I’m kind of going to miss you and your people. You’ve taught me a couple of tricks—besides that little knack of levitation—that wouldn’t have been developed by our science for a heap of years.”
Manden smiled slowly. “You, in return, have done a lot for us. You’ve given us a world where we can live in safety and perfect ease of mind. We would not have been happy here, Camp, knowing that we were mere usurpers.
“Yeah,” Camp mumbled. “I guess you’re right.”
Menden, with Lois close behind him, hesitated a little. “Goodbye, Camp,” they said simply, and as they hurried into the space-sphere Camp could see them slumping and blurring into their normal tentacled forms.
The great sphere stirred uneasily, rose swiftly toward the zenith in a long, graceful sweep. It was uncanny, Camp thought, to see that tons-heavy mass dance lightly skyward unaided by the ravening, fiendishly hot rocket blasts. He sat down to wait.
After a space of time, about five cigarettes later, he became aware of a growing tension in the air. The light breeze which had been playing with his hair as he sat there had died away, and the hot and oppressive atmosphere was unnaturally still. He shuffled his feet uneasily.
The sky had darkened, and now bloated clouds, like the swollen bellies of poisoned alley cats, scudded past in a frightened cavalcade. The wind, too, had picked up again, and wailed through the nearby trees like a mournful banshee.
Each individual hair on his body was standing erect, now, vitalized by the tension in the struggling, saturated atmosphere, and breathing was strangely difficult.
He threw himself flat on the quivering ground, and felt easier.
The machine that had been left was fairly blazing now, glowing angrily through its mantle of flame. Little whorls and specks of phosphorescence appeared, dancing like fireflies, danced and grew, solidifying as they grew. The explosion of the thunder expanded to the destruction of worlds, and the little specks of light increased in size.
“People!” Camp muttered thickly. And people they were, and all the living things of Earth with them, replaced to the millimeter in the spots from which they had been so summarily plucked by a refugee race.
Camp began to wonder how he would explain the loss of the space-sphere.
THE END
Dead Center
Where is the exact dead center around which the entire cosmos revolves?. For whoever can get there first can control the universe!
CHAPTER 1
THE chilled-steel muzzle of the old-fashioned automatic swerved not an inch as Angel Maclure spoke: “I’m at your service, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Put that gun down,” advised the shorter man easily. “We just didn’t want any fuss. You have our blasters—we won’t try anything.”
Maclure grinned and lowered his pistol. “Right,” he said. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d mistaken me for a banker or somebody who deserved kil
ling.” He gestured at the blasters which he had wrenched from his assailants’ hands. “Pick ’em up, boys.” They did, and pocketed the deadly little tubes. “Now what did you want?”
The shorter, softer-spoken man began: “Excuse my friend—he’s new in our service. He doesn’t realize that we should have asked you first and then pulled the tubes. Understand?”
“All forgiven,” said Maclure shortly. “I just didn’t expect to be jumped two minutes after I get off a liner. It usually takes months before the police hear that I’m around. What’s the service you mentioned?”
“Let’s wait before I tell you anything,” said the shorter man. He smiled confidingly. “You’ll find out enough to blow your top off. Now, Mr. Maclure, you’re supposed to come with us—whether of your own free will or by force. Understand?”
“Sure. Call me Angel. What’s your tag?”
Maclure walked off down the street, flanked by the other two. He knew that their pocketed hands fingered blaster tubes, and that a false move might cost him a foot or arm. But he was interested by the distinctly peculiar set-up he had seemingly blundered into. The last year he had spent on Venus doing a big engineering job—barracks and installation—for one of the wildcat land promoter outfits. The new scar on his jaw he had acquired when he had stormed into the company offices with a pay-slip that he wanted cashed in full. He still carried the scar, but he had got his due amount, and with it a bit of interest lying in the back of the blasted safe. His trip to Earth again had been in quest of some much-needed relaxation; he had not taken kindly to being jumped by two strangers.
The shorter man hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. Baldur Gaussman.”
“Yeah?” asked Angel, impressed. “You did that first floating weather station on Uranus, didn’t you?”
“That’s right,” said Gaussman. He halted before a curtained taxi. “We get in here,” he said quietly. And they did.
Collected Short Fiction Page 20
