But they were wrong. It screamed down out of the night of space above them, not touching their ship, seemingly a good distance away. No concussion wave struck them, yet they saw the surface of Hastur cleft and crumpled before them, saw the monster bury itself in the planetoid. There was a flare of light which made them blink for an instant, and that was all.
“Veer away,” gasped Nick. “We don’t want to be tumbled into that chasm.”
Timbie’s fingers darted over the controls, and they were lurched side-wise as the Columbia went off at a tangent to their former course. The bewilderment of what they had just seen still lay upon them; their minds were numb with the incredibility of it.
Dorothy’s eyes met Nick’s. “Are we dead?” she whispered. “Were we all killed in that collision and is this but the last flickers of my consciousness?”
“I was wondering that, too,” came Nick’s voice over the space-phones. “But it couldn’t be so if it occurred to you, too. There’s some simple explanation for all this, but for the life of me, I can’t think what it is.”
“Oh-oh,” said Timbie. “More fireworks!”
BEFORE them loomed a vast cliff wall, so high that they could not see its top. It had not been there an instant before. Somehow, they could not feel the horror of a few moments back, yet they braced themselves again for a shock.
A sudden jolt wrenched them away from the stanchions; the ship came to a stop as a warning light flickered ominously on the control board. Yet, as they picked themselves up, the cliff had disappeared; it was not behind them, and before them stretched the familiar surface of Hastur, above them the velvet of space, flecked with pinpricks of light.
“A puncture!” cried Nick. He grabbed the speaker.
“Nick,” came the voice of Marquis. “There’s a hole about the size of a soup plate in sector seven. Don’t worry; we’ll be sealing it off directly, and we’ve locked it off. Call you back when it’s done.”
“Okay, be careful.”
He turned to the others. “We’ll be on our way shortly. Anybody see that pit we turned off our course to avoid?”
“It’s gone, Nick,” said Hartnett, “but the show’s still on.” He nodded toward the port.
Something was coming over the horizon, something that looked partly like an arm, and partly like a molten river. It was both a flow and a wriggling, and, as they watched, another glowing thing snaked up from behind the distant ridges. This second thing went straight up into the sky, curving out as if looking for something upon which to swoop.
And now the main body of the thing began to be visible. It was vaguely conical, with the apex inverted, the arms of it issuing forth from the sides. A single glowing eye bulged from the top.
“It looks nasty,” said Nick, “but I don’t think it’s very powerful.”
“It might bang us up a bit, though,” added Timbie.
“The beastie is after something. Look at the way those three arms are swishing around.”
The thing was virtually monochrome except for the jet black of the single eye. The arms were flailing in the general direction of the ship, coming closer with each cast. But apparently it had not reached them yet.
“Do you suppose it can’t see well?” asked Dorothy.
Before anyone could answer her the creature had already acted. For caught now in one of the brilliant arms was a flattish many-legged thing, looking more like a centipede than anything else. It had a barbed tail like a scorpion, and was writhing and trying to spear the other desperately. But the hunter had calculated well and encircled its prey in such a manner that the barb could not reach it. Closer to the brilliant body the struggling thing was borne, then a slit appeared in the side of the victor, and a deep red orifice grew. The flattish creature was popped into this; the cavity closed with a snap and again the shell of brilliant cone-thing seemed to be unbroken.
“Nice fauna here,” remarked Nick. “Did your party ever meet up with that beauty?”
Hartnett grinned. “In a way. But watch closely, now. There’s more to come.”
The bright cone rested motionless on the ridge, two of its three arms lying motionless. They couldn’t see the third, but supposed that it, too, was at rest. Unwinking, the huge eyes stared apparently upward.
But off in another direction what looked like a cloud was approaching. It drifted easily, dropping to the surface now and then and lazing along for a while, then rising up again. The size of it made them gasp. It seemed to be larger than the Columbia.
Now the cone-thing was aware of its approach and the blight arms was in play again. Like a fisherman casting after trout, the arms threw out. The cloud came on until it hovered over the cone-creature, then suddenly it dropped down enveloping it. An instant later it rose and the cone-creature was gone; the whitish cloud started to drift away.
But something was wrong. It didn’t move as easily as it had done before; it lurched in a distressed manner.
“What’s wrong with it?” murmured Nick.
“Look, it’s changing color,” cried Dorothy.
A rusty stain had suddenly appeared in the cloud. Before their eyes it grew rapidly, the core of it an angry red, the spreading stain rust. The cloud-thing rose up slowly, but the red spot grew. And as they watched, a bulge appeared in the red, grew like a blister and finally burst. From the cavity the brilliant arms of the cone-thing appeared, followed by the rest of the creature.
It lingered in the opening as the stricken cloud sank slowly to the surface of the planetoid. Now the red stain had almost completely blotted out the normal white of the cloud and they saw that the thing was beginning to crumble where the cone-creature had emerged. It dissolved into a sort of dust leaving the cone-thing in much the same position it had been in before, with the single great eye staring up at the stars.
“I’ll be damned,” murmured Nick. “It must have poisoned the cloud. But why did the cloud try to eat it, then?”
“These creatures haven’t any intelligence at all, apparently.” explained Hartnett. “I’ve seen that happen any number of times. I’d say offhand that the cloud-mass is attracted by something in the cone-creature—perhaps that scorpion-thing it just ate, because the clouds can envelope them without danger. But the cone-creature is rather well developed as you saw.”
THE light on the control board winked. Timbie picked up the phone. “It’s Marquis,” he said. “They’ve got the patch on the puncture and we’ll be able to go ahead shortly.”
“Okay,” said Nick. “Tell them to wink when all’s ready.” He turned to the others. “It doesn’t look as if we’ll make the equator.”
Hartnett smiled grimly. “Well, if we can’t get off, we can at least gather some valuable data here on such things as the Doppler effect, the Lorentz-Fitzgerald contraction effect, the Einstein effect——”
“Hey!” burst in Dorothy, “did you say Einstein?”
“That’s right. This will be the first opportunity anyone’s ever had to get real observational data for primary sources.”
“Wait a minute,” she continued. “According to Einstein, there’s an increase in mass with an increase in speed, isn’t there?”
“Correct, but why get so excited about it?”
“Lots of reasons, Nick. We’re dopes, that’s why. There’s no sense in our going to the equator; our mass would be so terrific there that we could never get off.
“But, if there’s a point where the centrifugal force will throw us off, it’s between here and the equator.”
“She’s right!” screamed Edgar. “And I’m a seventh order moron not to have thought of it myself. If such a point exists, we must be pretty close to it now.”
The light flickered again. “All set,” said Joe. “Get ready; we’re moving.”
Again they grasped the stanchions, their hearts hammering in hopeful anticipation. Now the effect that Timbie had mentioned was painfully apparent. They saw him press the firing button, counted beneath their breath as they waited for the light which
would indicate that the rocket had fired correctly—ordinarily, that light flicked so soon after the button was pressed that it appeared simultaneous—then braced themselves for a spurt ahead.
When it came the scene outside had altered again. Now the entire topography of Hastur seemed to be a vast concavity and they were climbing up the rim of the great cup. Ahead of them strange wrinkles appeared in the surface which became normal again as they approached nearer; behind them, the planetoid had become an incline sloping down to the edge where the great globes of stars wheeled in the abyss.
“Are we crazy—or is it Hastur?” burst out Bob Vickers.
Hartnett smiled. “These distortions are purely illusionary. It’s the effect of the rotation.”
Slowly, strangely slow, the Columbia dragged itself forward, sliding along the planetoid’s surface, more fantastically distorted to their eyes every instant. Now it seemed to shrink before them until it appeared that the entire world was smaller than their ship, that the Columbia was balancing precariously on the ridiculous little globe of it, and the first spurt from the rockets would send them off into space. Then Hastur was an incredible long, winding ribbon, lined with impassable mountains on either side, and they must travel along the millions of miles of it, as on a runway until at last they came to the rim. Then it was a geometrical nightmare, a riot of planes and angles which hurt their eyes to see; up from the surface reared hideously formed ridges and equally ghastly orifices yawned before them. And before them stretched leagues upon leagues of glassy surface . . . then . . .
The weird terrain was slipping away from them; they felt themselves buffeted as the entire ship was rocked violently. “We’ve hit it,” yelled Bob.
Below them Hastur was already a sphere, and, as Timbie’s fingers pressed buttons releasing full fire on the rockets, it became again the incredible globe they had seen when approaching it. They were free.
Dorothy raised her hand to her face to wipe away a tear that was streaming down her cheek, smiled despite herself when her mailed finger touched the glassite of her helmet.
“Goodbye, Harry,” she whispered.
“WE have here,” declared Edgar, picking his nose, “a small list of the mysteries of Hastur. So far as I can see, the only way really to break them is to make up another expedition sometime.”
“Read ‘em off, bucko,” said Dorothy.
“First of all—what is Hastur made of? Why, with the terrific speed of rotation, doesn’t it fly to pieces?”
“I devoted five pages to that in my book,” put in Hartnett. “To sum up briefly: there’s no reason I know why it should be, but it is. Therefore, there must be a reason.” They glared at him. “Good way of wasting time,” he protested.
“Then,” continued Edgar, “we have the matter of the reverse English radio reception. And I shall personally slay and dismember anyone who tries to pass it off merely as ‘Einstein effect’.” He looked up. “Well?”
Dorothy smiled. “We like living, Edgar.”
“Speaking of ‘Einstein effect’,” broke in Hartnett, “I presume you realize by now that all the weird things we saw were enormously distorted. The stars, for example, were never actually closer. That was easy to realize, because no more than the customary amount of light was visible, and no gravitational eccentricities were noted.”
“What about the thing that nearly wiped us out?” asked Bob Vickers.
“A meteor—and a very small one at that. It landed a little distance away from the ship. Had it hit us, it wouldn’t have blotted us out, but could have caused considerable damage nonetheless.”
“And the—creatures?”
“Microscopic. Had we been able to move at the time, we could have ploughed right through them. I’ve seen those illusions a number of times—we wasted quite a bit of ammunition on them before we got wise.
“And just imagine their consternation when they saw us, apparently microscopic, too, yet always out of grasp. That’s why the cone-creature was flailing away at nothing at all. It was trying to catch us.”
“Can you explain wave n?” burst in Edgar.
“I have seven pages on that in my book,” smiled Hartnett. “Summed up, I say: wave n was discovered while we were looking for something else. We played around with it until it began to sit up and say ‘uncle.’ We don’t know from nothing about it.”
Nick puzzled. “What kind of a book is this, Steve?”
Hartnett laughed. “A joke. A beautiful joke on the dear public. Three hundred pages of pompous drivel, harebrained speculations, pseudo-science, and what not.
“I made a solemn vow many years ago, Nick, that if I ever became an explorer, I would write a book to end all travel books, in retaliation for the ghastly piles of dung about which pedants rave so heartily and which are crammed down the throats of otherwise innocent schoolboys.
“Here on Hastur I had the time to do it—and it was a good way of keeping my spirits up. Oh yes—I worked on solid stuff, too—but that isn’t for public consumption; too deep.”
“But seriously,” broke in Edgar, “haven’t you any idea as to the reason for the signals in reverse English?”
“I don’t want to be personally slain and dismembered, Edgar. That tabu explanation very frankly is the only one I’ve found so far. The signals were warped—unless you want something utterly fantastic like their traveling around the universe, or being slipped through the continuum.”
“What does that mean?” asked Dorothy.
“Nothing. It’s a sort of gibberish which some people use to explain things otherwise inexplicable.” He paused as the familiar figure of Grenville, wreathed with beatific smiles, entered the room. “What’s in the bottle?”
“I have here,” sighed the chemical engineer, “the ne-plus-ultra of our own private rocket-blast. It’s smooth!”
“Yeah? What happened to your fingernails?”
“I got hungry!—Okay, if you don’t trust me, I’ll sample it first.” He uncorked the bottle and took a mighty quaff of the curiously-colored contents.
“If he starts rolling over on the floor, kicking feebly, we’ll know that it’s a good roach spray if nothing else,” observed Edgar.
Hastur was behind them now; soon the contracels would be flashing them back to Earth. Dorothy drew close to Nick, glad that the cumbersome suits were no longer necessary.
It would be a little blue sweater, she thought, just for luck.
Crisis
When the Diplomacy Bureau at home is composed of hopeless Incompetents, the Venusians are rattling the sabre, and it looks as if an utterly senseless war is going to result, a little screwball stuff can be forgiven—if it works!
IF THE Karfiness hadn’t cut herself badly while she was trimming her chelae one morning, the whole mess might never have happened. But fashion decreed that the ropy circle of tentacles about the neck of the female Martian would be worn short that year, and everybody in the Matriarchy, from Girl Guide to the Serene Karfiness herself, obeyed without question.
That was why her temper was short that morning, and why she snapped at the Venusian Plenipotentiary who had come to chat with her concerning the space-mining rights for the following year. The worthy lady glowered at the gentleman from Venus and shrieked, “By the Almighty, if you fish-faced baboons so much as try to lay a flipper on a single free electron between here and Venus I’ll blow your waterlogged planet out of space!” And, unfortunately for the Venusians, she had the navy with which to do it.
The principles of compensation operated almost immediately; the Plenipotentiary ethered back to Venus, and Venus severed diplomatic relations with Earth. Should you fail to grasp the train of events, stop worrying. Those are the facts; the Karfiness cut herself and Venus made warlike noises at Earth.
Earth was in a very peculiar situation. Only a century ago it had begun really intensive spacing, with freight exchanges and mining. Venus and Mars, and in a smaller way Jupiter, had been a space culture for millennia. Earth had not had the elab
orate machineries of foreign offices and consulates, embassies and delegates and envoys that the other planets maintained. Terra had gone into the complicated mess of astropolitics with her eyes serenely closed and the naive conviction that right would prevail.
TO THE cloistered Bureau of Protocol in Alaska came a message under diplomatic seal from the Ambassador to Venus, right into the office of Code Clerk Weems.
Carefully he scanned the tape and lead that closed the pouch. “At it again,” he said finally. “I sometimes wonder if the whole thing wouldn’t go smash if we read our own mail before every other great power in space.”
Dr. Helen Carewe, his highly privileged assistant, opened the pouch with a paper knife and a shrug. “Take it easy, career man,” she advised. “Your daddy had the same trouble before they promoted him to Washington State. We get all the dirty work here in Nome—have to explain how and when and why the inviolable mail sacks arrive open and read.” She scanned the messages heavily typed on official paper. “What,” she asked, “does ‘Aristotle’ mean?”
“Inexcusable outrages on the dignity of a representative of Terra,” said Weems after consulting the code book. “Sounds bad.”
“It is. Oh, but it is! They took Ambassador Malcolm and painted him bright blue, then drove him naked through the streets of Venusport.”
“Whew!” whistled Weems. “That’s an ‘Aristotle’ if ever I heard one! What do we do now?” He was already reaching for the phone.
“Cut that out!” snapped Dr. Carewe. She could speak to him like that—or even more firmly—because she was more than old enough to be his mother. The number of career men she had coached through the Alaska Receiving Station would fill half the consulates in space—and with damned good men. Brow wrinkled, she brooded aloud, “While this isn’t definitely spy stuff, we ought to know whether they have a line on our phones. Don’t get Washington; try Intelligence in Wyoming.”
Collected Short Fiction Page 74
