Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Loomis frowned, then hurried outside to the commander’s tent.

  “I’VE changed my mind about finding Dan Stack,” Loomis told the commander. “He really sounds too far gone.”

  “I think you’ve made a wise decision,” the commander said.

  “So I should like to return to Mars immediately.”

  The commander nodded. “All spaceships leave from Port New Haarlem, where you came in.”

  “How do I get back there?”

  “Well, that’s a little difficult,” the commander replied. “I suppose I could lend you a native guide. You’ll have to trek back across the Thompson Mountains to Ou-Barkar. I suggest you take the Desset Valley route this time, since the Kmikti Horde is migrating across the central rain-forest, and you can never tell about those devils. You’ll reach Ou-Barkar in the rainy season, so the semis won’t be going through to Depotsville. You might be able to join the salt caravan traveling the short way through Knife Pass, if you get there in time. If you don’t, the trail is relatively easy to follow by compass, if you compensate for the variation zones.

  “Once you’ve reached Depotsville, the rains will be in full career. Quite a sight, too. Perhaps you can catch a heli to New St. Denis and another to East Marsh, but I doubt it because of the zicre. Winds like that can mess up aircraft rather badly. So perhaps you could take the paddle-boat to East Marsh, then a freighter down the Inland Zee to Port New Haarlem. I believe there are several good hurricane ports along the southern shore, in case the weather grows extreme. I personally prefer to travel by land or air. The final decision of route, of course, rests with you.”

  “Thank you,” said Loomis faintly.

  “Let me know what you decide,” the commander said.

  Loomis thanked him and returned to his tent in a state of nerves. He thought about the trip back across mountains and swamps, through primitive settlements, past migrating hordes. He visualized the complications added by the rains and the zicre. Never had his free-wheeling imagination performed any better than it did now, conjuring up the horrors of that trip back.

  It had been hard getting here; it would be much harder returning. And this time, his sensitive and pleasure-seeking soul would not be sheltered by the patient, long-suffering Crompton. He would have to bear the full sensory impact of wind, rain, hunger, thirst, exhaustion and fear. He would have to eat the coarse foods and drink the foul water. And he would have to perform the complicated routines of the trail, which Crompton had painfully learned and which he had ignored.

  THE total responsibility would be his. He would have to choose the route and make the critical decisions, for Crompton’s life and for his own.

  But could he? He was a man of the cities, a creature of society. His problems had been the quirks and twists of people, not the moods and passions of nature. He had avoided the raw and lumpy world of sun and sky, living entirely in mankind’s elaborate burrows and intricate anthills. Protected by sidewalks, doors, windows and ceilings, he had come to doubt the strength of nature about which the older authors wrote so engagingly, and which furnished such excellent conceits for poems and songs.

  Nature, it had seemed to Loomis, sun-bathing on a placid Martian summer day or drowsily listening to the whistle of wind against his window on a stormy night, had—in the interest of art, to be sure—been exaggerated into a gigantic and wholly imaginary grinding machine.

  But now, shatteringly, he had to ride the wheels of the grindstone.

  Loomis thought about it and suddenly pictured his own end. He saw the time when his energies would be exhausted and he would be lying in some windswept pass or sitting with bowed head in the driving rain of the marshlands. He would try to go on, searching for the strength that is said to lie beyond exhaustion. And he would not find it. A sense of utter futility would pass over him, alone and lost in the immensity of all outdoors. At that point, life would seem too much effort, too much strain. He, like many before him, would then admit defeat, give up, lie down, and wait for death . . .

  Loomis whispered, “Crompton?”

  No answer.

  “Crompton! Can’t you hear me? I’ll put you back in command. Just get us out of this overgrown greenhouse. Get us back to Earth or Mars! Crompton, I don’t want to die!”

  Still no answer.

  “All right, Crompton,” Loomis said in a husky whisper. “You win. Take over! Do anything you want. I surrender—it’s all yours. Just please take over!”

  “Thank you,” Crompton said icily, and took control of the Crompton body.

  In ten minutes, he was back in the commander’s tent, saying that he had changed his mind again. The commander nodded wearily, deciding that he would never understand people.

  SOON Crompton was seated in the center of a large dugout canoe, with trade goods piled around him. The paddlers set up a lusty chant and pushed onto the river. Crompton turned and watched until the Vigilantes’ tents were lost around a bend.

  To Crompton, that trip down the Blood River was like a passage to the beginning of time. The six natives dipped their paddles in silent unison and the canoe glided like a water-spider over the broad, slow-moving stream. Gigantic ferns hung over the river’s bank, and quivered when the canoe came near, and stretched longingly toward them on long stalks. Then the paddlers would raise the warning shout and the canoe would be steered back to midstream, and the ferns would droop again in the noonday heat.

  They came to places where the trees had interlaced overhead, forming a dark, leafy tunnel. Then Crompton and the paddlers would crouch under the canvas of the tent, letting the boat drift through on the current, hearing the lethal splatter of corrosive sap dropping around them. They would emerge again to the glaring white sky, and the natives would man their paddles.

  “Ominous,” Loomis said nervously.

  “Yes, quite ominous,” Crompton agreed, awed by his surroundings.

  The Blood River carried them deep into the interior of the continent. At night, moored to a midstream boulder, they could hear the war-hums of hostile Ais. One day, two canoes of Ais pulled into the stream behind them. Crompton’s men leaned into their paddles and the canoe sprinted forward. The hostiles clung doggedly to them, and Crompton took out a rifle and waited. But his paddlers, inspired by fear, increased their lead, and soon the raiders were lost at a fork in the river.

  They breathed more easily after that. But at a narrow stretch they were greeted by a shower of arrows from both banks. One of the paddlers slumped across the gun-whale, pierced four times. The rest leaned to their paddles and soon were out of range.

  They dropped the dead Ais overboard, and the hungry creatures of the river squabbled over his disposition. After that, a great armored creature with crablike arms swam behind the canoe, his round head raised above the water, waiting doggedly for more food. Even rifle bullets wouldn’t drive him away, and his presence gave Crompton nightmares.

  THE creature received another meal when two paddlers died of a grayish mold that crept up their paddles. The crablike creature accepted them and waited for more. But this river god protected his own—a raiding party of hostiles, seeing him, raised a great shout and fled back into the jungle.

  He clung behind the canoe for the final hundred miles of the journey. And, when they came at last to a moss-covered wharf on the bank, he stopped, watched disconsolately for a while, then turned back upstream.

  The paddlers pulled to the ruined dock. Crompton climbed onto it and saw a piece of wood daubed with red paint. Turning it over he saw written on it, “Blood Delta. Population 92.”

  Nothing but jungle lay beyond. They had reached Dan Stack’s final retreat.

  A narrow, overgrown path led from the wharf to a clearing in the jungle. Within the clearing was what looked like a ghost town. Not a person walked on its single dusty street and no faces peered out of the low, unpainted buildings. The little town baked silently under the white noonday glare, and Crompton could hear no sound but the scuffle of his own footsteps in the di
rt.

  “I don’t like this,” Loomis said.

  Crompton walked slowly down the street. He passed a row of storage sheds with their owners’ names crudely printed across the walls. He passed an empty saloon, its door hanging by one hinge, its mosquito-netting windows ripped. He went by three deserted stores and came to a fourth which had a sign saying, “Stack & Finch. Supplies.”

  Crompton entered. Trade goods were in neat piles on the floor, and more goods hung from the ceiling rafters. There was no one inside.

  “Anyone here?” Crompton called. He got no answer.

  At the end of the town, he came to a sturdy, barnlike building. Sitting on a stool in front of it was a tanned and mustached man of perhaps fifty. He had a revolver thrust into his belt. His stool was tilted back against the wall and he appeared to be half asleep.

  “Dan Stack?” Crompton asked.

  “Inside,” the man grunted.

  CROMPTON walked to the door. The mustached man stirred and the revolver was suddenly in his hand.

  “Move back away from that door,” he ordered.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” asked the mustached man.

  “No! Who are you?”

  “I’m Ed Tyler, peace officer appointed by the citizens of Blood Delta and confirmed in office by the commander of the Vigilantes. Stack’s in jail. This here place is the jail, for the time being.”

  “How long is he in for?”

  “Just a couple hours,” said Tyler. “Can I speak to him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I speak to him when he gets out?”

  “Sure,” Tyler said, “but I doubt he’ll answer you.”

  “Why?”

  The peace officer grinned wryly. “Stack will just be in jail a couple hours on account of this afternoon we’re taking him out of the jail and hanging him by the neck until he’s dead. After we’ve performed that little chore, you’re welcome to all the talking you want with him. But like I said, I doubt he’ll answer you.”

  Crompton was too tired to feel much shock. He asked, “What did Stack do?”

  “Murder.”

  “A native?”

  “Hell, no,” Tyler said in disgust. “Who gives a damn about natives? Stack killed a man name of Barton Finch. His own partner. Finch isn’t dead yet, but he’s going fast. Old Doc says he won’t last out the day, and that makes it murder. Stack was tried by a jury of his peers and found guilty of killing Barton Finch, breaking Billy Redburn’s leg, busting two of Eli Talbot’s ribs, wrecking Moriarty’s saloon, and generally disturbing the peace. The judge—that’s me—prescribed hanging by the neck as soon as possible. That means this afternoon, when the boys are back from working on the new dam.”

  “When did the trial take place?” Crompton asked.

  “This morning.”

  “And the murder?”

  “About three hours before the trial.”

  “Quick work,” Crompton said.

  “We don’t waste no time here in Blood Delta,” said Tyler proudly.

  “I guess you don’t. You even hang a man before his victim’s dead.”

  “I told you Finch is going fast,” Tyler said, his eyes narrowing. “Watch yourself, stranger. Don’t go around maligning the justice of Blood Delta, or you’ll find yourself in plenty trouble. We don’t need no fancy lawyer’s tricks to tell us right from wrong.”

  LOOMIS whispered urgently to Crompton, “Leave it alone. Let’s get out of here.”

  Crompton ignored him. He said to the sheriff, “Mr. Tyler, I’d really appreciate seeing him. Just for five minutes. Just to give him a last message.”

  “Not a chance,” the sheriff said.

  Crompton dug into his pocket and took out a grimy wad of bills. “Just two minutes.”

  “Well. Maybe I could—damn!”

  Following Tyler’s gaze, Crompton saw a large group of men coming down the dusty street.

  “Here come the boys,” Tyler said. “Not a chance now, even if I wanted to. I guess you can watch the hanging, though.”

  Crompton moved back out of the way. There were at least fifty men in the group, and more coming. For the most part, they were lean, leathery, hard-bitten, no-nonsense types, and most of them carried sidearms. They conferred briefly with the sheriff.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Loomis warned.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Crompton said.

  Sheriff Tyler opened the barn door. A group of men entered and came out dragging a man. Crompton was unable to see what he looked like, for the crowd closed around him.

  He followed as they hustled the man to the far edge of town, where a rope had been thrown across one limb of a sturdy tree.

  “Up with him!” the crowd shouted.

  “Boys!” came the muffled voice of Dan Stack. “Let me speak!”

  “To hell with that,” a man yelled. “Up with him!”

  “My last words!” Stack shrieked. The sheriff called out, “Let him say his piece, boys. It’s a dying man’s right. Go ahead, Stack, but don’t take too long about it.”

  THEY had put Dan Stack on a wagon, the noose around his neck, the free end held by a dozen hands. At last Crompton was able to see him. He stared, fascinated by this long-sought-for segment of himself.

  Dan Stack was a large, solidly built man. His thick, deeply lined features showed the marks of passion and hatred, fear and sudden violence. He had wide, flaring nostrils, a thick-lipped mouth set with strong teeth, and narrow, treacherous eyes. Coarse black hair hung over his inflamed forehead, and there was a dark stubble on his fiery cheeks.

  Stack was staring overhead at the glowing white sky. Slowly he lowered his head, and the bronze fixture on his right hand flashed red in the steady glare.

  “Boys,” Stack said, “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my time.”

  “You telling us?” someone shouted.

  “I’ve been a liar and a cheat. I’ve struck the girl I loved and struck her hard, wanting to hurt.

  I’ve stolen from my own dear parents. I’ve brought red murder to the unhappy natives of this planet. Boys, I’ve not lived a good life!”

  The crowd laughed at his maudlin speech.

  “But I want you to know,” Stack bellowed, “I want you to know that I’ve struggled with my sinful nature and tried to conquer it. I’ve wrestled with the old devil in my soul and fought him the best fight I knew how. I joined the Vigilantes and for a while I was as straight a man as you’ll find. Then the madness came over me again and I killed.”

  “You through now?” the sheriff asked.

  “But I want you all to understand one thing,” Stack bawled, his eyeballs rolling in his red face. “I admit the bad things I’ve done. I admit them freely and fully. But, boys, I did not kill Barton Finch!”

  “All right,” the sheriff said. “If you’re through now, we’ll get on with it.”

  “Listen to me! Finch was my friend, my only friend on this world! I was trying to help him and I shook him a little to bring him to his senses. And when he didn’t, I guess I lost my head and busted up Moriarty’s Saloon and fractured a couple of the boys. But I swear I didn’t harm Finch!”

  “Are you finished?” the sheriff patiently wanted to know.

  Stack opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded.

  “All right, boys,” the sheriff said. “Let’s go.”

  ALTHOUGH the crowd roared agreement, no one stepped forward to move the wagon upon which Stack was standing. They were hard men, skilled in native warfare, always ready for a fight. But hanging a man in cold blood was something else again.

  “Well?” the sheriff asked. “How about it?”

  No one moved.

  “Okay,” said Sheriff Tyler mournfully. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself, though I wish—”

  “Wait!” Crompton shouted. “I’ve got a score to settle with Stack! I’ll do it myself!”

  No one stopped him as he jumped on the
wagon. Standing close to Stack, concealing his movements from the crowd, Crompton pulled the projector out of its case. Stack knew at once who he was. Quickly they slapped on the electrodes.

  “Hey!” yelled a man in the crowd. “What’s he doing?”

  And Loomis was speaking very quickly. “Watch out, take it easy, don’t do it, don’t believe him, remember his history, he’ll ruin us, smash us, he’s powerful, he’s homicidal, he’s evil.”

  But Stack was part of Crompton, couldn’t be completely evil.

  But had Stack told the truth? Or had that impassioned speech been a last-minute bid to the audience in hope of a reprieve?

  Crompton had no time to think. Hastily he set up a similarity-pattern and shoved the switch. Then he yanked the projector free and stuffed it inside his shirt.

  “Get him away from there!” the sheriff shouted.

  Crompton was yanked from the wagon and a dozen men gave it a push. The crowd roared as Stack’s body plunged from the edge, contorted horribly for a moment, then hung lifeless from the taut rope. And Crompton caved in under the impact of Stack’s mind in his.

  CROMPTON awoke to find himself lying on a cot in a small, dimly lighted room.

  “You all right?” a voice asked. After a moment, Crompton recognized Sheriff Tyler bending over him.

  “Yes, fine now,” Crompton said automatically.

  “I guess a hanging’s something of a shock to a civilized man like yourself. Think you’ll be okay if I leave you alone?”

  “Certainly,” Crompton answered dully.

  “Good. Got some work to do. I’ll look in on you in a couple hours.”

  Tyler left. Crompton tried to take stock of himself.

  Integration . . .

  Fusion . . .

  Completion . . .

  Had he achieved it during the healing time of unconsciousness? Tentatively he searched his mind.

  He found Loomis wailing disconsolately, terribly frightened, babbling about the Orange Desert, camping trips at All Diamond Mountain, the pleasures of women, luxury, sensation, beauty.

  And Stack was there, solid and immovable, unfused.

  Crompton spoke to him, mind to mind, and knew that Stack had been absolutely and completely sincere in his last speech. Stack honestly wished for reform, self-control, moderation.