A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Our latest target had been Songeau, and it was from this port we were returning when it happened.

  We sighted a tramp beating her way up the coast, and I called the squadron leader for permission to unload a heavy I was carrying home undropped. He O.K.‘d, and we peeled off. The freighter opened up on us with all she had as we came in, but she might as well have been throwing spit balls. We laid our egg down her aft stack, and she flew into pieces like one of those toys kids play with. You know—the kind you push a button, and blooie!

  So that was that, and we were all talking it up and feeling pretty hot stuff when all of a sudden we discovered we were losing elevation like crazy. It seems the freighter had died like a rat, clawing in her death agony. A hunk of her exploding hide had slashed one of our wing tanks, and we were spraying gas all over the South China Sea.

  Even then we weren’t worried. The Navy watches out for its own, and we knew that an hour after we were forced to our life rafts, a rescue party would be out to pick us up. So we reported the bad news to the squadron leader and accepted his condolences philosophically; and with no great dismay watched the flight dwindle to black dots as we lurch along, coaxing every last possible mile out of our ruptured duck.

  It would be annoying, we thought, and a nuisance. But it wouldn’t be dangerous. That’s what we thought.

  That’s what we thought, being logical guys. But in the South Pacific area you can toss logic and reason out the window.

  About ten minutes after the flight had disappeared, and about one cupful of gas before we’d have to ditch, out of a bald, blue, breezeless nowhere came thundering mountains of cumulus, torrential cloudbursts of rain, and a shrieking hundred-mile gale that picked us up, and whirled us like the button on a hen-coop door.

  How long we rode that thing, I haven’t the faintest idea. I had no time for clock-watching; I had all I could do holding the Ardent Alice—that was our ship’s name—holding the Ardent Alice’s nose steady in the face of that blast. It grabbed us, and shook us, and lifted and dropped us, and spun us as if we weighed ounces instead of tons. We had no way of climbing above the storm, of course; we just had to sit there and take it. At least a dozen times I was sure we were going to be slammed into the sea, but each time the unpredictable wind jerked us upstairs again to play with us some more.

  All three of us were nerve-tattered, bone-bruised, and dog-sick from the storm’s beating, and not one but would have cheerfully given up a year’s shore leave to be clear of this mess. And then, suddenly—as suddenly as it had sprung from nowhere—the typhoon passed. One minute we were standing on our ears in a maelstrom of wind and rain; the next, the skies were crystal clear and a benevolent sun beamed down on a blue tranquil sea, while under the shadow of our wing tips lay the pink-and-green sanctuary of a tropical island!

  Gorham coughed politely, interrupting his patient. “Pardon me, Lieutenant. I’d like to make a note of that. It may be important. An island? What island?”

  Brady shrugged helplessly.

  “I don’t know, sir. We had been twisted, battered, bounced around so badly, and for so long, that none of us had any idea where we were. We might have been one mile or fifty—or five hundred!

  —from where the typhoon struck us.”

  His voice strengthened with purpose. “But wherever it is, we’ve got to find that island again. Got to! Because it’s Their island. Unless we find it, and destroy Them—”

  “Suppose,” suggested the doctor quietly, “you go on with your story? You reached this uncharted island. And you landed safely, I take it?”

  “That’s right, sir. We landed safely on a sandy strip of beach—”

  We landed safely (continued ‘Lieutenant Brady) on a sandy strip of beach. We were jubilant at having made a safe harbor but uncertain as to just how safe the harbor was. We didn’t know, you see, whether we’d been carried into friendly or enemy territory. In that God-forsaken corner of the world there was also the possibility that the island’s inhabitants, if any, might be technically neutral but still dangerous. In other words, head-hunting aborigines.

  Imagine our pleasure and surprise, then, when a few minutes after we’d landed we heard a cheerful hail and looked up to find white men approaching us from the wall of tropical foliage that spanned the beach.

  They were smiling and unarmed, and they welcomed us in English with courteous enthusiasm.

  They had seen us land, said the head of their party—a youngish chap who introduced himself as Dr. Grove—and had hurried out to meet us in case anyone needed medical assistance.

  I assured him we were all right, and that we needed only food, rest, and a means of communicating our whereabouts to our comrades, who by this time were undoubtedly fanned out over half the South Pacific searching for us.

  He nodded. “Food and rest you shall have,” he said heartily. “As for the other—those things take time in this primitive country. But we shall see; we shall see.”

  “We have a radio in the plane—” I began, but Jack Kavanaugh, our radioman, shook his head at me.

  “Did have, Skipper! It went out just as we sighted the island. Must have got whanged around a bit in the storm.”

  “But you can fix it?”

  “I suppose so. If it’s nothing serious. I’ll tell you better after I’ve had a chance to look it over.”

  “Of course,” nodded Grove. “But in the meantime, I hope you’ll accent our humble hospitality?

  We don’t have the pleasure of entertaining new guests here very often. It will be good to chat with you all. If you’ll follow me—”

  There was nothing else to do. Like sheep being led to the slaughter—blindly trusting and without a struggle—we followed him off the beach into a winding jungle path.

  It was Tom Goeller, my gunner, who first intimated there might be something wrong about this setup. Even he did not really suspect anything; he was just puzzled. He wondered aloud as we pushed forward: “Where from? I don’t get it!”

  “Don’t get what?” I asked him. “What do you mean—where from? What’s biting you, Tom?”

  “That Grove character,” grumbled Tom. “He said they saw us land. Only—where from? Where the hell do they live? In the trees? I had a good look at this island just before we landed. A good, long look—from topside. And I didn’t see a sign of anything that looked like a house.”

  I said: “By God, you’re right! I didn’t, either. I wonder if—

  But my question was answered before I voiced it. We stopped, inexplicably, before a sort of concrete shelter under a sprawling banyan tree; a lean-to sort of business in mottled green and brown—so perfectly camouflaged to conform with its surroundings that you could hardly see it from ten yards away, much less from air.

  Dr. Grove smiled and said: “Here we are, gentlemen.” He touched a button, and the shelter door swung open. “If you will be good enough to enter—”

  Kavanaugh spoke up roughly. “Enter what? That?”

  Grove laughed pleasantly. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s merely an elevator. The entrance is from around level.”

  “An elevator!” I exclaimed. “In this jungle? What kind of monkey business is this, anyhow? Do you mean to tell me you live underground?”

  “My dear Lieutenant,” said the self-styled “Doctor” languidly, “I’ll be glad to explain everything—later. It’s all very simple. But first I must insist that you—”

  “Oh!” I interrupted. “So now you are insisting, eh? And suppose we prefer not to step into your mysterious little parlor? Then what?”

  “Then,” sighed Dr. Grove, “I should be compelled—most regretfully—to enforce my request.”

  “That right?” I grunted. “Guess again, pal. There are more of you than us—but we happen to be armed.” I took out automatic and held it on him level. “That’s one detail you seem to have overlooked. Now—”

  “I overlook no details, Lieutenant,” answered Grove quietly. “Would you be kind enough to fire your gun? If you hav
e qualms against killing a man in cold blood”—his lips curled mockingly—“you might fire into the air.”

  I stared at him, baffled. He wasn’t stalling. You can feel things like that. He was amused, superior, contemptuous. Goeller said: “Watch yourself, Skipper; it’s a trick! He wants you to shoot. The sound will bring help.”

  Grove smiled. “Wrong, my friend. I need no help.” He slipped a hand into his breast pocket.

  “Very well. Since you won’t accept my invitation—”

  Shooting was risky, but I had no choice. “O.K.,” I snapped. “You asked for it!” And I squeezed the trigger. I froze on it, waiting for the blast, and the sight of his body crumpling before me.

  But nothing happened!

  Gorham, listening to this recital, blinked. “You mean,” he suggested, “the gun missed fire—that it jammed?”

  “I mean,” said Brady helplessly, “it just didn’t go off; that’s all. It didn’t miss fire. It didn’t jam.

  There wasn’t a thing wrong with it, mechanically. Later I took it down piece by piece and examined it. It was perfect. But it just wouldn’t fire on that island.”

  Gorham said slowly: “It wouldn’t fire—on that island?” His eyes on the younger man were cautious, and he was doodling thoughtfully on the pad before him. “But that’s incredible! Why not?”

  “I soon found out,” said Brady grimly, “about that. About that and a lot of other things—”

  I stood there (said Brady) speechless. I couldn’t understand. At first I thought—like you—that my gun had jammed. Then suddenly I discovered that the other men had drawn their guns too—and that they too were staring incredulously at utterly futile weapons.

  “You see?” shrugged Grove. “Now, perhaps, you will be kind enough to step into the shaft?”

  “Not on your life!” I blazed back. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. But whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it. Come on, gang! Let’s get out of here!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “You force me to use harsh measures. Believe me, I do so reluctantly.”

  From his breast pocket he drew a slender tube about the size and shape of a fountain pen. He pointed it at me—at us, I should say, because from it suddenly flowed a silver cone of radiance.

  I started to rush him, shouting something or other. But both shout and movement stopped abruptly as that curious, silvery radiance engulfed me. It wasn’t a gas. It was odorless and tasteless; it did not bum or sting or cause pain in any way. But it was as though I had charged into an ocean of lambent cobwebs, to become enmeshed in a shroud of moon-beams. I could neither move nor speak; only my senses functioned.

  As in a dream, I heard Dr. Grove bid his followers: “Place them in the shaft. Gently, please!”

  Then the feel of hands lifting, carrying me; they felt—how can I explain it?—they felt far away upon my body, as though layers of sponge rubber lay between their flesh and mine.

  I could see, too, but only straight ahead of me, in the direction in which my pupils were fixed. I couldn’t move my eyes. So I saw only that the interior of the elevator was of smooth, polished metal, anomalous in these surroundings. I heard the whine of an electric motor and sensed, rather than felt, the motion of our swift descent.

  Dr. Grove leaned over me, thrusting himself into my line of vision.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said. “I sincerely regret having had to inconvenience you. But, you see, firearms won’t work on this island. No explosions of any kind are permitted—unless by special arrangement. We have means of hampering your primitive mechanical devices. That is why your guns did not fire, and why your radio will not operate.”

  I was filled with a thousand questions, but I could not ask them, not even with my eyes. “What are these means?” I wanted to ask him. “And who, or what, are you that you should speak of a radio as a primitive mechanical device? Where are we going, and what are you planning to do with us? All these questions hammered at my brain, but my tongue was silent.

  Then the sensation of movement stopped, I heard the elevator door slide open, and our captors lifted us again. I saw the metal ceilings of long, well-lighted corridors, and heard voices proclaiming the presence of many more persons in these subterranean vaults, and once was silent witness to a conversation between Grove and someone apparently his superior.

  “Well, Frater?”

  “I’m sorry, Frater Dorden. It was necessary. They would not come willingly.”

  “I see.” A sigh. “Few of them do. Ah, well—put them in sleeping chambers until they recover . . . And be gentle. They are frightened, poor devils.”

  And then our journey continued through a maze of clean-gleaming metal corridors, until finally I was carried through a doorway and placed tenderly on a cot. A light covering was thrown over me; its pleasant warmth made me realize how weary I was. I could not close my eyes, but the lights were dimmed slowly, and at last in utter darkness I forgot my troubles in sleep . . .

  I do not know whether the return of lights awakened me, or whether some unseen control automatically brought back the illumination when I awoke. At any rate, I roused from my slumber to find the room bright again.

  Even more important was the fact that I could move. I leaped from my cot and sprang to the door at the other side of the room but, as I had expected, it was locked. So I gave up, for the time being, any idea of attempting to escape and set myself to a study of my surroundings.

  For one thing, I was alone. Apparently our captors had assigned each of us to a separate chamber, or cell. This one was Spartan in its simplicity. Four walls of a dull gray metallic substance I could not immediately identify—a floor of some resilient rubber or plastic composition—a low ceiling of the same material as the walls. A cot, a chair, and a desk were the only furnishings. There were no decorations on the walls; no carpet covered the floor; and of course—since we were underground—there were no windows.

  What amazed me most was that there were no lighting fixtures. I looked in vain for any source from which originated the pleasant, unflickering illumination that flooded the room. I found nothing. It was no jiggery-pokery of indirect lighting, either. The flow of light was constant and, oddly enough, there were no shadows!

  I think that’s when I started to get frightened. I don’t mean flabby-lipped, knock-kneed scared, but cold. Cold and awed and numbed, like—well, the way a trapped rabbit must feel when it sees the hunter approaching.

  These persons, these men who spoke with indifferent contempt of mankind’s finest accomplishments, who regretfully and casually employed weapons and tools unknown to science—who were they? And why had we been separated? Where were my comrades—Kavanaugh and Goeller? Suddenly, desperately, I needed the reassurance of their presence.

  I raised my voice and shouted. There was no reply. The impassive walls should have echoed the panic in my voice, being metal. But, like everything else in this strange place, it behaved unnaturally. It absorbed the sound, sopping it up as a sponge absorbs water.

  I shouted again and again. Fruitlessly, I thought. But not fruitlessly. For suddenly I heard the faintest sound behind me and whirled. Dr. Grove was stepping through the wall.

  Lieutenant Brady stopped abruptly, as if in anticipation of his listener’s reaction. It came.

  Gorham, despite his training as a psychiatrist, stopped doodling and tossed a swift, anxious frown at the younger man.

  With an obvious effort he erased the sudden pursing of his lips. He said quietly: “Through the wall, Lieutenant? Of course you mean through the door?”

  “Through the wall,” said Brady dully. “Through the wall, sir. The door was in front of me. But Dr. Grove stepped into my cell through the solid metal wall.”

  “You realize,” said Gorham, “that what you are saying is impossible?”

  “To us”—Brady’s eyes were haggard—“it is. To Them, nothing is impossible. Nothing! Or very little. That is why we must act, and act now! Before it is too late.
You must believe me, sir! This is man’s last chance—”

  “I’ll do my best,” promised Gorham. “Perhaps you’d better continue? This Dr. Grove stepped through the wall—”

  I’ll cut it short (said Brady wanly). I’ll tell it as quickly as I can. I’m just wasting your time and mine. I can tell by your eyes that you don’t believe me. But someone must. Somewhere, somehow, sometime—someone must . . . Well, as I was saying, Dr. Grove stepped through the wall. And strange as it may sound, in that moment my panic ended. I still feared; yes. But I feared as a man fears a god, or a demon, or a raw and elemental force beyond his comprehension. I did not look on him with dread, as one watches a human foe charge upon him with flaming gun or bloodstained sword; I looked on him with awe, knowing him to be as far above and beyond me in the life scale as I am superior to a dog or a beast of burden.

  So it was we talked—not as man to man, but as man to a lesser creature. And I was the lesser creature. He was the master, I the serf. And he told me many things . . .

  Has it ever occurred to you, Doctor, that we humans are an egotistic race? Our Darwins and our Huxleys have told us we are the product of a steady, progressive evolution—an evolution that started in primeval slime and has gradually developed to our present proud and self-proclaimed status as homo sapiens.

  Homo sapiens—intelligent man! . . . But perhaps we are not so intelligent, at that. For in our blind folly we have assumed ourselves to be the final and glorious end product of Nature’s eternal striving toward perfection!

  Could we not guess that the same force which led the first lungfish from primordial ooze to solid earth—the force which evolved the Neanderthal man from his bestial, hairy ancestor, and developed from this rock-hurling cave man a race that works its destruction with atomic fission—could we not have guessed that this force would inevitably progress a step farther?