The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack

by Theodore R. Cogswell

  And then, before his brain could release the signal that would send him running like a rabbit, something happened. He fell back against the parapet as he felt an indescribable twisting inside his head, a wrenching feeling as if blunt probes were being punched through his brain into the quivering grey matter cupped within—and then he was rammed back into the tiny corner of darkness and left impotent as some strange other took over the neutral controls that operated his strong young body.

  Cadet Larn couldn’t control the shudder of revulsion that swept through him as he took control of the strange new body. But, physically loathsome as it was with its pulp covered bone and light and almost hairless outer surface, he knew he had to control his disgust and use it as efficiently as he could in the short time that was allotted to him.

  He knew what he was supposed to do, but when he managed to focus the oddly placed pair of eyes and saw what was coming toward him, the same feeling he had known the night before flooded into him. He wanted to get away, as far away from the snarling men below as he could force his new legs to carry him. He’d be sent back in disgrace, but even garrison duty on Deneb, dull as it was, was better than this. He poised to run, but then something—perhaps the dreams he’d had before he knew the reality—stopped him. Maybe he could hang on just a little while. Maybe he could get used to it. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as it was yesterday. Slowly, holding the body in the emplacement by sheer force of will, he began a check of the weapon that rested on its tripod in front of him.

  This they called a heavy machine gun.

  He tried to remember the diagram he had been shown during briefing. The force of expanding gases pushed this, back this way and in turn activated that. It was crude, but it was deadly to soft bodies such as the one he controlled. Experimentally he peeped down over the sights and swung the weapon back and forth on its tripod. This was better than the clumsy hand weapon he had been equipped with the night before. Now the firing lever. He had dozed a bit during the lecture but this must be it. He pressed it. Nothing happened. If he retreated now, he was justified…but after last night the umpires might misunderstand his motives.

  It took him another precious second before he could figure out what was wrong. When he did, he grabbed a heavy rock from the bottom of the trench and smashed at the clearing lever again and again until, with a sudden snap, the off-size cartridge that had been jamming the mechanism came flying out.

  During the briefing lecture he had been instructed to fire in short, careful bursts, but the ones in the differently colored uniforms were so close, and there were so many of them, that he just held the trigger down and swung the muzzle back and forth like a deadly hose.

  Twice men reached him. The first put a bullet in his right shoulder, the second jabbed him in the stomach with a long knife that was fastened to the end of his weapon before he could be disposed of. After that he found it increasingly difficult to make the body follow his commands. When a fragment of the grenade that smashed the breech mechanism of his machine gun ripped open his forehead so that he was blinded by his own blood, it was even worse. All that he could do was to fumble down into the red darkness for the grenades piled by his feet and hurl them as fast and as far in the direction of the firing as the weakening organic machine he was in command of would permit. The last thing he heard was a shout from behind him, “Hold on, we’re coming!” and then he slumped down into blackness.

  * * * *

  Cadet Larn sat on the edge of his trainer with his helmet in his lap, unable for a moment to disassociate himself from the savage action that was still going on ten thousand miles below. It wasn’t until the speaker set flush in the bulkhead behind him boomed out, “All cadets report immediately to the briefing room for combat analysis!” that he was able to pull himself together enough to shuffle wearily over to join his fellows for the march down to the great hall in the belly of the training ship.

  Talking in the ranks was strictly forbidden, but by properly focusing one’s tendrils and using a minimum of power it was possible to communicate to the cadet next to you without the platoon leader being aware of it.

  “How did it go today?” came a whisper from Larn’s left.

  “Rough. But not as bad as yesterday. At least I didn’t run.”

  “Which side did you draw?”

  “The Blues again.”

  The cadet to his left let out an incautious snort that drew an angry “No talking!” from the platoon leader.

  “You think you had it rough? That’s a laugh. I was assigned to the Reds. We had to go up a slope in broad daylight against a crazy human who didn’t know enough to lie down and die. He hammered six slugs through my gut while I still had a good twenty yards to go. One of the umpires spotted it, too. I bet I get slapped ten demerits for not making use of available cover.”

  “Cadet Clung!”

  The cadet that had been whispering to Larn stiffened apprehensively. “Yes, sir?”

  “I warned you once. Book yourself five demerits for talking in ranks.”

  The rest of the march made use of available cover.

  * * * *

  The hollow-eyed PFC stared down at the stretcher containing the unconscious form of the blond boy with something approaching awe.

  “He going to make it through?”

  The medical corpsman looked up from his bandaging and nodded briefly. “He’ll be ready to go home and sell bonds in a month. They’re hungry for heroes stateside. He a friend of yours?”

  The PFC shook his head. “I never saw him before this morning. I sure never figured him for a Congressional medal.”

  * * * *

  The cadets sat at rigid attention as the umpires’ reports were read.

  “…the decision of the judges in the case of Cadet Sergeant Stlarz is that his unorthodox expenditure of Red forces in a daylight raid though almost successful, was tactically unsound because of failure to employ available artillery support. Twenty-five demerits.”

  As one by one his fellows were censored or commended, the tension grew within Larn until he didn’t see how he could stand it any longer. And then at long last his name was called.

  “The case of Cadet Larn has given rise to considerable discussion. Although his defense of his position left much to be desired—the clearing of a routine jam in his weapon, for example, taking twice as long as it should have—it cannot be denied that his actions prevented the Red force from overrunning the blue positions. As a consequence, the hundred demerit penalty he incurred yesterday is hereby canceled. It was further felt, however, that Cadet Larn did not exercise sufficient care in protecting the training device that was assigned to him for use during today’s action. Five demerits.”

  Cadet Larn didn’t mind the five demerits. Cadet Larn has been blooded and he knew he would never run again. He was already dreaming of the time when he would no longer have to use clumsy substitutes but could instead hurl his own beautifully coordinated bulk against such enemies of the Empire as were important enough to demand the attention of an officer in the Frontier Service…

  * * * *

  The PFC looked sleepily at the sky and yawned. Maybe he could get some sleep tonight for a change. After the way they’d been hurt, they should take it easy for a day or two. He leaned back, took a last drag on his cigarette, and flipped it lazily through the slot between the sandbags. As he reached over to mark up another point on the fiat rock, he noticed for the first time the name scrawled a few hours before by the blond boy and the single scratch beside it.

  “That guy ain’t human,” he said to nobody in particular. “First day up and he goes and wins himself a one-man war. Wonder what the hell ever got into him?”

  IMPACT WITH THE DEVIL

  x7367 DH 964

  TO: SOLAR SECTOR COORDINATOR

  FROM: UNASSIGNED AGENT x-27

  JUST LOCATED THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN, CLIENT INSISTED ON USUAL AGREEMENT AND MADE USUAL MENTAL RESERVATION. WILL BE ABLE TO MAKE MY QUOTA FOR THIS DEMICYCLE IF YOU CAN MATERIALIZE
A LANGRED WARPER IN THE CHICAGO FIELD OFFICE BY 21:30 TODAY WITHOUT FAIL.

  * * * *

  Krans sidled warily through the heavy steel door that opened off the main laboratory of Technology Unlimited and gazed furtively around the large bare windowless room as if he were expecting some sort of a trap. The plain black walls seemed solid enough and there were no cracks in the gleaming jet expanse of freshly painted floor to betray trapdoors and hidden chutes leading down to hell knows where. The only really odd thing about the room was the cluster of ultraviolet and infrared lamps that were fixed in the ceiling and focused directly down on an old overstuffed easy chair that stood by itself in the exact center of the bare room. He went over to it, pushed it to one side, and carefully examined the section of floor it had occupied.

  Satisfied at last, he shoved the chair back to its original position and went stealthily over to examine the only other furniture in the room, an ordinary desk and office chair that stood at the opposite end. Krans had lived too long by his wits to take anything for granted, and keeping one eye on the half-open heavy steel door at the far end of the room that was the only means of entrance, he made a quick inventory of the contents of the desk. The drawers were empty and the top contained only a large metal box covered with dials and meters, a legal document bearing his signature and that of the other, a cheap pen, and a large bottle of black ink.

  “All set?” There was an odd humming, sound to the voice of the tall, thin, saturnine individual who stepped lithely into the room. It was as if the vocal chords that produced the speech weren’t quite human. Except for an immaculate white laboratory smock, he was dressed entirely in black; a black that matched exactly in shade the glossy hair that rose in a widow’s peak from his strangely high forehead.

  “I guess so,” said Krans, and then suddenly stabbed a suspicious finger at the bank of lamps that hung over the easy chair. “What are those for?”

  The other chuckled. “I switch them on when I want to relax. The heating system in this place leaves much to be desired and I’m used to a somewhat warmer climate.”

  “Me too,” said Krans, shivering slightly. “Chicago in January ain’t my idea of a vacation resort. If one of my boys wasn’t in a jam you wouldn’t catch me within a thousand miles of here.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the tall man, “your difficulty. You never did tell me exactly what you were up to when we signed the contract.”

  Krans went over to the easy chair and sat down. “One of the boys got stupid, that’s all. There ain’t nothing in the contract that says I got to tell you the details.”

  The man in the white jacket gave a delicate shrug. “I dare say I’ll find out eventually,” he said. “Did you bring the space time coordinates?”

  “Yeah.” Krans pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and began to read. As he did so the dark man’s hands danced over the controls of the square box that stood on the desk in front of him, deftly making adjustments.

  “Time: anywhere between 12:10 and 12:50 p.m. According to what my boys have been able to dig up, the watchman always came by exactly on the hour so I won’t have to worry about bumping into him. Date: March 17, 1968. Place: the blueprint room of the Anderson and Dickson Architectural Agency on the 12th floor of the Stadium Building.”

  The dark man’s oddly slanted eyes made a quick sweep of the front of the machine and then he nodded. “I’m ready any time you are—though just to avoid future argument I feel that I should remind you again that changing the past in any noticeable way is impossible.”

  Krans just growled impatiently. “We went through all this before we signed the contract. You’ve agreed to take me back ten years in time, give me freedom of movement once I get there, and then to see that I get back in the same condition I was in when I left. Right?

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then let’s get on with it!” Krans opened his briefcase and took out a large India rubber eraser, a soft pencil, and a straight edged ruler. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  There was a sudden click of a switch on the front of the small black box and suddenly a shimmering oval sprang into being in front of the desk.

  “Now what?” demanded Krans.

  “Just walk through it. You’ll come out in the place you’ve been asking for.”

  Krans hesitated and then squared his fat shoulders and took one step forward. The silver film rippled slightly as he pushed through it. Then, as long tapered fingers touched a control knob, it became transparent. Through the portal that opened into time could be seen the dimly lighted interior of the drafting room of the agency. Krans moved feverishly from board to board and then suddenly stopped before a large piece of paper covered with a number of small detail drawings. Squinting in the dim light he examined them one by one until he found the one he had come so far to find. His thick lips writhed back in a grimace of ugly triumph, and grasping firmly the large eraser he had brought with him, he began a series of slow deliberate strokes across the penciled lines of the drawing.

  When he came charging back through the time warp, Krans looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy.

  “It wouldn’t erase!” he growled in an ugly voice. “No matter how hard I rubbed, the eraser slid off like there was a layer of glass on top of the paper!”

  “What did you expect?” asked the dark man blandly. “I gave you fair warning that the past couldn’t be changed in any noticeable way. But of course that doesn’t invalidate the contract. I merely promised to take you back ten years and return you. But before we move on to my part of the bargain —that part that says that you will make a substantial contribution to Technology, Unlimited—just as a matter of idle curiosity, what is this all about?”

  “One of my boys is stuck inside the safe deposit vault of the First National,” grumbled Krans. “Unless I can figure some way to get him out they’re going to find him there when they open up Monday.”

  “So you got the bright idea that if you went back and tinkered with the plans used in the construction of the bank you could set up a way for your agent to escape without being detected. Clever idea that. Too bad it was impossible.” He stretched himself like a lithe jungle cat and an eager look came into his eyes. “But let’s get on with our transaction. You’ve got something I’d like very much to get my…ah… hands… on…”

  “Not just yet,” said Krans harshly as he hunched forward in his chair. “Not just yet!”

  As the dark man rose to his feet, a slight odor of brimstone began to fill the room. And then, as he took one step forward, there was a sudden crashing sound and a roaring swirl of angry flames came into being in the center of the room. When it finally died away Mr. Krans was gone. In his place loomed a figure right out of medieval demonology, complete with a pair of needle-sharp horns and a twitching barbed tail. The dark man took one step backward and then sat down again.

  “Interesting,” he said at last, “but what’s the point?”

  Little flames seemed to leap into being deep within the demon’s glowing, saucer-like eyes.

  “Listen, man,” he hissed. “Nobody believes in us any more —at least not until it’s too late—so all that we got to do is walk around in the shape of a natural man and take what we want when we want it. Back in the old days it wasn’t like that. People knew about us and were on guard against us. We really had to work for what little we got—and I mean work! Now we got it made and I’m not about to give up my twenty-hour week and all my easy pickings for nobody.”

  “My sympathy,” murmured the dark man, “but I fail to see where all this is leading us.”

  “Right up to the fact that Bal-Shire looks enough like me to be my twin brother…except that he’s got three heads. What do you think’s going to happen when he’s discovered stuck in the main vault of the biggest bank in Chicago come Monday morning?”

  The other settled back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. He seemed strangely unmoved by either Kans’s transformation or his revelation.

&n
bsp; “Couldn’t he just dematerialize or something?” he suggested.

  “If he could he wouldn’t be stuck there now.”

  “What happened?”

  “A deal I’ve been working on involves a little blackmail so I sent Bal-Shire down to the bank to sneak some papers out of a safe deposit box after the vault was sealed for the weekend. The clumsy idiot wasn’t paying any attention to what he was doing when he materialized and he knocked over a bottle of ink with his tail. The crash startled him so that he went straight up in the air. When he came down he landed right in the middle of a disruption pattern and he’s been stuck there howling for help ever since. He can’t dematerialize as long as he’s inside it and there’s nothing any of us can do for him. We can’t even touch the edge of a field, let alone cross its boundaries.” He paused and then growled in a rumbling voice. “That’s where you come in. You’re supposed to know all about this science stuff. You cook up something that will get my boy out…or else!”

  “Or else what?” asked the dark man in an interested voice.

  A great gust of white flame gushed suddenly from the demon’s mouth and played along the edges of the heavy steel door until its edges and those of its massive frame ran together in one solid weld.

  “Or else we’ll give the police a real locked room mystery. The question as to how you managed to weld yourself into a bare room when you didn’t have any equipment, and then tear yourself slowly into small chunks—that’s going to give the newspapers a real field day.”

  The dark man sat quietly for a moment and then said, “You present a rather convincing argument. But if I’m going to be able to do anything for you, you’ve got to give me something more to go on. What is this disruption field you talk about? How does it work?”