Bug-Eyed Monsters

by Bill Pronzini

  Drake waited until the Hawkinsite’s breathing had subsided to normal, and then, without expression, he raised his needle-gun and fired.

  Rose screamed. The Hawkinsite remained standing. His four lower limbs were incapable of buckling, but his head lolled and, from his suddenly flaccid mouth, the cyanide hose fell, disregarded.

  Once again, Drake closed the needle valve and now he tossed the cylinder aside and stood there somberly, looking at the dead creature.

  There was no external mark to show that Tholan had been killed. The needle-gun’s pellet, thinner than the needle which gave the gun its name, entered the body noiselessly and easily, and exploded with devastating effect only within the abdominal cavity.

  Rose ran from the room, still screaming.

  Drake pursued her, seized her arm. She heard the hard, brisk sounds of his palms upon her face without feeling them and subsided into little bubbling sobs.

  Drake said, “I told you to have nothing to do with this. Now, what do you think you’re going to do?”

  She said, “Let me go. I want to leave. I want to go away.”

  “Because of something it was my job to do? You heard what the creature was saying. Do you suppose I could allow him to return to his world and spread those lies? They would believe him. And what do you think would happen then? Can you guess what an interstellar war might be like? They would imagine they would have to kill us all to stop the disease.”

  With an effort that seemed to turn her inside out, Rose steadied. She looked firmly into Drake’s eyes and said, “What Dr. Tholan said were no lies and no mistakes, Drake.”

  “Oh, come now, you’re hysterical. You need sleep.”

  “No, Drake. I know what he said is so because the Security Commission knows all about that same theory, and knows it to be true.”

  “Why do you say such a preposterous thing?”

  “Because you let that slip yourself twice.”

  Drake said, “Sit down.”

  She did so, and he stood there, looking curiously at her. He said, “So I have given myself away twice, have I? You’ve had a busy day of detection, my dear. You have facets you keep well hidden.” He sat down and crossed his legs.

  Rose thought, Yes, I’ve had a busy day. She could see the electric clock on the kitchen wall from where she sat and it was more than two hours past midnight. Harg Tholan had entered their house thirty-five hours before; and now he lay murdered in the spare bedroom.

  Drake said, “Well, aren’t you going to tell me where I pulled my two boners?”

  “You turned white when Harg Tholan referred to me as a charming hostess. Hostess has a double meaning, you know, Drake. A host is one who harbors a parasite.”

  “Number one,” said Drake. “What’s number two?”

  “That’s something you did before Harg Tholan entered the house. I’ve been trying to remember it for hours. Do you remember, Drake? You spoke about how unpleasant it was for Hawkinsites to associate with Earthmen, and I said Harg Tholan was a doctor and had to. I asked you if you thought that human doctors particularly enjoyed going to the tropics, or letting infected mosquitoes bite them. Do you remember how upset you became?”

  Drake laughed shortly. “I had no idea I was so transparent. Mosquitoes are hosts for the malaria and yellow fever parasites.” He sighed. “I’ve done my best to keep you out of this, Rose. I tried to keep the Hawkinsite away. I tried threatening you. Now, there’s nothing left but to tell you the truth. I must, because only the truth—or death—will keep you quiet. And I don’t want to kill you.”

  Rose shrank back in her chair, eyes wide.

  Drake said, “The Commission knows the truth, yes. It does us no good. We can only do all in our power to prevent the other worlds from finding out.”

  “But that is impossible! The truth can’t be held down forever. Harg Tholan found out. You’ve killed him, but another extraterrestrial will repeat the same discovery—over and over again. You can’t kill them all.”

  “We know that, too,” agreed Drake. “But we have no choice.”

  “Why?” cried Rose. “Harg Tholan gave you the solution. He made no suggestions or threats regarding enmity and war between worlds. He said something, instead, for which I admired him. He suggested that we combine with the other intelligences and help to wipe out the parasite. And we can—we can! If we, in common with all the others, put every scrap of effort into it—”

  “You mean we can trust him? Does he speak for his government? Or for the other races?”

  “Can we dare to refuse the risk?”

  Drake said, “No, Rose, you don’t understand.” He reached toward her and took one of her cold, unresisting hands between both of his. He went on, “I may seem silly trying to teach you anything about your specialty, but I want you to hear me out. Harg Tholan was right. Man and his prehistoric ancestors have been living with this pseudogene for uncounted ages; certainly for a much longer period than we have been truly Homo sapiens. In that interval, we have not only become adapted to it, we have become dependent upon it. It is no longer a case of parasitism. It is a case of mutual cooperation.”

  She tore her hand away, “What are you talking about?”

  “We have a disease of our own, remember. It is a reverse disease; one of unrestrained growth. We’ve mentioned it already as a contrast to the Inhibition Death. Well, what is the cause of cancer? How long have biologists, physiologists, biochemists and all the others been working on it? How much success have they had with it? Why? Can’t you answer that for yourself now?”

  Rose frowned at him. She said, slowly, “No, I can’t. What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all very well to say that if we could remove the parasite, we would once again have the privilege of eternal growth and life if we wanted it; or at least until we got tired of being too big or of living too long, and did away with ourselves neatly. But how many millions of years has it been since the human body has had occasion to grow in such an unrestrained fashion? Can it do so any longer? Is the chemistry of the body adjusted to that? Has it got the proper whatchamacallits?”

  “Enzymes,” prompted Rose in a whisper.

  “Yes, enzymes. It’s impossible for us. If, for any reason, the pseudo-gene, as Harg Tholan calls it, does leave the human body, or if its relationship to the human mind is in any way impaired, growth does take place, but not in any orderly fashion. We call the growth cancer.

  “And there you have it, Rose. There’s no way of getting rid of the parasite. We’re together for all eternity. So that to get rid of their Inhibition Death, extraterrestrials must first wipe out all vertebrate life on Earth. There is no other solution for them, and so we must keep knowledge of it from them. Do you understand?”

  She rose from her chair. Her mouth was dry and it was difficult to talk. “I understand, Drake.”

  She noticed that his forehead was damp and that there was a line of perspiration down each cheek.

  She said, tightly, “And now you’ll have to get it out of the apartment.”

  “I know. I’ve made arrangements. It’s late at night and I’ll be able to get the body out of the building. From there on—” he turned to her—“I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Rose said again, “I understand, Drake.”

  Harg Tholan was heavy. Drake had to drag him through the apartment. Rose turned away, retching. She hid her eyes until she heard the front door close. She whispered again to herself, “I understand, Drake.”

  It was 3 A.M. Nearly an hour had passed since she had heard the front door click gently into place behind Drake and his burden. She didn’t know where he was going, what he intended doing—

  She sat there numbly. There was no desire to sleep; no desire to move. She kept her mind traveling in tight circles, away from the thing she knew and which she wanted not to know.

  Pseudo-genes!

  Was it only a coincidence or was it some queer racial memory, some tenuous long-sustained wisp of tradition or insight, stretchin
g back through incredible millennia, that kept current the odd myths of human beginnings? The stories of the golden ages, the Gardens of Eden in which Man had eternal life, until he lost it.

  She had called the pseudo-genes a disease of the soul. Was that the memory again? The memory of the world in which sin entered, in which the soul grew diseased, and into which, as a consequence, death entered?

  Yet despite her efforts, the circle of her thoughts expanded, and returned to Drake. She shoved and it returned; she counted to herself, she recited the names of the objects in her field of vision, she cried, No, no, no, and it returned. It kept returning.

  Drake had lied to her. It had been a plausible story. It would have held good under most circumstances; but Drake was not a biologist.

  Cancer could not be, as Drake had said, a disease that was an expression of a lost ability for any normal growth.

  Cancer attacked children while they were still growing; it could even attack embryonic tissue. It attacked fish, which, like extraterrestrials, never stopped growing while they lived, and died only by disease or accident. It attacked plants, for many of which the same could be said.

  Cancer had nothing to do with the presence or absence of normal growth. It was the general disease of life, to which no tissues of any multicellular organism were completely immune.

  He should not have bothered lying. He should not have allowed some obscure sentimental weakness to persuade him to avoid the necessity of killing her in that manner. She would tell them at the Institute. The parasite could be beaten! Its absence would not cause cancer. But who would believe her?

  She put her hands over her eyes and rocked gently to and fro. The young men who disappeared were usually in the first year of their marriage. Whatever the process of rejuvenation among the strains of the pseudo-genes, it must involve close association with another strain—as in the case of conjugation among the protozoa. That was how the pseudo-genes had to spread infection; through the formation of the gametes and their subsequent fertilization, a mixing of strains.

  Drake had been on Hawkin’s Planet. He knew too much about Hawkinsites not to have been there at least once.

  She could feel her thoughts slowly disconnect. They would be coming to her. They would be saying, Where is Harg Tholan? And she would answer, With my husband. Only they would say, Where is your husband? because he would be gone, too.

  She knew that, anyway. He needed her no longer. He would never return. They would never find him, because he would be out in space. She would report them both, Drake Smollett and Harg Tholan, to the Missing Persons Bureau.

  She wanted to weep, but couldn’t. She was dry-eyed and it was very painful.

  And then she began to giggle. She couldn’t stop; it just went on.

  After all, it was very funny. She had looked for the answers to so many questions and had found them all. She had even found the answer to the question she thought had no bearing on the subject.

  She had finally learned why Drake had married her.

  Not a conjugal relationship—

  Conjugation.