Aliens from Analog

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  “No, sir. No hogs. Laura loves hogs.”

  “Be quiet,” he snapped. “Now, what shouldn’t support a couple of hogs demonstrably does support gigantosaurus—and any other fancy animals which may be mooching around. It seems crazy to me. On Venus or any other place full of consistent fodder, gigantosaurus would thrive, but here, according to my calculations, the big lunk has no right to be alive. He ought to be dead.”

  So saying, he topped the rise and found the monster in question sprawling right across the opposite slope. It was dead.

  The way in which he determined its deadness was appropriately swift, simple and effective. Its enormous bulk lay draped across the full length of the slope and its dragonhead, the size of a lifeboat, pointed toward him. The head had two dull, lackluster eyes like dinner plates. He planted a shell smack in the right eye and a sizable hunk of noggin promptly splashed in all directions. The body did not stir.

  There was a shell ready for the other eye should the creature leap to frantic, vengeful life, but the mighty hulk remained supine.

  His boots continued to desiccate crystals as he went down the slope, curved a hundred yards off his route to get around the corpse, and trudged up the farther rise. Momentarily, he wasn’t much interested in the dead beast. Time was short and he could come again tomorrow, bringing a full-color stereoscopic camera with him. Gigantosaurus would go on record in style, but would have to wait.

  This second rise was a good deal higher, and more trying a climb. Its crest represented the approximate limit of this day’s trip, and he felt anxious to surmount it before turning back. Humanity’s characteristic urge to see what lay over the hill remained as strong as on the day determined ancestors topped the Rockies. He had to have a look, firstly because elevation gave range to the vision, and secondly because of that prowler in the night—and, nearly as he could estimate, the prowler had gone down behind this rise. A column of mist, sucked down from the sky, might move around aimlessly, going nowhere, but instinct maintained that this had been no mere column of mist, and that it was going somewhere.

  Where?

  Out of breath, he pounded over the crest, looked down into an immense valley, and found the answer.

  The crystal growths gave out on the crest, again in a perfectly straight line. Beyond them the light loam, devoid of rock, ran gently down to the valley and up the farther side. Both slopes were sparsely dotted with queer, jellylike lumps of matter which lay and quivered beneath the sky’s golden glow.

  From the closed end of the valley jutted a great, glistening fabrication, flat-roofed, flat-fronted, with a huge, square hole gaping in its mid-section at front. It looked like a tremendous oblong slab of polished, milk-white plastic half buried endwise in a sandy hill. No decoration disturbed its smooth, gleaming surface. No road led to the hole in front. Somehow, it had the new-old air of a house that struggles to look empty because it is full—of fiends.

  Steve’s back hairs prickled as he studied it. One thing was obvious—Oro bore intelligent life. One thing was possible—the golden column represented that life. One thing was probable—fleshly Terrestrials and hazy Orons would have difficulty in finding a basis for friendship and co-operation.

  Whereas enmity needs no basis.

  Curiosity and caution pulled him opposite ways. One urged him down into the valley while the other drove him back, back, while yet there was time. He consulted his watch. Less than three hours to go, within which he had to return to the ship, enter the log, prepare supper. That milky creation was at least two miles away, a good hour’s journey there and back. Let it wait. Give it another day and he’d have more time for it, with the benefit of needful thought betweentimes.

  Caution triumphed. He investigated the nearest jellyblob. It was flat, a yard in diameter, green, with bluish streaks and many tiny bubbles hiding in its semitransparency. The thing pulsated slowly. He poked it with the toe of his boot, and it contracted, humping itself in the middle, then sluggishly relaxed. No amoeba, he decided. A low form of life, but complicated withal. Laura didn’t like the object. She skittered off as he bent over it, vented her anger by bashing a few crystals.

  This jello dollop wasn’t like its nearest neighbor, or like any other. One of each, only one. The same rule: one butterfly of a kind, one bug, one plant, one of these quivering things.

  A final stare at the distant mystery down in the valley, then he retraced his steps. W’hen the ship came into sight he speeded up like a gladsome voyager nearing home. There were new prints near the vessel, big, three-toed, deeply impressed spoor which revealed that something large, heavy, and two-legged had wandered past in his absence. Evidently an animal, for nothing intelligent would have meandered on so casually without circling and inspecting the nearby invader from space. He dismissed it from his mind. There was only one thingumbob, he felt certain of that.

  Once inside the ship, he relocked the doors, gave Laura her feed, ate his supper. Then he dragged out the log, made his day’s entry, had a look around from the dome. Violet streamers once more were creeping upward from the horizon. He frowned at the encompassing vegetation. What sort of stuff had bred all this in the past? What sort of stuff would this breed in the future? How did it progenerate, anyway?

  Wholesale radical mutation presupposed modification of genes by hard radiation in persistent and considerable blasts. You shouldn’t get hard radiation on lightweight planets—unless it poured in from the sky. Here, it didn’t pour from the sky, or from any place else. In fact, there wasn’t any.

  He was pretty certain of that fact because he’d a special interest in it and had checked up on it. Hard radiation betokened the presence of radioactive elements which, at a pinch, might be usable as fuel. The ship was equipped to detect such stuff. Among the junk was a cosmiray counter, a radium hen, and a gold-leaf electroscope. The hen and the counter hadn’t given so much as one heartening cluck, in fact the only clucks had been Laura’s. The electroscope he’d charged on landing and its leaves still formed an inverted vee. The air was dry, ionization negligible, and the leaves didn’t look likely to collapse for a week.

  “Something’s wrong with my theorizing,” he complained to Laura. “My think- stuff’s not doing its job.”

  “Not doing its job,” echoed Laura faithfully. She cracked a pecan with a grating noise that set his teeth on edge. “I tell you it’s a hoodoo ship. I won’t sail. No, not even if you pray for me. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. Nope. Nix. Who’s drunk? That hairy Lowlander Me—”

  “Laura!” he said sharply.

  “Gillicuddy,” she finished with bland defiance. Again she rasped his teeth. “Rings bigger’n Saturn’s. I saw them myself. Who’s a liar? Yawk! She’s down in Gray way Bay, on Tethis. Boy, what a torso!”

  He looked at her hard and said, “You’re nuts!”

  “Sure! Sure, pal! Laura loves nuts. Have one on me.”

  “O.K.,” he accepted, holding out his hand.

  Cocking her colorful pate, she pecked at his hand, gravely selected a pecan and gave it to him. He cracked it, chewed on the kernel while starting up the lighting-set. It was almost as if night were waiting for him. Blackness fell even as he switched on the lights.

  With the darkness came a keen sense of unease. The dome was the trouble. It blazed like a beacon and there was no way of blacking it out except by turning off the lights. Beacons attracted things, and he’d no desire to become a center of attraction in present circumstances. That is to say, not at night.

  Long experience had bred fine contempt for alien animals, no matter how whacky, but outlandish intelligences were a different proposition. So filled was he with the strange inward conviction that last night’s phenomenon was something that knew its onions that it didn’t occur to him to wonder whether a glowing column possessed eyes or anything equivalent to a sense of sight. If it had occurred to him, he’d have derived no comfort from it. His desire to be weighed in the balance in some eerie, extrasensory way was even less than his desire to be g
aped at visually in his slumbers.

  An unholy mess of thoughts and ideas was still cooking in his mind when he extinguished the lights, bunked down, and went to sleep. Nothing disturbed him this time, but when he awoke with the golden dawn his chest was damp with perspiration and Laura again had sought refuge in his arm.

  Digging out breakfast, his thoughts began to marshal themselves as he kept his hands busy. Pouring out a shot of hot coffee, he spoke to Laura.

  “I’m dumed if I’m going to go scatty trying to maintain a three-watch system single-handed, which is what I’m supposed to do if faced by powers unknown when I’m not able to beat it. Those armchair warriors at headquarters ought to get a taste of situations not precisely specified in the book of rules.”

  “Burp!” said Laura contemptuously.

  “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day,” Steve quoted. “That’s the Probe Law. It’s a nice, smooth, lovely law—when you can run away. We can’t!’”

  “Burrup!” said Laura with unnecessary emphasis.

  “For a woman, your manners are downright disgusting,” he told her. “Now I’m not going to spend the brief remainder of my life looking fearfully over my shoulder. The only way to get rid of powers unknown is to convert ’em into powers known and understood. As Uncle Joe told Willie when dragging him to the dentist, the longer we put it off the worse it’ll feel.”

  “Dinna fash y’rsel’,” declaimed Laura. “Burp-gollop-bop!”

  Giving her a look of extreme distaste, he continued, “So we’ll try tossing the bull. Such techniques disconcert bulls sometimes.” Standing up, he grabbed Laura, shoved her into her traveling compartment, slid the panel shut. “We’re going to blow off forthwith.”

  Climbing up to the control seat, he stamped on the energizer stud. The tail rockets popped a few times, broke into a subdued roar. Juggling the controls to get the preparatory feel of them, he stepped up the boost until the entire vessel trembled and the rear venturis began to glow cherry-red. Slowly the ship commenced to edge its bulk forward and, as it did so, he fed it the takeoff shot. A half-mile blast kicked backward and the probe ship plummeted into the sky.

  Pulling it round in a wide and shallow sweep, he thundered over the borderline of vegetation, the fields of crystals and the hills beyond. In a flash he was plunging through the valley, braking rockets blazing from the nose. This was tricky. He had to co-ordinate forward shoot, backward thrust, and downward surge, but like most of his kind he took pride in the stunts performable with these neat little vessels. An awe-inspired audience was all he lacked to make the exhibition perfect. The vessel landed fairly and squarely on the milk-white roof of the alien edifice, slid halfway to the cliff, then stopped.

  “Boy,” he breathed, “am I good!” He remained in his seat, stared around through the dome, and felt that he ought to add, “And too young to die.” Occasionally eying the chronometer, he waited awhile. The boat must have handed that roof a thump sufficient to wake the dead. If anyone were in, they’d soon hotfoot out to see who was heaving hundred-ton bottles at their shingles. Nobody emerged. He gave them half an hour, his hawk-like face strained, alert. Then he gave it up, said, “Ah, well,” and got out of the seat.

  He freed Laura. She came out with ruffled dignity, like a dowager who’s paraded into the wrong room. Females were always curious critters, in his logic, and he ignored her attitude, got his gun, unlocked the doors, jumped down onto the roof. Laura followed reluctantly, came to his shoulder as if thereby conferring a great favor.

  Walking past the tail to the edge of the roof, he looked down. The sheerness of the five-hundred-foot drop took him aback. Immediately below his feet the entrance soared four hundred up from the ground, and he was standing on the hundred-foot lintel surmounting it. The only way down was to walk to the side of the roof and reach the earthy slope in which the building was embedded, seeking a path down that.

  He covered a quarter of a mile of roof to get to the slope, his eyes examining the roofs surface as he went, and failing to find one crack or joint in the uniformly smooth surface. Huge as it was, the erection appeared to have been molded all in one piece—a fact which did nothing to lessen inward misgivings. Whoever did this mighty job weren’t Zulus!

  From ground level the entrance loomed bigger than ever. If there had been a similar gap the other side of the building, and a clear way through, he could have taken the ship in at one end and out at the other as easily as threading a needle.

  Absence of doors didn’t seem peculiar; it was difficult to imagine any sort of door huge enough to fill this opening yet sufficiently balanced to enable anyone—or anything—to pull open or shut. With a final, cautious look around which revealed nothing moving in the valley, he stepped boldly through the entrance, blinked his eyes, found interior darkness slowly fading as visual retention lapsed and gave up remembrance of the golden glow outside.

  There was a glow inside, a different one, paler, ghastlier, greenish. It exuded from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the total area of radiation was enough to light the place clearly, with no shadows. He sniffed as his vision adjusted itself. There was a strong smell of ozone mixed with other, unidentifiable odors.

  To his right and left, rising hundreds of feet, stood great tiers of transparent cases. He went to the ones on his right and examined them. They were cubes, about a yard each way, made of something like transpex. Each contained three inches of loam from which sprouted a crystal. No two crystals were alike; some small and branchy, others large and indescribably complicated.

  Dumb with thought, he went around to the back of the monster tier, found another ten yards behind it. And another behind that. And another and another. All with crystals. The number and variety of them made his head whirl. He could study only the two bottom rows of each rack, but row on row stepped themselves far above his head to within short distance of the roof. Their total number was beyond estimation.

  It was the same on the left. Crystals by the thousands. Looking more closely atone especially fine example, he noticed that the front plate of its case bore a small, inobtrusive pattern of dots etched upon the outer surface. Investigation revealed that all cases were similarly marked, differing only in the number and arrangement of the dots. Undoubtedly, some sort of cosmic code used for classification purposes.

  “The Oron Museum of Natural History,” he guessed, in a whisper.

  “You’re a liar,” squawked Laura violently. “I tell you it’s a hoodoo—” She stopped, dumfounded, as her own voice roared through the building in deep, organlike tones, “A hoodoo—A hoodoo—”

  “Holy smoke, will you keep quiet!” hissed Steve. He tried to keep watch on the exit and the interior simultaneously. But the voice rumbled away in the distance without bringing anyone to dispute their invasion.

  Turning, he paced hurriedly past the first blocks of tiers to the next batteries of exhibits. Jelly blobs in this lot. Small ones, no bigger than his wrist watch, numberable in thousands. None appeared to be alive, he noted.

  Sections three, four, and five took him a mile into the building, as nearly as he could estimate. He passed mosses, lichens and shrubs, all dead but wondrously preserved. By this time he was ready to guess at section six—plants. He was wrong. The sixth layout displayed bugs, including moths, butterflies, and strange, unfamiliar objects resembling chitinous humming-birds. There was no sample of Scarabaeus Anderii, unless it were several hundred feet up. Or unless there was an empty box ready for it—when its day was done.

  Who made the boxes? Had it prepared one for him? One for Laura? He visualized himself, petrified forever, squatting in the seventieth case of the twenty-fifth row of the tenth tier in section something-or-other, his front panel duly tagged with its appropriate dots. It was a lousy picture. It made his forehead wrinkle to think of it.

  Looking for he knew not what, he plunged steadily on, advancing deeper and deeper into the heart of the building. Not a soul, not a sound, not a footprint. Only that all
- pervading smell and the unvarying glow. He had a feeling that the place was visited frequently but never occupied for any worthwhile period of time. Without bothering to stop and look, he passed an enormous case containing a creature faintly resembling a bison-headed rhinoceros, then other, still larger cases holding equally larger exhibits—all carefully dot-marked.

  Finally, he rounded a box so tremendous that it sprawled across the full width of the hall. It contained the grand-pappy of all serpents. Behind, for a change, reared five hundred-foot-high racks of metal cupboards, each cupboard with a stud set in its polished door, each ornamented with more groups of mysteriously arranged dots.

  Greatly daring, he pressed the stud on the nearest cupboard and its door swung open with a juicy click. The result proved disappointing. The cupboard was filled with stacks of small, glassy sheets each smothered with dots.

  “Super filing-system,” he grunted, closing the door. “Old Prof Heggarty would give his right arm to be here.”

  “Heggarty,” said Laura, in a faltering voice. “For Pete’s sake!”

  He looked at her sharply. She was ruffled and fidgety, showing signs of increasing agitation.

  “What’s the matter, Chicken?”

  She peeked at him, returned her anxious gaze the way they had come, side-stepped to and fro on his shoulder. Her neck feathers started to rise. A nervous cluck came from her beak and she cowered close to his jacket.

  “Dam!” he muttered. Spinning on one heel, he raced past successive filing blocks, got into the ten yards’ space between the end block and the wall. His gun was out and he kept watch on the front of the blocks while his free hand tried to soothe Laura. She snuggled up close, rubbing her head into his neck and trying to hide under the angle of his jaw.