The Best of Robert Bloch

by Robert Bloch

  Of course, all this was ancient superstition, and earthly superstition besides. It had no basis in reality.

  But he was seeing it now.

  The broomsticks—were those long shafts really broomsticks?—soared overhead and then descended into the crater. The riders—were those frowsy hags really witches?—cackled and shrieked, their voices echoing below the crater rim.

  Now fire blazed below, and the flames blazed blue as the crones cast powder upon the pyres. The hags were naked now, their anointed bodies shimmering in the smoke.

  "Bedamned!" muttered Kalt again, like the sensible modern technician he was. Forbes reflected that the man didn't even know the meaning of the word he used. It was merely a commonplace expression. Once it had been a jocular curse—"I'll be damned!" And before that, back in the ancient days of 1500-1700 Oldstyle, it had a literal meaning. It was, in those times, an acknowledgment of fact. People were damned. They did sell their souls to Satan. And they danced around fires and chanted while the smoke swirled. The damned danced.

  They were dancing now.

  Forbes recognized the ritual from what he'd scanned. He knew about the unguent cast on the fire, the ointment on the naked bodies, about belladonna and aconite and other forgotten drugs. He knew about the rituals they chanted in the Pyric tongue. Of course they could not be adoring Satan—he'd go over the audio records very thoroughly in the future—but at the moment he thought he could detect repeated shouts of a word resembling "Sire."

  But everything else was familiar, dreadfully so. When the figure stepped out of the shadows, wearing a hood crowned with kort-horns, Forbes was reminded of the Master of the Sabbath, who wore the Sign of the Goat or the antlers of the Black Stag. Here it would be a kort, of course, for it was the only quadruped on Pyris.

  The Master of the Sabbath, whatever his Pyric title, was leading the chanting now. And he brought the kort into the firelight, and he wielded the knife and filled the bowl and gave all to drink of the sacrifice. Then the smoke swirled up and the voices howled and—

  The temrars came. Forbes recognized the soldiers of the Kal as they rose along the opposite rim of the crater. He recognized their breastplates, their spears and swords, and the two-man slings which hurled arrows of steel.

  The arrows were speeding now, through the smoke. And the Kal's men clambered down the sides of the crater. The crones wailed.

  Then came another shout—from behind.

  Forbes turned, but too late. Another group of temrars had crept up in the darkness, to pinion the arms of his crew. And they used their swords now—not on the men, but on the receptors and the equipment. In a moment, audio and visio were wreckage.

  The tall, spade-bearded leader confronted Forbes, placed his hand on his heart in salute, and murmured, "You are to follow me. It is the wish of the Kal."

  Forbes heard Kalt protesting and cut him off with a curt gesture. He remembered that he was the guest of an alien culture, and a primitive one. They had already destroyed his records, and they were perfectly capable of destroying him, just as they would probably destroy the witches in the pit below. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Wasn't that an old biblical injunction? Strange, that there should be this similarity.

  And there were more similarities to come, as Forbes and his companions were escorted, on kort-back, across the nighted plain. Forbes could close his eyes and easily imagine himself transported across space and time to ancient Earth. The clank of armor, the thud of hoof-beats, the remorseless tread of the iron legions returning victorious to the castle of the king—all were part of another world. A world of conquerors and commoners, of mage and magic.

  Forbes couldn't repress an ironic grin. He, the self-styled representative of modern intergalactic culture, was a prisoner of these superstitious savages. A single sweep of a sword had shattered the finest and most delicate scientific recording instruments yet devised. This wasn't his world of force and cunning, and he'd do best to deal with it on those terms.

  Perhaps he'd treated the Kal too lightly. Certainly the Pyric people feared their ruler. They gave him their toil, their allegiance, their taxes, and their daughters. He owned the mines and the grottoes and was worshipped like a god.

  So perhaps those who opposed the Kal would find new gods to worship. Sire, or whatever he was called, would be more than a Devil. He'd be the Kal's chief political opponent. No wonder his soldiers sought the witches out.

  Now they came to the valley and the citadel of the Kal. Rising within the walls of stone was the great fortress, its silhouette serrated against the sky. The company made its way through narrow streets to broader avenues, down the ramps and into the castle proper.

  And here, in one of the stone antechambers, Forbes found Siddons, the ship's astrogator, and the other members of the crew.

  "They came for us an hour ago," Siddons said. "No, they didn't try to force their way inside—locks were closed, anyhow. But they summoned, and we didn't resist. There's a guard around the ship now, but none of them went in, or even tried to enter. I don't understand it."

  Forbes mustered a show of confidence. "We'll find out all about it when I see the Kal."

  "The Kal will see you now." It was the spade-bearded temrar who spoke, who led Forbes away alone and gestured to the others to keep back.

  Forbes followed him down a long corridor, then halted as the temrar indicated a small door. "Please to enter," he said.

  Nodding, Forbes opened the door, stepped inside, and faced the Kal.

  The hairy little fat man was seated behind a large table. His pudgy hands rested on the tabletop and cradled a silver shape.

  He tucked it away in the folds of his sleeve as Forbes entered and nodded at him gravely.

  "I had you brought here for your own protection," the Kal said. "Your lives are in danger."

  "From what?"

  "The wrali. Or, as you would call them, witches."

  "Why should they harm us?"

  "Because you threaten their way of life. And unless you leave, they will destroy you. That was the purpose of their rites this evening—to summon Sire, the Evil One."

  Forbes smiled. "But that's superstition," he said. "They can't harm us with spells or enchantments. Surely you don't believe, for example, that a witch or one of your wrali can kill a man by sticking pins into his image or melting it over a hot fire. Or do you?"

  The Kal's voice, like his face, was inscrutable. "It is not a question of what I believe. It is a question of what my people believe. And is it not true that once there were men who believed in witchcraft on Earth?"

  "True." Forbes hesitated. "But how would you know that?"

  "Because the wrali have a legend. According to that legend, the inhabitants of Pyris came, originally, from Earth."

  "Our Earth?"

  "Exactly. Haven't you noticed the similarities in language, in concept, in the system of government corresponding to olden days? And isn't our wrali-worship of Sire similar to the witch-worship of Satan?"

  The Kal smiled now. "I'm not the ignorant barbarian you think me to be—it is only through choice that I appear so. And you might do well to ponder our legend.

  "The tale is this. Long ago, on your Earth, witches were persecuted, burned, hanged, torn to pieces, because they believed in Satan, or Sire. And a certain group, facing extinction on your planet, invoked the Evil One to save them. He granted their desires. They mounted their broomsticks and flew into space—flew here, to Pyris."

  Forbes blinked. "You don't believe that, do you?" he asked.

  "Legends are interesting, you must admit. They do offer explanations."

  "I have another." Forbes considered for a moment. "On our Earth, long ago, science was as suspect as witchcraft. Scientists performing experiments or investigations could be accused of black magic and executed just as witches were.

  "Now suppose a certain man, or group of men, working in secret, managed somehow to hit upon the principles of atomic propulsion and space travel—just as we
know the alchemists investigated atomic theory? And in order to escape from a hostile environment, they actually built a ship and came here? Whereupon a clique of warriors among their descendants determined to seize the power of government, gradually debased the people and enslaved them—planting such crude legends to keep them in the grip of superstition?"

  The Kal shrugged. "You find that theory more attractive than witchcraft, eh?"

  Forbes met his gaze. "It's logical. Somewhere in this world the sources of scientific knowledge must still exist, suppressed only to maintain the present rulers in control. I rather suspect that the wrali understand some of it. I saw them ride to the meeting tonight on broomsticks, and I'm thinking now that those broomsticks contained individual power packs."

  The Kal shrugged again. "I see there are no secrets to the trained scientific mind. But now that you know the story, I must ask you to leave, for your own safety. The wrali fear you and may take drastic measures."

  Forbes bowed his head. "Very well. We can take off immediately, if you release us."

  "You will be escorted to your ship. Is there anything you need, any service you require?"

  "No, thank you." Forbes hesitated. "It's just that I'm sorry. Sorry to see a world still existing in such savagery as yours, when it isn't necessary. That men here are still ruled by ignorance and superstition."

  The Kal tugged at his beard. "But suppose there were truth to the legends? Suppose that Sire, or Satan, does rule here and that science dares not oppose magic? That this world stays in barbarism because it is the Evil One's wish to rule, and that science must bow before sorcery lest everything be destroyed?"

  Forbes smiled. "You know that's nonsense," he replied. "I can't accept that, any more than you can."

  "Yet you'll go now and leave us to our savagery?"

  "I have no choice."

  "Very well, then." The Kal inclined his head. Forbes went to the door, and the Kal spoke to his temrar, gave orders for safe escort back to the ship.

  Then the door closed, and the Kal was alone in the little room. He stared into the flame from the brazier, then extracted the gleaming object from his sleeve once more. He turned it over and over with his pudgy hands, and after he had examined it quite thoroughly he merely sat and waited.

  After a time, the door opened again. A Pyran came in, wearing a hood crowned with kort-horns.

  "They are gone?" asked the Kal.

  "Back to the ship. Soon they depart."

  "I am sorry about tonight," the Kal said. "I trust the temrars did not actually hurt anyone, but they had to make it convincing. If Earth ever suspected that the government and the wrali work together, then nothing could stop them from returning. As it is, I think we deceived them and they are gone for good."

  The hooded one stood stock-still, and his head was cocked as though he were listening. "I can sense them now," he murmured. "I can reach the one called Forbes, on the ship. He is thinking of his report. He will put in a request for an expedition to come back here. He wants to bring a new government from his planet and civilize all Pyris." The hooded one sighed. "It is as I told you it would be. Your plan has failed."

  The Kal rose. "I'm sorry," he said. "I tried to save them. First I told him the truth about how we came to Pyris, and about the power of magic. But he didn't believe me. He preferred to think it was all science, disguised as legend."

  "Then it must be ended my way," the hooded one declared. "We work together, wrali and temrars, although the people do not know. We work together to keep this planet in ignorance, keep our race from civilization and science—because with science, worship of the Evil One would cease. And that was the ancient promise we made when we came here—that our people would always worship. We must keep that promise in order to survive.

  "So we cannot let this Forbes come back and bring his cursed science here. We must do things my way. Give that to me."

  The Kal handed the silvery object to the hooded one. "Is it time?" he whispered.

  The hooded one cocked his head again. "I can sense it now," he said. "The ship has taken off. It climbs swiftly. Thousands of miles."

  The hooded one bent over the brazier as the flames roared up. Carefully he thrust the silvery object into the crimson coals. The flames licked, tasted, then consumed with incredible speed. In a moment the object melted away.

  "What happens now?" whispered the Kal.

  The hooded one shuddered. "Ten thousand miles away," he murmured. "Now!"

  Ten thousand miles over Pyris the spaceship exploded, melted into nothingness.

  And down below, the Kal murmured sadly, "We had to do it, didn't we? To save our planet from the scientists. Because they don't believe in the Power of Evil. They don't believe you can kill by sticking pins into an image—or by melting an image over a hot fire—"

  Daybroke

  UP IN THE sky the warheads whirled, and the thunder of their passing shook the mountain.

  Deep in his vaulted sanctuary he sat, godlike and inscrutable, marking neither the sparrow's nor the missile's fall. There was no need to leave his shelter to stare down at the city.

  He knew what was happening—had known ever since early in the evening when the television flickered and died. An announcer in the holy white garb of the healing arts had been delivering an important message about the world's most popular laxative—the one most people preferred, the one four out of five doctors used themselves. Midway in his praise of this amazing new medical discovery he had paused and advised the audience to stand by for a special bulletin.

  But the bulletin never came; instead the screen went blank and the thunder boomed.

  All night long the mountain trembled, and the seated man trembled, too, not with anticipation but with realization. He had expected this, of course, and that was why he was here. Others had talked about it for years; there had been wild rumors and solemn warnings and much muttering in taverns. But the rumormongers and the warning sounders and the tavern mutterers had made no move. They had stayed in the city and he alone had fled.

  Some of them, he knew, had stayed to stave off the inevitable end as best they could, and these he saluted for their courage. Others had attempted to ignore the future, and these he detested for their blindness. And all of them he pitied.

  For he had realized, long ago, that courage was not enough and that ignorance was no salvation. Wise words and foolish words are one—they will not halt the storm. And when the storm approaches it is best to flee.

  So he had prepared for himself this mountain retreat, high over the city, and here he was safe, would be safe for years to come. Other men of equal wealth could have done the same, but they were too wise or too foolish to face reality. So while they spread their rumors and sounded their warnings and muttered in their cups, he built his sanctuary: lead-guarded, amply provisioned, and stocked with every need for years to come, including even a generous supply of the world's most popular laxative.

  Dawn came at last and the echoes of the thunder died, and he went to a special, shielded place where he could sight his spyglass at the city. He stared and he squinted, but there was nothing to be seen—nothing but swirling clouds that billowed blackly and rolled redly across the hazed horizon.

  Then he knew that he must go down to the city if he wanted to find out and made due preparations.

  There was a special suit to wear, a cunning seamless garment of insulated cloth and lead, difficult and costly to obtain. It was a top-secret suit, the kind only Pentagon generals possess. They cannot procure them for their wives, and they must steal them for their mistresses. But he had one. He donned it now.

  An elevated platform aided his descent to the base of the mountain, and there his car was waiting. He drove out, the shielded doors closing automatically behind him, and started for the city. Through the eyepiece of his insulated helmet he stared out at a yellowish fog, and he drove slowly, even though he encountered no traffic or any sign of life.

  After a time the fog lifted, and he could see t
he countryside. Yellow trees and yellow grass stood stiffly silhouetted against a yellow sky in which great clouds writhed and whirled.

  Van Gogh's work, he told himself, knowing it was a lie. For no artist's hand had smashed the windows of the farmhouses, peeled the paint from the sides of the barns, or squeezed the warm breath from the herds huddling in the fields, standing fright-frozen but dead.

  He drove along the broad arterial leading to the city, an arterial which ordinarily swarmed with the multicolored corpuscles of motor vehicles. But there were no cars moving today, not in this artery.

  Not until he neared the suburbs did he see them, and then he rounded a curve and was halfway upon the vanguard before he panicked and halted in a ditch.

  The roadway ahead was packed with automobiles as far as the eye could see—a solid mass, bumper to bumper, ready to descend upon him with whirring wheels.

  But the wheels were not turning.

  The cars were dead. The further stretches of the highway were an automotive graveyard. He approached the spot on foot, treading with proper reverence past the Cadillac corpses, the cadavers of Chevrolets, the bodies of Buicks. Close at hand he could see the evidence of violent ends: the shattered glass, the smashed fenders, the battered bumpers and twisted hoods.

  The signs of struggle were often pitiable to observe. Here was a tiny Volkswagen, trapped and crushed between two looming Lincolns; there an MG had died beneath the wheels of a charging Chrysler. But all were still now. The Dodges dodged no longer; the Hornets had ceased their buzzing; and the Ramblers would never ramble again.

  It was hard for him to realize with equal clarity the tragedy that had overtaken the people inside these cars—they were dead, too, of course, but somehow their passing seemed insignificant. Maybe his thinking had been affected by the attitude of the age, in which a man tended to be less and less identified as an individual and more and more regarded on the basis of the symbolic status of the car he drove. When a stranger rode down the street, one seldom thought of him as a person; one's only immediate reaction was, "There goes a Ford—there goes a Pontiac—there goes one of those big goddam Imperials." And men bragged about their cars instead of their characters. So somehow the death of the automobiles seemed more important than the death of their owners. It didn't seem as though human beings had perished in this panic-stricken effort to escape from the city; it was the cars which had made a dash for final freedom and then failed.