Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  “How are the mighty fallen!” I offered.

  “Not so,” Jay contradicted. “We have fought our way out of their power-but we have not conquered them. The world remains theirs and theirs alone. We are retiring with losses, and we have yet to find a way to cure Jepson.”

  A thought struck me as he turned to go. “Hey, what happened after that assault on the ship. And how did you keep track of us?”

  “It was a losing fight. Discretion became the better part of valour. So we blew free before they could incapacitate the ship. After that, we followed you very easily.” His eyes always remained inscrutably aflame but I will swear that a touch of malicious humour came into them as he went on, “You had Sug Farn with you. We had Kli Yang and the rest of his gang.” He tapped his head suggestively. “The Martians have much garnish.”

  “They’re telepathic among themselves,” yelped Brennand, flushing with ire. “I forgot all about that. Sug Farn never said a word. The cross-eyed spider just slept every chance he got.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Jay, “he was in constant touch with his fellows.”

  He went along the catwalk, rounded the far corner. Then the warning alarm sounded and Brennand and I clung like brothers while the ship switched to Flettner drive. The green world faded to a dot with swiftness that never fails to astound me. Taking fresh hold on ourselves, we rubbed our distorted innards into shape. Then Brennand gripped the valve of the starboard airlock, turned the control, watched the pressure gauge crawl from three pounds up to fifteen.

  “The Martians are inside there,” I pointed out. “And they won’t like it.”

  “I don’t want ’em to like it. I’ll teach those rubber caricatures to hold out on us!”

  “McNulty won’t like it, either!”

  “Who cares what McNulty likes or dislikes!” he bawled.

  Then McNulty himself suddenly came around the corner, walking with portly dignity.

  Brennand promptly added in still louder tones, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, talking like that. You ought to be more respectful and refer to him as the skipper.”

  Look, if ever you take to the spaceways don’t worry too much about the ship-concentrate your worrying on the no-good bums who’ll share it with you!

  SEEDS OF THE DUSK

  Raymond Z. Gallun

  Medical men have suggested several times in recent years that life in virus‌—‌and infectious‌—‌form may come to this planet from other worlds. Far worse than any bacteria or virus life forms are the vegetable growths that Mr. Gallon here describes. Communal, interdependent, these invading spores from dead and useless Mars attempt to colonize earth. And the weird pioneers combat man’s last survivors on an intellectual as well as a physical plane.

  * * *

  I

  It was a spore, microscopic in size. Its hard shell‌—‌resistant to the utter dryness of interplanetary space‌—‌harbored a tiny bit of plant protoplasm. That protoplasm, chilled almost to absolute zero, possessed no vital pulsation now‌—‌ only a grim potentiality, a savage capacity for revival, that was a challenge to Fate itself.

  For years the spore had been drifting and bobbing erratically between the paths of Earth and Mars, along with billions of other spores of the same kind. Now the gravity of the Sun drew it a few million miles closer to Earth’s orbit, now powerful magnetic radiations from solar vortices forced it back toward the world of its origin.

  It seemed entirely a plaything of chance. And, of course, up to a point it was. But back of its erratic, unconscious wanderings, there was intelligence that had done its best to take advantage of the law of averages.

  The desire for rebirth and survival was the dominant urge of this intelligence. For this was during the latter days, when Earth itself was showing definite signs of senility, and Mars was near as dead as the Moon.

  Strange, intricate spore-pods, conceived as a man might conceive a new invention, but put into concrete form by a process of minutely exact growth control, had burst explosively toward a black, spacial sky. In dusty clouds the spores had been hurled upwards into the vacuum thinness that had once been an extensive atmosphere. Most of them had, of course, dropped back to the red, arid soil; but a comparative few, buffeted by feeble air currents, and measured numerically in billions, had found their way from the utterly tenuous upper reaches of Mars’ gaseous envelope into the empty ether of the void.

  With elements of a conscious purpose added, the thing that was taking place was a demonstration of the ancient Arrhenius Spore Theory, which, countless ages ago, had explained the propagation of life from world to world. The huge, wonderful parent growths were left behind, to continue a hopeless fight for survival on a burnt-out world. During succeeding summer seasons they would hurl more spores into the interplanetary abyss. But soon they themselves would be only brown, mummied relics‌—‌one with the other relics of Mars; the gray, carven monoliths; the orange, hemispherical dwellings, dotted with openings arranged like the cells of a honeycomb. Habitations for an intelligent animal folk, long perished, who had never had use for halls or rooms, as such things are known to men on earth.

  The era of utter death would come to Mars, when nothing would move on its surface except the shadows shifting across dusty deserts, and the molecules of sand and rock vibrating with a little warmth from the hot, though shrunken Sun. Death‌—‌complete death! But the growths which were the last civilized beings of Mars had not originated there. Once they had been on the satellites of Jupiter, too. And before that‌—‌well, perhaps even the race memory of their kind had lost the record of those dim, distant ages, Always they had waited their chance, and when the time came‌—‌when a world was physically suited for their development‌—‌they had acted.

  A single spore was enough to supply the desired foothold on a planet. Almost inevitably‌—‌since chance is, in fundamentals, a mathematical element depending on time and numbers and repetition‌—‌that single spore reached the upper atmosphere of Earth.

  For months, it bobbed erratically in tenuous, electrified gases. It might have been shot into space again. Upward and downward it wandered; but with gravity to tug at its significant mass, probability favored its ultimate descent to the harsh surface.

  It found a resting place, at last, in a frozen desert gully. Around the gully were fantastic, sugar-loaf mounds. Nearby was one thin, ruined spire of blue porcelain‌—‌an empty reminder of a gentler era, long gone. The location thus given to it seemed hardly favorable in its aspect. For this was the northern hemisphere, locked now in the grip of a deadly winter. The air, depleted through the ages, as was the planet’s water supply, arid and thin. The temperature, though not as rigorous and deadening as that of interplanetary space, ranged far below zero. Mars in this age was near dead; Earth was a dying world.

  But perhaps this condition, in itself, was almost favorable. The spore belonged to a kind of life developed to meet the challenge of a generally much less friendly environment than that of even this later-day Earth.

  There was snow in that desert gully‌—‌maybe a quarter-inch depth of it. The rays of the Sun‌—‌white and dwarfed after so many eons of converting its substance into energy ‌—‌did not melt any of that snow even at noon. But this did not matter. The life principle within the spore detected favorable conditions for its germination, just as, in spring, the vital principle of Earthly seeds had done for almost incalculable ages.

  By a process parallel to that of simple fermentation, a tiny amount of heat was generated within the spore. A few crystals of snow around it turned to moisture, a minute quantity of which the alien speck of life absorbed. Roots finer than spiderweb grew, groping into the snow. At night they were frozen solid, but during the day they resumed their brave activity.

  The spore expanded, but did not burst. For its shell was a protecting armor which must be made to increase in size gradually without rupture. Within it, intricate chemical processes were taking place. Chlorophyl there was absorbing
sunshine and carbon dioxide and water. Starch and cellulose and free oxygen were being produced.

  So far, these processes were quite like those of common terrestrial flora. But there were differences. For one thing, the oxygen was not liberated to float in the atmosphere. It had been ages since such lavish waste had been possible on Mars, whose thin air had contained but a small quantity of oxygen in its triatomic form, ozone, even when Earth was young.

  The alien thing stored its oxygen, compressing the gas into the tiny compartments in its hard, porous, outer shell. The reason was simple. Oxygen, combining with starch in a slow, fermentative combustion, could produce heat to ward off the cold that would otherwise stop growth.

  The spore had become a plant now. First, it was no bigger than a pinhead. Then it increased its size to the dimensions of a small marble, its fuzzy, green-brown shape firmly anchored to the soil itself by its long, fibrous roots. Like any terrestrial growth, it was an intricate chemical laboratory, where transformations took place that were not easy to comprehend completely.

  And now, perhaps, the thing was beginning to feel the first glimmerings of a consiousness, like a human child rising out of the blurred, unremembering fog of birth. Strange, oily nodules, scattered throughouut its tissues, connected by means of a complex network of delicate, white threads, which had the functions of a nervous system, were developing and growing‌—‌giving to the spore plant from Mars the equivalent of a brain. Here was a sentient vegetable in the formative stage.

  A sentient vegetable? Without intelligence it is likely that the ancestors of this nameless invader from across the void would long ago have lost their battle for survival.

  What senses were given to this strange mind, by means of which it could be aware of its environment? Undoubtedly it possessed faculties of sense that could detect things in a way that was as far beyond ordinary human conception as vision is to those individuals who have been born blind. But in a more simple manner it must have been able to feel heat and cold and to hear sounds, the latter perhaps by the sensitivity of its fine cilia-like spines. And certainly it could see in a way comparable to that of a man.

  For, scattered over the round body of the plant, and imbedded deep in horny hollows in its shell, were little organs, lensed with a clear vegetable substance. These organs were eyes, developed, perhaps, from far more primitive light-sensitive cells, such as many forms of terrestrial flora possess.

  But during those early months, the spore plant saw little that could be interpreted as a threat, swiftly to be fulfilled. Winter ruled, and the native life of this desolate region was at a standstill.

  There was little motion except that of keen, cutting winds, shifting dust, and occasional gusts of fine, dry snow. The white, shrunken Sun rose in the east, to creep with protracted slowness across the sky, shedding but the barest trace of warmth. Night came, beautiful and purple and mysterious, yet bleak as the crystalline spirit of an easy death.

  Through the ages. Earth’s rate of rotation had been much decreased by the tidal drag of Solar and Lunar gravities. The attraction of the Moon was now much increased, since the satellite was nearer to Terra than it had been in former times. Because of the decreased rate of rotation, the days and nights were correspondingly lengthened.

  All the world around the spore plant was a realm of bleak, unpeopled desolation. Only once, while the winter lasted, did anything happen to break the stark monotony. One evening, at moonrise, a slender metal car flew across the sky with the speed of a bullet. A thin propelling streamer of fire trailed in its wake, and the pale moonglow was reflected from its prow. A shrill, mechanical scream made the rarefied atmosphere vibrate, as the craft approached to a point above the desert gully, passed, and hurtled away, to leave behind it only a startling silence and an aching memory.

  For the spore plant did remember. Doubtless there was a touch of fear in that memory, for fear is a universal emotion, closely connected with the law of self-preservation, which is engrained in the texture of all life, regardless of its nature or origin.

  Men. Or rather, the cold, cruel, cunning little beings who were the children of men. The Itorloo, they called themselves. The invader could not have known their form as yet, or the name of the creatures from which they were descended. But it could guess something of their powers from the flying machine they had built. Inherited memory must have played a part in giving the queer thing from across the void this dim comprehension. On other worlds its ancestors had encountered animal folk possessing a similar science. And the spore plant was surely aware that here on Earth the builders of this speeding craft were its most deadly enemies.

  The Itorloo, however, inhabiting their vast underground cities, had no knowledge that their planet had received an alien visitation‌—‌one which might have deadly potentialities. And in this failure to know, the little spore plant, hidden in a gully where no Itorloo foot had been set in a thousand years, was safe.

  Now there was nothing for it to do but grow and prepare to reproduce its kind, to be watchful for lesser enemies, and to develop its own peculiar powers.

  It is not to be supposed that it must always lack, by its very nature, an understanding of physics and chemistry and biological science. It possessed no test tubes, or delicate instruments, as such things were understood by men. But it was gifted with something‌—‌call it an introspective sense‌—‌which enabled it to study in minute detail every single chemical and physical process that went on within its own substance. It could feel not only the juices coursing sluggishly through its tissues, but it could feel, too, in a kind of atomic pattern, the change of water and carbon dioxide into starch and free oxygen.

  Gift a man with the same power that the invader’s kind had acquired, perhaps by eons of practice and directed will ‌—‌that of feeling vividly even the division of cells, and the nature of the protoplasm in his own tissues‌—‌and it is not hard to believe that he would soon delve out even the ultimate secret of life. And in the secret of life there must be involved almost every conceivable phase of practical science.

  The spore plant proceeded with its marvelous self-education, part of which must have been only recalling to mind the intricate impressions of inherited memories.

  Meanwhile it studied carefully its bleak surroundings, prompted not only by fear, but by curiosity as well. To work effectively, it needed understanding of its environment. Intelligence it possessed beyond question; still it was hampered by many limitations. It was a plant, and plants have not an animal’s capacity for quick action, either of offense or defense. Here, forever, the entity from across the void was at a vast disadvantage, in this place of pitiless competition. In spite of all its powers, it might now have easily been destroyed.

  The delicate, ruined tower of blue porcelain, looming up from the brink of the gully‌—‌ The invader, scrutinizing it carefully for hours and days, soon knew every chink and crack and fanciful arabesque on its visible side. It was only a ruin, beautiful and mysterious alike by sunshine and moonlight, and when adorned with a fine sifting of snow. But the invader, lost on a strange world, could not be sure of its harmlessness.

  Close to the tower were those rude, high, sugar-loaf mounds, betraying a sinister cast. They were of hard-packed Earth, dotted with many tiny openings. But in the cold, arid winter, there was no sign of life about them now.

  All through those long, arctic months, the spore plant continued to develop, and to grow toward the reproductive stage. And it was making preparations too‌—‌combining the knowledge acquired by its observations with keen guesswork, and with a science apart from the manual fabrication of metal and other substances.

  II

  A milder season came at last. The Sun’s rays were a little warmer now. Some of the snow melted, moistening the ground enough to germinate Earthly seeds. Shoots sprang up, soon to develop leaves and grotesque, devilish-looking flowers.

  In the mounds beside the blue tower a slow awakening took place. Millions of little, hard, redd
ish bodies became animated once more, ready to battle grim Nature for sustenance. The ages had done little to the ants, except to increase their fierceness and cunning. Almost any organic substances could serve them as food, and their tastes showed but little discrimination between one dainty and another. And it was inevitable, of course, but presently they should find the spore plant.

  Nor were they the latter’s only enemies, even in this desert region. Of the others, Kaw and his black-feathered brood were the most potent makers of trouble. Not because they would attempt active offense themselves, but because they were able to spread news far and wide.

  Kaw wheeled alone now, high in the sunlight, his ebon wings outstretched, his cruel, observant little eyes studying the desolate terrain below. Buried in the sand, away from the cold, he and his mate and their companions had slept through the winter. Now Kaw was fiercely hungry. He could eat ants if he had to, but there should be better food available at this time of year.

  Once, his keen eyes spied gray movement far below. As if his poised and graceful flight was altered by the release of a trigger, Kaw dived plummet-like and silent toward the ground.

  His attack was more simple and direct than usual. But it was successful. His reward was a large, long-tailed rodent, as clever as himself. The creature uttered squeaks of terror as meaningful as human cries for help. In a moment, however, Kaw split its intelligently rounded cranium with a determined blow from his strong, pointed beak. Bloody brains were devoured with indelicate gusto, to be followed swiftly by the less tasty flesh of the victim. If Kaw had ever heard of table manners, he didn’t bother with them. Kaw was intensely practical.

  His crop full, Kaw was now free to exercise the mischievous curiosity which he had inherited from his ancient forbears. They who had, in the long-gone time when Earth was young, uprooted many a young corn shoot, and had yammered derisively from distant treetops when any irate farmer had gone after them with a gun.