by Pel Torro
Don Cameron looked up and his eyes narrowed to two steel chips.
“I wonder,” he soliloquised, “what we shall find out when we knock on your door, Mr. Anzar?”
As though for answer a bird wheeled overhead, calling and screeching like a vulture in the desert. It was a bird of ill omen, and Don Cameron didn’t like the look of it at all.
He drove on towards the house, climbing higher by the circuitous path that wound higher round the base of the cliff and up towards the back of Anzar’s forbidding dark residence.…
As he drew closer he could see how old and derelict the house was. Whatever had tempted the scientist to take it had obviously not been the ‘all mod cons.’ If the house could boast of anything, it could only boast of hot and cold running dirt, dry rot and damp. Cameron parked the car, checked that his gun was loose in his holster and thundered on the massive old fashioned door.
Slow dragging footsteps sounded in the passage on the other side.
Chapter Four
Vanishing Trick
BACK in the Radville IPF station sergeant Joe Harding and trooper Pete Neil couldn’t settle to routine.
Some of the other men were out on traffic patrol, others on routine investigations in the town, only the sergeant and the trooper remained at the station. Neither could get their minds off Don Cameron. What had happened to him after he headed for the big house on the hill, that derelict old house belonging to Anzar. The sergeant helped himself to the report on his chief’s desk and called Pete Neil to come and have a look at it with him. He was a sufficiently good man to respect the security label on the botanical laboratory report, but the file of Anzar was not so marked.
“What do you make of this, Pete?” he asked.
Neil lit a cigarette and leant back, surveying the file critically.
“Ugly swine from the photograph, isn’t he, sarge?”
“You’re telling me,” said Joe Harding. “I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night, five foot two, and he weighs 260 lbs. What a brain he’s got to go with it!”
“He’s got to have a brain of some kind with a head like that—unless it’s full of water,” said Neil. “He’s got a head like—I dunno what it’s like! It hardly looks human. If I put that guy’s hat on it would fall down and pin me shoulders!”
“Yes, fantastic. You know, it looks like the kind of drawing a child would do of a man, with everything out of proportion. It isn’t like a human specimen in some ways, and yet in other ways it is.”
“Think he’s an alien?” asked Neill.
“It’s difficult to say, we know he’s not a Venusian and he’s not a Martian; we’ve seen both of them and they’re so obviously non-humanoid nobody could possibly get confused no matter what disguise they put on. They couldn’t ever pass off as one of us. I wonder if this chap is from somewhere beyond.”
“You mean somewhere outside the solar system?” said Neil. “There’s been no ships from there. We can’t get out and they can’t get in.”
“How do we know they can’t get in?” demanded the sergeant. “How do we know where they are, or what they are? How do we know there isn’t something out there with the kind of intellect the science fiction writers imagine? We’ve conquered the solar system, we’ve visited most of the known planets there, we’ve only found two with any form of life at all. Only two that will support life—and they were the two that we expected anyway.
We found that amphibian race on Venus, and we found those scaly little devils on Mars, intelligent little devils in their own way, but both crude in comparison with human civilisation. So long as the colonists adopt a policy of Laissez faire and live and let live, there won’t be anything to fear from them. We don’t anticipate any trouble—they’re not numerically strong enough and they haven’t got any technology which would be of sufficiently high level to defeat anything we could produce. But this——”
“I know the kind of science fiction novel you’re thinking of,” commented Neil. “The sort of thing in which the aliens had the ability to change the molecular structure of the body,”
“Them’s long words for a trooper,” teased the sergeant. “Have you been swotting for the Promotion Exam?”
“Yes! After your job!” retorted Neil with a grin. But all the banter and all the humour was on the surface. Deep down and underneath the two men were anxious and desperately worried about Don Cameron. The sergeant looked at his watch for the twentieth time during the last hour.
“He’s been gone two-and-a-half hours,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Pete passed over a cigarette and the sergeant lit it and inhaled deeply.
“Filthy habit,” he said jokingly impersonating Cameron. “Don’t know why I do it.…”
“Neither do I,” said Pete. “But there seem to be times when a fag is really necessary. Right now is one of them. Let’s be honest about this, sergeant. I’ve never served in such a happy little station as this one.”
“Neither have I, and we both know why it is a happy little station. None of us has got time for a lot of slop or a lot of sentiment. But the main reason that things go on smoothly here is because Don Cameron is the Lieut. And we wouldn’t find a better one. He’s as straight as a gun—and as tough. Nobody steps over the line because they know there’d be no sense in trying. On the other hand, if he can turn a blind eye to some minor infringement of regulations he will. He’s not looking for promotion by picking holes in his men. He’d never put a man on the black list for having a dirty uniform, or boots you couldn’t see your face in. He believes the IPF are here to maintain law and order on the three inhabited planets of our system, and to act as an Interplanetary Force in case of alien invasion. In case the Martians or Venusians ever did decide to start trouble; unlikely as it is. We’re a combination of interplanetary police force and interplanetary army.
Our job is to detect crime, and to prevent war and to prevent violence. Now if we ever lose sight of those objectives and become a kind of bull force, or a spit-and-polish-brigade, and live by the regulations it’s no good. It’s a question of the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law. Don Cameron is a man who upholds the spirit of the law as clearly as it’s ever been upheld by anyone. He sometime lets the letter go past, and that’s what makes things happy. Minor rules are made to be broken. Petty laws are made to be infringed, and common sense dictates it.… Law, when all is said and done, was made for man, for his guidance and for his benefit, and to organise a society, so that his life could be fuller and happier.”
“You’re talking like a sociologist,” said Neil.
“Well, maybe I am in a way,” concurred the sergeant. “We all are, the very fact that we live in a civilised community means that to understand and comprehend we have to be sociologists to a lesser or greater degree. But that’s beside the point … this place goes well because Cameron is our Number One. He’s the finest lieutenant I’ve ever served under. He’s not only a decent understanding human being, he’s a brave man and a loyal colleague. Nine-tenths of the way I feel now and nine-tenths of the reason why my guts are tying themselves up in knots with sheer anxiety over Cameron is because I like Cameron as a man, not just because he’s my Lieu.
“The one-tenth reason is that if anything happened to him we might get some crazy youngster up here straight from college who’s going to throw the book at us and demand spit and polish and all kinds of horrible things that have gradually slipped away since Cameron’s been in charge.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Pete. “I feel just the same way about it as you do. I’m also honest enough to know that nine-tenths of my reasons are personal like of Cameron and that one-tenth is a personal fear that we might get some ghastly gump out here if anything happens to him.”
“If he’s not here in thirty minutes from now I’ve got to put a call through to general Headquarters, get a big force out here and blast our way into that house to get him out. Three hours is a long time.…”
“Maybe he’s afraid to use it, in case the whole place is monitored—maybe it could be picked up.… Maybe he’s seen some big lab, full of electrical junk and he knows the message would be picked up as soon as he uses the radio,” suggested Neil.
“For a mere trooper you use your head. I reckon you’ll pass those promotion exams,” said the sergeant kindly. “But I don’t think that’s it. I keep trying to fill my mind up with arguments of that kind, but they just won’t wash. Course, the one obvious reason keeps pumping out. If it is Anzar up there, Anzar is no fool.”
“Neither is Cameron,” protested Neil.
“I know he’s no fool! But when all’s said and done he’s a good guy but he’s just a run-of-the-mill IPF Lieut. He’s had training in the vital arts of crime detection, organisation, administration, traffic control—that kind of thing, like the rest of us. He knows how to fly a space ship like all our officers, but he hasn’t got much beyond that. Now, the fellow he’s up against has a degree from every university that gives out degrees—that is, all the reputable ones, look at that list. He’s a doctor of Science, of nearly every University in the country! He just did it for the hell of it.…
“So?” said the sergeant.
“Doesn’t that point to an obvious conclusion?”
“Yes, it means he’s got a brain that matches that big head of his.”
“Correct, at number one go.”
“Now we come to the next point in simple logical deduction—what do you think of this, Sherlock—if you send an ordinary police lieu up against a man who may or may not have the power to make trees go for a walk, to make autocars flash into the sky; a man who can project electromagnetic waves that do crazy things to the jet controls of hover cars; a man who can make sweet peas get up and go for a walk like so many cattle grazing on a hillside; a man who can melt road surfaces and subside concrete; a man who can interfere with TV and radio; a man who can”—he stopped short, “a man who can make ghosts walk through a crypt—I wonder if that’s the other thing?”
Strange factors began working together in their minds, horrible, terrifying factors; factors that sent icy trickles of fear down his spine; contingencies that didn’t bear thinking about. Things he would prefer not to reckon with.… The sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders; twisted his hands together in thoughtful silence, his face puckered into a frown.
“Penny for ’em,” suggested Neil.
“They’re worth a helluva lot more than a penny,” retorted the sergeant grimly. “I was trying to trace over the same steps that Don Cameron must have traced over.…” He looked at his watch, twenty minutes to go.… He lit another cigarette; took a turn round the station; sat down at his desk and tried to get interested in some routine. Pete Neil continued to read the Anzar report.
“Put that thing back in the envelope when you’ve finished reading it—pretend you haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t like it. This guy seems to have come from nowhere. Why didn’t Headquarters put a special tail on him when they looked that file up? Don’t make sense! A man ain’t got no right not to have a past—not to have a record.”
“It doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a past, just because we haven’t got it in Records,” said the sergeant. “You know that as well as I do. I should say that nine tenths of the people on this globe haven’t got a record—simply because they’re not criminals.”
“They’ve got one thing Anzar hasn’t got. Every man who’s on our file—we have his date of birth and his parentage. If he’s on our files at all, that’s what we have got … show me Anzar’s date of birth! Give the names of Anzar’s parents! Who the devil does he think he is? Some kind of Melchizedek?”
“Who the blazes was Melchizedek?” asked the sergeant.
“O, he’s one of these weird old characters from the Old Testament,” replied Pete Neil. “Semi-mythological character. Did bit of research on it once. He had no parents, so it says, he was a man without beginning and without end. Without father and without mother. He was supposed to be one of the sons of the gods.…”
“Sounds fascinating. Read much of that?”
“Oh, a bit. Not enough!” said Neil ruefully. “Mythology is a subject, once you get started, there’s no end to it. But we’re getting off the track. I was thinking about Anzar. If, somehow he is one of these kinds of characters, which science fiction novelists were so fond of turning out, one of these fellows with the flexible molecular structure, who just came drifting in from outer space.”
“If he is, why assume this particular”—he broke off short. “Wait a minute! That guy reminded me of somebody! Let me look at that photograph. Come on brain! Come on!” He patted the side of his head encouragingly. “Think! It’s a book I read a long time ago. I saw an illustration in it.…
I’m going down to the library, you hold the fort here.” Leaving a bewildered trooper Neil in charge of the office the sergeant dashed out and made his way down to the Radville library. He had had the book out not more than a few weeks ago. He only wished he could remember the title. He felt that if he could see it again, it would ring a bell. It was in the early fiction section. Two hundred and fifty years old, it must be … he was going through the works Dane, Deveroe, Deauville, no.… Doyle! That was it! He picked the book up; the same copy! The same illustrations! He flicked over the pages till he found the plate he wanted. The picture of professor Challenger—a short, florid man; a man with a spade-shaped, blue black beard. He read the description of the professor in the words that Doyle had written. It almost, word for word, matched the description given from the IPF central filing department.
“Stars and stripes and jump over the galaxy,” muttered the sergeant. He dashed across to the librarian. “I want this urgently—it’s a police matter.”
“Well, I’m afraid there are three before you, on the waiting list——”
“O go to blazes, I said it’s a police matter! I don’t want it for private reading! Here, give me a piece of paper and I’ll give you a police receipt for it.” He scrawled his name on the librarian’s receipt. The young, owl-like librarian raised his eyebrows and protested feebly. “Well, weally.…” But the sergeant was racing back towards the station.
He burst in through the door like an angry bull dozer, slammed the book down on the desk, and shouted.
“Bring me that file.” Obediently Neil came across with it.
“Flip it over to the picture, that’s it, the radio-synthesis build up. Well I’m blowed! Look at it! Look at it!” The pictures were almost identical. Either Conan Doyle had been 250 years prophetic, and had sketched in his work Professor Anzar, or the thing that called itself Professor Anzar had seen the illustration, had read the description and had decided that that would do as well as anything else, for its earth-pattern. Perhaps despite its superb intelligence it had made some kind of mistake. When it came to conjecture, Joe Harding’s mind could run on and cover elaborate distances. An elaborate pattern was building up in his mind.
“Just suppose,” he said to Neil,” and this is pure supposition—I want you to go along with me and pick any obvious holes that you can see—just suppose something like the science fiction writer’s nightmare, the thing with the flimsy, molecular structure, is out there in space and it wants to come down to earth.…”
“I’m with you,” said Neil.
“Let’s suppose it’s either the vanguard of an invasion by hundreds of thousands of others of its kind, or let’s suppose it’s an exile. An evil scientist—an odd throwback among a good race, and its fellows who no longer believe in the death penalty, have abandoned it in space, to let it seek out some primitive planet to live out the rest of its life whe
re it can’t hurt their civilisation. Somewhere on the edge of the galaxy.…”
“Somewhere like earth you mean?”
“Exactly,” said the sergeant. “Now, he comes to earth with his amorphous body, say he lands looking for all the world like a 250 lb jelly fish—but he has the power to change himself at will into anything that he wants to change into.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Pete.
“We now come to this,” the sergeant was ticking off points on his fingers. “He wants to set himself up as a scientist on earth so he has access to scientific equipment. Obviously, if you or I went to a very primitive society we’d try and get in with the local medicine man or witch doctor. If we went back through time, we’d try and get in with the alchemists. Because we’d know, primitive as they were, they and the apothecaries, at least had the foundation of some sort of modern science. The shaman represents just one jump ahead of the completely uncultured natives. Just one jump ahead of his contemporaries. He is a cross between superstition and science. One day science will evolve out of him. Now our super-scientist with the amorphous body has found himself on a world that is, to him, absurdly primitive. Obviously the people he will want to contact are the scientists. He won’t go and sit in a mud hut in darkest Africa among our most primitive members. He’ll find the cream of this lousy race—that’s what we appear to him—and having found it then, he’d get to work trying to do one of two things.”
“Depending,” said Neil, “on what he was!”
“You follow me,” said the sergeant. “If he was an outcast he would try and perfect a super weapon and hit back at those who had thrown him out. If he was the vanguard of an invasion force, he would find out all he could, and wire back information to his comrades. In either case there would be some strong manifestations from around his H.Q.”
