He returned, to the teletype and waited. Presently messages began to come in in swift succession. There was an announcement to all peoples of Lirius that preparations for the interplanetary expedition were already on the verge of completion. There was a statement by the King of Lirius, bidding good fortune and success. And there was a long statement, signed by the ten members of the Lirian Diplomatic Council, expressing appreciation to the Earth operator in the warmest terms.
Rane frowned slightly. The inhabitants of the other world were overdoing it a bit, he thought. After all, he had only sent them a suggestion. Somehow there seemed a lack of sincerity in the various communications he had received.
But abruptly the teletype clicked off the following:
Vome, Lirius. Transport now leaving. Begin power tone. We will contact you at intervals —Unit A.
Rane tripped a switch, disconnecting the keyboard, and pressed a small contact button. A low, droning roar filled the room. Holding the power tone steadily, he took out his watch and laid it down before him. Intermittently at exact five-minute intervals his hand pushed down on the button. Between those intervals he switched the teletype back in, ready for any message that might be transmitted by the transport en route.
A message did come, rattling off the keys at terrific speed, but this time Rane stared at it with puzzled eyes.
3inqv mysyel mc8qux uii3nef qb ucaekch. gclmwueba rsnioc 3inqv mj xvop Ikjhg. zxe utos qb dawquipmn…
This was odd. The key which he had applied to all previous messages and which in the last few hours he had learned practically by heart, failed absolutely to decipher the message. The grouped letters and numerals seemed to have been formed, in another language-cipher entirely.
“Some military code, no doubt,” Rane mused aloud. “They’re giving orders regarding the defeated planet, Uranus.”
But his eyes darkened perceptibly, and when after three more five-minute intervals of sending the power tone a second message, likewise undecipherable, came through, he turned the teletype over to transmission and went to work on the keyboard.
Unable to read your last two communications. What are you saying? —Rane.
No reply came to this interrogation. Puzzled, Rane took up paper and pencil, placed the strange messages before him and attempted to decode them. But he had no key word to work with this time, and he failed in each attempt.
Try though he would to disregard it, a lurking suspicion began to enter a far corner of his, brain. Why should the Lirians suddenly begin to send messages in a cipher which they knew he could not understand? Obviously, because they did not want him to know what they were saying. But why?
Abruptly he stumbled upon a clue by accident. A single word, 3inqv, he noted, had been repeated, several times, and contained a similar number of characters as the word earth. Hazarding a wild guess, he substituted “earth” for this combination, following with the other letters and words in a trial and error method. He worked rapidly, in between intervals of sending the power tone. Completed, the message bewildered him:
Earth power signal coming in clearly. Advancing toward Earth under full speed. All guns in readiness.
He read that last sentence three times while his lips tightened, and a queer glitter entered his eyes. The second communication in the new cipher was even stranger:
Reinforcements now leaving Lirius to aid you. 26 space dreadnoughts, three speed cruisers. Proceed with utmost caution. Attack immediately on arrival.
It was then that Rane jerked out of his chair, voicing a startled oath. He saw it all now, saw it clearly. And the cunning audacity, the treachery of it cut into him like a knife. This was no good-will expedition the Lirians were speeding through space. All statements to that effect had been a blind, tricking him into aiding them.
Drunk with power from their recent conquest of Uranus, the Lirians now planned to subjugate the earth. For years they had been aware of developments on earth, but through some error in calculations, or observations they had come to believe that terrestrial life had ceased to exist. Made aware of their mistake, they now intended to utilize their advantage of the situation.
The cold-blooded deceit of it staggered Rane. One outstanding fact overwhelmed him with its significance: it was his actions alone that were responsible for this trouble. He alone could stop it. He must do so!
The watch showed that the five minute time when the power-tone was to be sent was overdue. Even as he raced across the room to shut off the dynamos, the keys of the teletype swung into action.
No power tone. Send immediately.
He stood there, galvanized to immobility. Would the simple discontinuance of his signal beacon be sufficient to halt the invaders before they reached their destination? He didn’t know.
Demand power tone be sent at once. If not, dire consequences await you. Answer.
Still he made no move. Was this all some mad dream, some nightmare from which he would awake to laugh at his fears? The stark reality of the room, the humming dynamos, the printed words on the rolled paper told him only too clearly it wasn’t. In his mind’s eye he saw huge battle-craft from outer galaxies, armed with strange weapons, landing to spread fearful havoc. He saw cities and towns annihilated by forces the inhabitants could neither see nor understand. He saw:
Rane, Granite Point, Earth. Give you two minutes to send power tone. Reception vital or we cannot proceed. If you do not reply at the end of that time we will blast you through our four-dimensional teleray. Remember we are in wave-length contact with you. You are no doubt aware by now that this is an expedition of war. In this respect we promise you complete safety to yourself. We are desirous only of complete conquest of Earth, which will then be placed under our government as a planetary possession. We did not lie when we stated that Dromeda, the most beautiful woman in Lirius, is aboard this transport as a passenger. If you obey all instructions and do as we order, we promise you her hand in marriage, also high position in Lirian court circle plus large share of loot. Give you two minutes to send power tone. If not heard at the end of that interval, we discharge teleray into your station. You cannot escape.
Rane stood there like a man in a daze. His fists clenched slowly; he could feel a pulse pounding at his temple. On the instrument table the watch ticked away the seconds.
One minute dragged by. Every detail of the room seemed to stand forth with stereoscopic clarity now. The two silent teletypes squatted there on the wooden bench, mocking instruments of destruction. The drone of the dynamos sang a threnody of death.
Twice Rane attempted to rush to the door and escape the house. Each time a peculiar bluish spark spat across the binding posts on the instrument panel, and he felt a magnetic attraction radiate from it to thwart his will. Realization came to him that this time the Lirians meant what they said. They were still in contact with him, and they were exerting an unknown power to prevent his escape. It was a physical impossibility for him to leave the room.
Thirty—fifteen seconds more. He stared at the watch, glanced at the control-button and smiled grimly. He slid slowly into the chair before the instrument desk. How simple it would be! A turn of a switch, a pressure on a rubber knob, and his own life would be saved. And yet—
Two minutes slipped by. His mind made up, Rane sat rigid. He made no move to send the power tone.
And then it happened! A terrific, grinding roar belched forth from the bowels of the machine. A huge cloud of greenish black smoke shot upward, and a span of white fire arced across the cables to envelope the scientist in a shroud of flame.
Like some monstrous Gatling gun, the thunderous crashes pounded madly through the room. The fire rose higher to lick hungrily at the ceiling. Then it died, to reveal a mass of twisted smoking metal with the body of Rane lifeless beside it.
* * * *
On August 5th the New York Times carried the following small article on the bottom of its third pag
e:
What was thought to be a new dark star of unknown origin was wrapped in mystery today after Professor Howard K. Althra, eminent astronomer of Mount Wilson Observatory, revealed his observations of the past two nights had ended in failure.
Two nights ago Professor Althra, aided by almost perfect atmospheric conditions, sighted a dark point moving out of the constellation Gemini, between Saturn and Neptune, and heading toward the earth at terrific speed. Professor Althra was able, to chart the course of this body through space by its frequent and unexplainable variations of course, but he was unable to determine definitely whether it was a large body seen at a great distance or a small body close to earth.
“At the time of the last observation,” Professor Althra stated, “it almost seemed as if it faltered there in space, then turned about and headed back for the constellation Gemini. This, of course, is impossible, and I am unable to state definitely what the nature of the object was.”
MONSTER KIDNAPS GIRL AT MAD SCIENTIST’S COMMAND!, by Lawrence Watt-Evans
It slithered up to the bar and settled onto the stool beside me.
“Gin and tonic,” it told the bartender.
The bartender gave it the eye. “Got any I.D.?” he asked.
The thing writhed around for a moment, and produced a battered wallet from somewhere. It flipped the billfold open, extracted a folded paper, and handed it to the bartender.
“What’s this?” he said warily, picking it up. “This ain’t no driver’s license.”
“I can’t drive,” it said apologetically. “That’s my genetic experiment authorization form.”
The bartender unfolded the paper and looked it over.
“Hmph,” he snorted. “Looks okay. Where’s the date?”
It extended a pseudopod and pointed.
“Oh, I see it,” the bartender said. He blinked at it, and then grinned. “Hey, kid,” he said, “Happy birthday!” He dropped the paper on the bar and reached for the bottle of gin.
“Thanks,” the thing said.
It looked like about four hundred pounds of tentacles and slime. Two stalked eyes projected from a scaly purple lump that didn’t have enough of a neck to be a head, and the rest of the face consisted of slit nostrils, a big sloppy maw, and a row of tendrils. The dominant color, overall, was a bilious green.
It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first.
A tentacle retrieved the paper from the bar. I watched, trying not to be blatant about it, and saw where it went—a belly pouch.
The bartender set the gin and tonic on the bar, and the thing picked it up gingerly in one tentacle. The eyes drooped down to focus on the glass, and it took a tentative sip.
I smiled. “Just turned twenty-one, huh?” I asked.
The eyes swung around to look at me, and then the mouth stretched into a grin bigger than my head. “That obvious, huh?” it said.
I recognized that grin.
“Hey, I know you!” I said, “You were in the remake of ‘Return of the Jedi,’ right? In Jabba’s throne room?”
The grin grew wider. “Yeah,” it said, “That was me.”
“Hey, you were great!” I said. “Really!”
“Thanks,” it said, eyestalks dipping modestly.
“Hey, drink up—next round’s on me!” I said. “I don’t meet very many famous movie actors.” I raised my glass and took a slug of bourbon.
It raised its own glass and took another sip, a little larger this time. I signalled the bartender, and laid my MasterCard on the bar. “Keep ’em coming,” I said, indicating the monster and myself.
“You don’t have to do that…” it began while the barkeep was running the card through the reader.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, “I’ve got the money—I can afford it.”
“Well,” it said, “If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” I said, “Drink up!”
It drank.
“You always been in movies?” I asked.
It nodded. “Oh, yeah,” it said, “I was made for the movies. Ever see an oldie called ‘Pets’?”
I sat back and thought for a minute, and it came back to me.
“I think I did,” I said. “Big-budget horror movie, right? Tom Cruise as the crazy old hermit? Jennifer Bacon as the Marine sergeant?”
“That’s the one,” it agreed. “I was one of the extras, when all the monsters start coming out of the attic. I was six months old, could barely crawl. They ordered me up special for that film.”
I nodded. “You remember working on it?”
It stared at me. “What, are you nuts? I was six months old! What do you remember that far back?”
“Nothing,” I admitted.
“Well, I don’t either,” it said, miffed. “You think I’m some kind of freak?”
I hesitated, and then pointed out, “Well, you are a monster.”
“Sure I am,” it said, “And proud of it, too! But that doesn’t mean I’m not human.”
“Ummm…” I began.
“Legally,” it said warningly, “I’m human.”
I shrugged. “Okay,” I said, “You’re human. No offense. But come on, how am I supposed to know how different you are? You’ve got to admit, you aren’t exactly just another face in the crowd! I’m sorry if I offended you, but I’ve never had a chance to talk to a movie monster before.”
“All right,” it relented, “Apology accepted.”
I gulped bourbon. “So,” I said, “You started out in ‘Pets’ when you were a baby. Then what?”
“Well, the studio put me up for adoption, but got no takers, and then the Artificial Child Welfare Act went through and the producer of ‘Pets’ found himself playing Daddy to fifteen of us little monsters and farmed most of us out to relatives and ex-wives. I got lucky, I guess; Mom was ex-wife number two, and far too good for that son of a bitch. She raised me like her own son.” It—or rather, “he,” going by that last sentence—sniffled a little and slurped gin.
I nodded. “So was the Jedi remake your next role?”
“Naw,” he said, “Of course not! Mom needed money to support me—we eat a lot—and why shouldn’t I help earn my keep, when it’s so easy for me? I was in ‘Arms Race,’ and ‘Ms. McGillicuddy on Mars,’ and a couple of others—‘Jedi’ was my sixth. I was nine.”
“Nine?” I marvelled. “I’ll be damned; that was a hell of a performance for a kid your age!”
“I know,” he said. “I was good. I could always get work, even when half us monsters were on welfare.” He drank gin, and I realized he was on his third or fourth; the bartender had been refilling them so smoothly I hadn’t even noticed. I’d only had one before the kid came in, and was working on my third over all.
I was just far enough gone not to worry about what might happen if I got a four-hundred-pound monster, a monster unfamiliar with alcohol, good and drunk.
“So if life’s so good,” I asked, “How come you’re here drinking alone on your birthday?”
One eye had wandered off; the other had drooped somewhat. Now it rose up straight again and stared at me, though the other one was still looking somewhere in the direction of the video.
“You don’t want to hear it,” he said at last.
“Sure I do!” I said.
The other eye wheeled back around. “If you’re so damn curious,” he asked, “Then what are you doing here drinking by yourself?”
I shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Both eyes were trying to focus on me and not quite managing it, and a fifth gin and tonic was in a nearby tentacle. “Who are you, anyway?” he demanded.
I held out a hand. “Ryan Tewary,” I said. “And what do you go by?”
It reluctantly held out a tentacle, and we shook. “They call me Bo,” he said. “My real name’s G
enex H W Two-Forty-Four Dash Oh-Six.”
“Pleased to meet you, Bo,” I said. “Call me Rye.”
He nodded.
“You haven’t said what you’re doing here,” I remarked.
I think he glowered at me, but with his anatomy it was hard to be sure. “I just turned twenty-one,” he said, “I shouldn’t buy myself a legal drink to celebrate?”
“You’ve had a lot more than one,” I pointed out—the fifth glass was empty. “And besides, isn’t it sort of traditional to party with friends, not by yourself?”
“What makes you so snoopy?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just curious. Scientific curiosity.”
“You’re a scientist?”
I nodded.
“Microbiology?”
I didn’t like the tone he used to say that, and I was glad I wasn’t a genetic engineer. “No,” I said, “Flavor chemistry.”
Bo nodded. He looked at the barman and held out his glass. “Fill ’er up,” he said.
“Kid,” the bartender said, “I think you’ve had enough for now.”
Even in my own less than entirely sober condition I could see his point, so before it could turn into an argument I said, “Come on, kid, let’s find someplace friendlier.”
Bo’s eyes swiveled a little unsteadily, looking over the bartender, the bar, and me, and then he nodded. “Right,” he said. He slithered off the stool. I signed the tab and got up.
“I’m still buying,” I said as we headed for the door.
“Hey, you don’t have to,” he said. “I’ve got money. Truth is, I’m stinkin’ rich, y’know. Movie work pays.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “I’m stinkin’ rich, too.”
He stopped in the doorway and looked me over.
“You said you’re a chemist?”
“A flavor chemist,” I agreed.
“That pays well?”
I motioned for him to stop blocking the door as I said, “What’re your three favorite flavors of ice cream, Bo?”
He blinked at me, puzzled. “You talking shop? I’m no chemist.”
The Mad Scientist Megapack Page 26
