The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction

by Mike Ashley (Editor)

  Old Mose Abrams was out hunting cows when he found the alien. He didn’t know it was an alien, but it was alive and it was in a lot of trouble and Old Mose, despite everything the neighbors said about him, was not the kind of man who could bear to leave a sick thing out there in the woods.

  It was a horrid-looking thing, green and shiny, with some purple spots on it, and it was repulsive even twenty feet away. And it stank.

  It had crawled, or tried to crawl, into a clump of hazel brush, but hadn’t made it. The head part was in the brush and the rest lay out there naked in the open. Every now and then the parts that seemed to be arms and hands clawed feebly at the ground, trying to force itself deeper in the brush, but it was too weak; it never moved an inch.

  It was groaning, too, but not too loud – just the kind of keening sound a lonesome wind might make around a wide, deep eave. But there was more in it than just the sound of winter wind; there was a frightened, desperate note that made the hair stand up on Old Mose’s nape.

  Old Mose stood there for quite a spell, making up his mind what he ought to do about it, and a while longer after that working up his courage, although most folks offhand would have said that he had plenty. But this was the sort of situation that took more than just ordinary screwed-up courage. It took a lot of foolhardiness.

  But this was a wild, hurt thing and he couldn’t leave it there, so he walked up to it and knelt down, and it was pretty hard to look at, though there was a sort of fascination in its repulsiveness that was hard to figure out – as if it were so horrible that it dragged one to it. And it stank in a way that no one had ever smelled before.

  Mose, however, was not finicky. In the neighborhood, he was not well known for fastidity. Ever since his wife had died almost ten years before, he had lived alone on his untidy farm and the housekeeping that he did was the scandal of all the neighbor women. Once a year, if he got around to it, he sort of shoveled out the house, but the rest of the year he just let things accumulate.

  So he wasn’t as upset as some might have been with the way the creature smelled. But the sight of it upset him, and it took him quite a while before he could bring himself to touch it, and when he finally did, he was considerably surprised. He had been prepared for it to be either cold or slimy, or maybe even both. But it was neither. It was warm and hard and it had a clean feel to it, and he was reminded of the way a green corn stalk would feel.

  He slid his hand beneath the hurt thing and pulled it gently from the clump of hazel brush and turned it over so he could see its face. It hadn’t any face. It had an enlargement at the top of it, like a flower on top of a stalk, although its body wasn’t any stalk, and there was a fringe around this enlargement that wiggled like a can of worms, and it was then that Mose almost turned around and ran.

  But he stuck it out.

  He squatted there, staring at the no-face with the fringe of worms, and he got cold all over and his stomach doubled up on him and he was stiff with fright – and the fright got worse when it seemed to him that the keening of the thing was coming from the worms.

  Mose was a stubborn man. One had to be stubborn to run a runty farm like his. Stubborn and insensitive in a lot of ways. But not insensitive, of course, to a thing in pain.

  Finally he was able to pick it up and hold it in his arms and there was nothing to it, for it didn’t weigh much. Less than a half-grown shoat, he figured.

  He went up the woods path with it, heading back for home, and it seemed to him the smell of it was less. He was hardly scared at all and he was warm again and not cold all over.

  For the thing was quieter now and keening just a little. And although he could not be sure of it, there were times when it seemed as if the thing were snuggling up to him, the way a scared and hungry baby will snuggle to any grown person that comes and picks it up.

  Old Mose reached the buildings and he stood out in the yard a minute, wondering whether he should take it to the barn or house. The barn, of course, was the natural place for it, for it wasn’t human – it wasn’t even as close to human as a dog or cat or sick lamb would be.

  He didn’t hesitate too long, however. He took it into the house and laid it on what he called a bed, next to the kitchen stove. He got it straightened out all neat and orderly and pulled a dirty blanket over it, and then went to the stove and stirred up the fire until there was some flame.

  Then he pulled up a chair beside the bed and had a good, hard, wondering look at this thing he had brought home. It had quieted down a lot and seemed more comfortable than it had out in the woods. He tucked the blanket snug around it with a tenderness that surprised himself. He wondered what he had that it might eat, and even if he knew, how he’d manage feeding it, for it seemed to have no mouth.

  “But you don’t need to worry none,” he told it. “Now that I got you under a roof, you’ll be all right. I don’t know too much about it, but I’ll take care of you the best I can.”

  By now it was getting on toward evening, and he looked out the window and saw that the cows he had been hunting had come home by themselves.

  “I got to go get the milking done and the other chores,” he told the thing lying on the bed, “but it won’t take me long. I’ll be right back.”

  Old Mose loaded up the stove so the kitchen would stay warm and he tucked the thing in once again, then got his milk pails and went down to the barn.

  He fed the sheep and pigs and horses and he milked the cows. He hunted eggs and shut the chicken house. He pumped a tank of water.

  Then he went back to the house.

  It was dark now and he lit the oil lamp on the table, for he was against electricity. He’d refused to sign up when REA had run out the line and a lot of the neighbors had gotten sore at him for being uncooperative. Not that he cared, of course.

  He had a look at the thing upon the bed. It didn’t seem to be any better, or any worse, for that matter. If it had been a sick lamb or an ailing calf, he could have known right off how it was getting on, but this thing was different. There was no way to tell.

  He fixed himself some supper and ate it and wished he knew how to feed the thing. And he wished, too, that he knew how to help it. He’d got it under shelter and he had it warm, but was that right or wrong for something like this? He had no idea.

  He wondered if he should try to get some help, then felt squeamish about asking help when he couldn’t say exactly what had to be helped. But then he wondered how he would feel himself if he were in a far, strange country, all played out and sick, and no one to get him any help because they didn’t know exactly what he was.

  That made up his mind for him and he walked over to the phone. But should be call a doctor or a veterinarian? He decided to call the doctor because the thing was in the house. If it had been in the barn, he would have called the veterinarian.

  He was on a rural line and the hearing wasn’t good and he was halfway deaf, so he didn’t use the phone too often. He had told himself at times it was nothing but another aggravation and there had been a dozen times he had threatened to have it taken out. But now he was glad he hadn’t.

  The operator got old Doctor Benson and they couldn’t hear one another too well, but Mose finally made the doctor understand who was calling and that he needed him and the doctor said he’d come.

  With some relief, Mose hung up the phone and was just standing there, not doing anything, when he was struck by the thought that there might be others of these things down there in the woods. He had no idea what they were or what they might be doing or where they might be going, but it was pretty evident that the one upon the bed was some sort of stranger from a very distant place. It stood to reason that there might be more than one of them, for far traveling was a lonely business and anyone – or anything – would like to have some company along.

  He got the lantern down off the peg and lit it and went stumping out the door. The night was as black as a stack of cats and the lantern light was feeble, but that made not a bit of difference, for
Mose knew this farm of his like the back of his hand.

  He went down the path into the woods. It was a spooky place, but it took more than woods at night to spook Old Mose. At the place where he had found the thing, he looked around, pushing through the brush and holding the lantern high so he could see a bigger area, but he didn’t find another one of them.

  He did find something else, though – a sort of outsize birdcage made of metal lattice work that had wrapped itself around an eight-inch hickory tree. He tried to pull it loose, but it was jammed so tight that he couldn’t budge it.

  He sighted back the way it must have come. He could see where it had plowed its way through the upper branches of the trees, and out beyond were stars, shining bleakly with the look of far away.

  Mose had no doubt that the thing lying on his bed beside the kitchen stove had come in this birdcage contraption. He marveled some at that, but he didn’t fret himself too much, for the whole thing was so unearthly that he knew he had little chance of pondering it out.

  He walked back to the house and he scarcely had the lantern blown out and hung back on its peg than he heard a car drive up.

  The doctor, when he came up to the door, became a little grumpy at seeing Old Mose standing there.

  “You don’t look sick to me,” the doctor said. “Not sick enough to drag me clear out here at night.”

  “I ain’t sick,” said Mose.

  “Well, then,” said the doctor, more grumpily than ever, “what did you mean by phoning me?”

  “I got someone who is sick,” said Mose. “I hope you can help him. I would have tried myself, but I don’t know how to go about it.”

  The doctor came inside and Mose shut the door behind him.

  “You got something rotten in here?” asked the doctor.

  “No, it’s just the way he smells. It was pretty bad at first, but I’m getting used to it by now.”

  The doctor saw the thing lying on the bed and went over to it. Old Mose heard him sort of gasp and could see him standing there, very stiff and straight. Then he bent down and had a good look at the critter on the bed.

  When he straightened up and turned around to Mose, the only thing that kept him from being downright angry was that he was so flabbergasted.

  “Mose,” he yelled, “what is this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mose. “I found it in the woods and it was hurt and wailing and I couldn’t leave it there.”

  “You think it’s sick?”

  “I know it is,” said Mose. “It needs help awful bad. I’m afraid it’s dying.”

  The doctor turned back to the bed again and pulled the blanket down, then went and got the lamp so that he could see. He looked the critter up and down, and he prodded it with a skittish finger, and he made the kind of mysterious clucking sound that only doctors make.

  Then he pulled the blanket back over it again and took the lamp back to the table.

  “Mose,” he said, “I can’t do a thing for it.”

  “But you’re a doctor!”

  “A human doctor, Mose. I don’t know what this thing is, but it isn’t human. I couldn’t even guess what is wrong with it, if anything. And I wouldn’t know what could be safely done for it even if I could diagnose its illness. I’m not even sure it’s an animal. There are a lot of things about it that argue it’s a plant.”

  Then the doctor asked Mose straight out how he came to find it and Mose told him exactly how it happened. But he didn’t tell him anything about the birdcage, for when he thought about it, it sounded so fantastic that he couldn’t bring himself to tell it. Just finding the critter and having it here was bad enough, without throwing in the birdcage.

  “I tell you what,” the doctor said. “You got something here that’s outside all human knowledge. I doubt there’s ever been a thing like this seen on Earth before. I have no idea what it is and I wouldn’t try to guess. If I were you, I’d get in touch with the university up at Madison. There might be someone there who could get it figured out. Even if they couldn’t they’d be interested. They’d want to study it.”

  Mose went to the cupboard and got the cigar box almost full of silver dollars and paid the doctor. The doctor put the dollars in his pocket, joshing Mose about his eccentricity.

  But Mose was stubborn about his silver dollars. “Paper money don’t seem legal, somehow,” he declared. “I like the feel of silver and the way it clinks. It’s got authority.”

  The doctor left and he didn’t seem as upset as Mose had been afraid he might be. As soon as he was gone, Mose pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

  It wasn’t right, he thought, that the thing should be so sick and no one to help – no one who knew any way to help it.

  He sat in the chair and listened to the ticking of the clock, loud in the kitchen silence, and the crackling of the wood burning in the stove.

  Looking at the thing lying on the bed, he had an almost fierce hope that it could get well again and stay with him. Now that its birdcage was all banged up, maybe there’d be nothing it could do but stay. And he hoped it would, for already the house felt less lonely.

  Sitting in the chair between the stove and bed, Mose realized how lonely it had been. It had not been quite so bad until Towser died. He had tried to bring himself to get another dog, but he never had been able to. For there was no dog that would take the place of Towser and it had seemed unfaithful to even try. He could have gotten a cat, of course, but that would remind him too much of Molly; she had been very fond of cats, and until the time she died, there had always been two or three of them underfoot around the place.

  But now he was alone. Alone with his farm and his stubbornness and his silver dollars. The doctor thought, like all the rest of them, that the only silver Mose had was in the cigar box in the cupboard. There wasn’t one of them who knew about the old iron kettle piled plumb full of them, hidden underneath the floor boards of the living room. He chuckled at the thought of how he had them fooled. He’d give a lot to see his neighbors’ faces if they could only know. But he was not the one to tell them. If they were to find it out, they’d have to find it out themselves.

  He nodded in the chair and finally he slept, sitting upright, with his chin resting on his chest and his crossed arms wrapped around himself as if to keep him warm.

  When he woke, in the dark before the dawn, with the lamp flickering on the table and the fire in the stove burned low, the alien had died.

  There was no doubt of death. The thing was cold and rigid and the husk that was its body was rough and drying out – as a corn stalk in the field dries out, whipping in the wind once the growing had been ended.

  Mose pulled the blanket up to cover it, and although this was early to do the chores, he went out by lantern light and got them done.

  After breakfast, he heated water and washed his face and shaved, and it was the first time in years he’d shaved any day but Sunday. Then he put on his one good suit and slicked down his hair and got the old jalopy out of the machine shed and drove into town.

  He hunted up Eb Dennison, the town clerk, who also was the secretary of the cemetery association.

  “Eb,” he said, “I want to buy a lot.”

  “But you’ve got a lot,” protested Eb.

  “That plot,” said Mose, “is a family plot. There’s just room for me and Molly.”

  “Well, then,” asked Eb, “why another one? You have no other members of the family.”

  “I found someone in the woods,” said Mose. “I took him home and he died last night. I plan to bury him.”

  “If you found a dead man in the woods,” Eb warned him, “you better notify the coroner and sheriff.”

  “In time I may,” said Mose, not intending to. “Now how about that plot?”

  Washing his hands of the affair entirely, Eb sold him the plot.

  Having bought his plot, Mose went to the undertaking establishment run by Albert Jones.

  “Al,” he said, “there’s been a death out at
the house. A stranger I found out in the woods. He doesn’t seem to have anyone and I aim to take care of it.”

  “You got a death certificate?” asked Al, who subscribed to none of the niceties affected by most funeral parlor operators.

  “Well, no, I haven’t.”

  “Was there a doctor in attendance?”

  “Doc Benson came out last night.”

  “He should have made you out one. I’ll give him a ring.”

  He phoned Doctor Benson and talked with him a while and got red around the gills. He finally slammed down the phone and turned on Mose.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull off,” he fumed, “but Doc tells me this thing of yours isn’t even human. I don’t take care of dogs or cats or –”

  “This ain’t no dog or cat.”

  “I don’t care what it is. It’s got to be human for me to handle it. And don’t go trying to bury it in the cemetery, because it’s against the law.”

  Considerably discouraged, Mose left the undertaking parlor and trudged slowly up the hill toward the town’s one and only church.

  He found the minister in his study working on a sermon. Mose sat down in a chair and fumbled his battered hat around and around in his work-scarred hands.