by Brian Lumley
Then, much higher overhead, I spotted something else. Spiralling down from the dusky indigo sky there came a black speck, faint at first but rapidly increasing in size. Its wings—real wings this time—gradually folded back, becoming streamlined, until in the last moment the hawk-buzzard-vulture dropped like a stone and stooped on its prey…and itself became the prey!
In the instant before it could make deadly contact with the young floater, a great flock of adult aerials launched themselves from the high canopy, converged on the buzzard and slammed into it from all sides. Squawking its pain, winded and flapping a broken wing, the thing tumbled into the clearing. Even before it hit the ground there was a spear through its neck and it had stopped complaining. And up in the treetops, the aerial ambushers were already drifting back to their various roosts.
Now, if I hadn’t witnessed this event with my own eyes, I’d never have believed that the adult flyers could move so fucking fast and with such deadly intent! Not only that, but to my mind the incident formed a perfect parallel with what had happened to the black hog: both had been examples of deliberate entrapment. And I wasn’t in the least surprised as night came on once again to hear the mournful ceremonial wailing, rattling, thumping and piping of the man-likes…
Another staple? Possibly. Another grave in the morning? I’d bet my shirt on it—if I hadn’t already given it to Friday…
Day Nine: (midday.)
I’m getting a bit lax with this. But the less I have to do, the more I feel like doing nothing! The last two days I’ve spent my time on the beach fishing, dozing, getting myself a tan that my old shipmates would have killed for. It’s alarming how pasty we used to get in space, keeping away from naked sun and starlight and all the gamma radiation. But this is a friendly sun and I’m protected by atmosphere. Friday’s skin must be a lot more fragile than mine; he made himself a shelter from spiky palm fronds and spent most of his time in the shade.
Then again, he has been looking kind of droopy just lately, all shivery and sweaty. Since my human routines, activities and such aren’t naturally his, I think it’s possible that Friday’s been spending too much time in my company and that it’s beginning to tell on him. I find I can’t just shoo him off, though, because now it seems I’ve grown accustomed to his face. (Ugh!)
Day Twelve: (early to mid-morning.)
For breakfast I sliced and fried up some of the purple carrots that Friday has been bringing in for me. Wary at first, I took just a single small bite. Not at all bad, they taste something like a cross between chilli peppers and green onions; but like an Indian curry, they do cause internal heat and lots of sweating. Maybe Friday has been eating too many of them, because he gets sweatier day by day! Then again, I’ve seen quite a few of the man-likes with the same condition: their skin glistens and moisture drips from their long-nailed fingers, especially when they cradle the dead before burial.
And speaking of the dead:
Just an hour or so ago, a hunting party of five pinks went out into the forest. In a little while they were back, four of them carrying the fifth between them. He’d been torn up pretty badly—gutted in fact, I expect by a black hog—and he died right here in the clearing. His hunter buddies at once took up his body again, headed off down one of the tracks with it, and the regulation party of mourners and “musicians” went trooping after. So they obviously have a special burial place for their own kind somewhere in the woodland…
Later: (towards noon.)
Friday’s veggies have given me bad indigestion. Maybe I should have left them alone, but I was trying to show my appreciation of his generosity. Anyway, since I know I’ll have to start living on local stuff sooner or later, it probably makes sense to start eking out my dwindling stock of ship’s rations right now with anything I can forage—or whatever Friday can forage for me.
Later: (mid-afternoon.)
Midday, after Friday went off on his own somewhere, I took the opportunity to sneak into the forest along the same track taken by the man-like burial party. This was after they had returned, because I didn’t want them to get the idea that I was spying on them, which I was. Maybe a mile along the track I chanced upon their village and discovered something weird and wonderful!
For some time I had been wondering about biped society: did they have a communal place—I mean other than the clearing—where they lived and brought up their kids?…stuff like that. Because until now I hadn’t seen any man-like children. Only now I had found just such a place. But it wasn’t only man-like kids that I saw.
The track ended at a limestone cliff that went up sheer for perhaps eighty, ninety feet. And there were ladders, ledges and even tottery-looking balconies fronting the hollowed-out caves. The cliff face was literally honeycombed with these troglodyte dwellings. And that was it; the biped pinks were cave-dwellers. But that wasn’t what was weird and wonderful.
I’ve told how these pink species seem to parallel the various types you might more reasonably expect to find on a burgeoning world: feathered birds, wild forest tuskers, even dolphins. Now I saw that there was something more to it than that, though exactly what I couldn’t say. But the extensive cleared space at the foot of the cliffs was like a pinks playground watched over by a handful of adults, and they weren’t just looking after the man-like kids who were playing there. No, for there were little pink hogs running around, too, also being cared for. And on the lower ledges, and in the many creepers climbing the cliff face, that’s where gatherings of infant pink floaters roosted. What’s more, in a freshwater pool fed by a gentle waterfall, I thought I could even make out a young pink dolphin practicing “walking” on his tail! The whole place was a pinks kindergarten, but for all pink species, not just man-likes! And hiding behind a tree, suddenly I knew my being there wasn’t in order and my presence wouldn’t be appreciated.
Then, hurrying back toward the clearing, I glimpsed hunters heading my way and moved quickly, quietly aside into the forest shade. The hunting party passed me by; but back there under the trees I had found another pink graveyard—the pink graveyard, the graveyard of the man-likes! All of the graves had the weird asparagus plants growing out of them; some with as many as four spears, each as thick as my forearm and from eighteen inches to two feet tall, with bulbous tips as big as a clenched fist. But there were also some with collapsed stems and bulbs with empty, shattered husks. And once again I experienced that sensation of trespassing, of feeling that I really shouldn’t be there.
How did I know this was the biped graveyard? Because every plot was well tended and marked with unmistakable, stylized pictures of man-likes drawn on papery bark, that’s how. And one of the graves—a mound without the weird plants—was brand new and the soil still wet!
I would have left at once but the strangest thing happened. One of the fattest of several asparagus stems on an older grave had started quivering, and the leaves or petals on the big bulb at its tip were peeling back on themselves and leaking a gluey liquid. Not only that, but something was wriggling in there—something pink!
That was enough and I got the hell out of there.
Luck was with me; I got back to the clearing and my habitat without encountering any more pinks, and Friday was waiting for me with a big bunch of those purple carrots. This time, though, I haven’t accepted them. Actually, I’ve only just realized that I’ve been feeling a little sick and dizzy ever since breakfast.
Day Fourteen: (I think…or maybe Fifteen?)
God, I’m not at all well. And what happened this morning hasn’t much helped the way I feel.
I was dreaming. I was with this woman and it was just about to turn into a wetty. We were in bed and I was groping her: one hand on her backside, the other on her breasts, while the, er, best of me searched for the way in; but damned if I could find it! And even for a guy who has spent most of his time in space, that wasn’t at all like me. I mean, it simply wasn’t there! But anyway, as I went to kiss her she breathed on me, causing me to recoil from her strange, sweet breat
h—and likewise from the dream.
I woke up—came starting awake—and saw these big limpid, alien eyes staring straight into mine! It was Friday, under the sheet with me, and both of us were sweaty as hell!
What the screaming fuck? He (shit, maybe I should have been calling Friday “she” all this time!) was holding my face in its wet, three-fingered hands, its body trembling with some kind of weird passion. I jerked back, kicked it out of there and was on my feet before it could get up from the dirt floor. But finally it did, and there it stood in a padded bra, frilly knickers and a lacy chemise that could only have belonged to Emma Schneider. And I knew it was so because Friday’s mouth was a ghastly crimson gash that was thickly layered with the Albert E.’s ex-exobiologist’s fucking hideous lip gloss!
Jesus H. Christ!
And out he, she, it went; out of my habitat, out beyond the defensive security perimeter, and out of what’s left of my life in this fucking place for good. And I hurled the February, 2196 issue of Lewd Lustin’ Lovers it had left lying open on my folding card-table right out there into the clearing after it! But even after I’d washed myself top to toe, still I felt like I’d been dipped in dog dirt, and here it is noon and I still do…
Later: (mid-afternoon.)
I went down to where a stream joins the ocean to swim in a pool there. I’m still not a hundred percent, crapping like a volcano blowing off, and throwing up purple, but at least my skin feels clean again.
When I was in the water I thought I saw Friday lurking near the rocks where I left my pants, socks and shoes, but he wasn’t there when I came out and dried off. Back in the habitat when I went to switch on the perimeter I couldn’t find my remote…I could have sworn it was in my pants pocket. And that’s not all; the perimeter’s wiring had been yanked out of the generator’s connection box. It’s not impossible that Friday did it accidentally when I tossed him out of bed, but it’s also possible he’s been in here sabotaging stuff. When I’m feeling better I’ll fix things up again, try to knock together a new remote.
But that’s for when I’m feeling better. Right now I’m feeling lousy, so I’m going to have to get my head down…rest and recuperation, Jim lad.
Later: (early evening.)
Went back to the old Albert E. I was going to climb the ladder, go looking for tools, electrical gear, and like that. No way, I was too weak. Made four rungs and had to come down again before I fell.
Down there under the ship’s crumpled hull, it suddenly occurred to me maybe I should pay my respects to the crew, which I haven’t been doing for a while now. And what do you know, these slimy shoots were gradually uncoiling, standing up out of their graves.
Dizzy and staggering about like I was falling-down drunk, I went to kick the things flat, crush, destroy and…and murder them? But a bunch of bipeds got a hold of me, guiding and half-carrying me back to my habitat.
I thought I saw Friday standing there, just watching all of this—the little pink fairy! But hell, it could have been any one of them. No, I reckon it was him. And now I can’t help wondering if maybe he’s poisoned me—and if so, was it deliberate?
My temperature’s way up…I’m sweaty and dizzy as all get out…puking all over the place but bringing nothing up. What the hell? Is this the end of it?
Don’t know what day it is but it feels like morning.
They’ve carried me out into the clearing, and I think it’s Friday who’s cradling my head. He doesn’t seem to mind me talking to my personal log. He’s seen me do it often enough before; probably thinks it’s some kind of ritual, which in a way it is or has become. Well, and we all have our rituals—right, Jim lad?
I’m no longer sweating; in fact I feel sort of dry, almost brittle. But my mind is very clear now and I think I’ve figured it out. Something of it, anyway. It’s that thing called evolution. If I was an exobiologist like Emma Schneider I might have worked it out earlier; but no, I’m just a grease monkey.
Evolution, yes. We human beings became the Earth’s dominant species by evolving. We walked upon the dirt—the earth under our feet, terra firma—but wanted a whole lot more. What about the winds above the earth, and the vast waters that flowed over it? So we made machines, vessels to sail on the seas and in the skies; finally we even built space-ships, to journey beyond the skies. So you might say that in a way we achieved our dominance mechanically: that old opposing thumb-theory-thing.
Well, the pinks are also becoming dominant, on their world as we did on Earth. Except so far, with them, it’s all biological. For the time being they don’t have much need for machines; they’re conquering the skies, seas, and forests without mechanical devices, by utilizing and changing the DNA of the various species that live in those environments and then by inhabiting them themselves.
On Earth we took out the predators, who were our competitors, by killing them off. Well, the pinks are doing it, too—except they are doing it by becoming them! It explains why the vultures stay way high in the sky and why the black hogs stick mainly to the deeper woods—because having evolved alongside the pinks they’re learning to keep their distance. As I should have kept mine…
I must have passed out but now I’m back. Probably for the last time, Jim lad.
Friday is still cradling my head, but his sweating has become something else. The pinks are unisexual, I’m pretty sure of that now. I can’t any longer feel my body, my limbs…can only just speak or whisper, and I’m able to turn my head a few inches but that’s all. My eyes are still working, however, and from time to time as Friday relaxes his efforts (fuck it, I’ve gone and made him a “he” again!) I can see it’s his time. What time? Well see, he’s not sweating any more, he’s ovulating!
I see these silvery droplets with their tadpole cores issuing drip by drip from beneath the steeply arched nails on his central digits, his ovipositors. And now he sticks his fingers deeply into my neck. I can barely feel it, for which I’m truly, truly glad, Jim lad.
Who knows, maybe me and my old Albert E. shipmates—or I should say our pink descendants somewhere down the line—maybe they’ll get back out into space again. Because it surely has to follow that whatever issues from us will be a lot more man-like than these man-likes.
And that, I think, is all for now, probably forever. Uh-oh! Maybe we should make that definitely forever, because here come the musicians…
THE DISAPPROVAL OF JEREMY CLEAVE
My husband’s eye,” she said quite suddenly, peering over my shoulder in something of morbid fascination. “Watching us!” She was very calm about it, which ought to say quite a lot about her character. A very cool lady, Angela Cleave. But in view of the circumstances, a rather odd statement; for the fact was that I was making love to her at the time, and somewhat more alarming, her husband had been dead for six and a half weeks!
“What!?” I gasped, flopping over onto my back, my eyes following the direction of her pointing finger. She seemed to be aiming it at the dresser. But there was nothing to be seen, not anywhere in that huge, entirely extravagant bedroom. Or perhaps I anticipated too much, for while it’s true that she had specified an ‘eye’, for some reason I was looking for a complete person. This is perhaps readily understandable—the shock, and what all. But no such one was there. Thank God!
Then there came a rolling sound, like a marble down a gentle slope, and again I looked where she was pointing. Atop the dresser, a shape wobbled into view from the back to the front, being brought up short by the fancy gilt beading around the dresser’s top. And she was right, it was an eye—a glass eye—its deep green pupil staring at us somehow morosely.
“Arthur,” she said, in the same breathless, colourless voice, “this really makes me feel very peculiar.” And truth to tell it made me feel that way, too. Certainly it ruined my night.
But I got up, went to the dresser and brought the eye down. It was damp, or rather sticky, and several pieces of fluff had attached themselves to it. Also, I fancied it smelled rather, but in a bedroom perfumed as
Angela Cleave’s that was hard to say. And not something one would say, anyway.
“My dear, it’s an eye,” I said, “only a glass eye!” And I took it to the vanity basin and rinsed it thoroughly in cold water. “Jeremy’s, of course. The…vibrations must have started it rolling.”
She sat up in bed, covering herself modestly with the silk sheet (as if we weren’t sufficiently acquainted) and brushed back a lock of damp, golden hair from her beautiful brow. And: “Arthur,” she said. “Jeremy’s eye was buried with him. He desired to be put to rest looking as perfectly natural as possible—not with a patch over that hideous hole in his face!”
“Then it’s a spare,” I reasoned, going back to the bed and handing it to her. She took it—an entirely unconscious act—and immediately snatched back her hand, so that the thing fell to the floor and rolled under the bed. And:
“Ugh!” she said. “But I didn’t want it, Arthur! And anyway, I never knew he had a spare.”
“Well, he obviously did,” I sighed, trying to get back into bed with her. But she held the covers close and wouldn’t have me.
“This has quite put me off,” she said. “I’m afraid I shall have a headache.” And suddenly, for all that she was a cool one, it dawned on me how badly this silly episode had jolted her. I sat on the bed and patted her hand, and said: “Why don’t you tell me about it, my dear?”
“It?” she looked at me curiously, frowning.
