The People Trap

by Sheckley, Robert;

  Edsel watched a spot on the plain glow with heat as he fired at it.

  “Good stuff.” He picked up another, rod-shaped instrument. The cold was forgotten. Edsel was perfectly happy now, playing with all the shiny things.

  “Let’s get started,” Faxon said, moving toward the door.

  “Started? Where?” Edsel demanded. He picked up another glittering weapon, curved to fit his wrist and hand.

  “Back to the port,” Faxon said. “Back to sell this stuff, like we planned. I figure we can ask just about any price, any price at all. A Government would give billions for weapons like these.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Edsel said. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching Parke. The slender man was walking between stacks of weapons, but so far he hadn’t touched any.

  “Now listen,” Faxon said, glaring at Edsel. “I financed this expedition. We planned on selling the stuff. I have a right to—well, perhaps not.”

  The untried weapon was pointed squarely at his stomach.

  “What are you trying to do?” he asked, trying not to look at the gun.

  “To hell with selling it,” Edsel said, leaning against the cave wall where he could also watch Parke. “I figure I can use this stuff myself.” He grinned broadly, still watching both men.

  “I can outfit some of the boys back home. With the stuff that’s here, we can knock over one of those little Governments in Central America easy. I figure we could hold it forever.”

  “Well,” Faxon said, watching the gun, “I don’t want to be a party to that sort of thing. Just count me out.”

  “All right,” Edsel said.

  “Don’t worry about me talking,” Faxon said quickly. “I won’t. I just don’t want to be in on any shooting or killing. So I think I’ll go back.”

  “Sure,” Edsel said. Parke was standing to one side, examining his fingernails.

  “If you get that kingdom set up, I’ll come down,” Faxon said, grinning weakly. “Maybe you can make me a duke or something.”

  “I think I can arrange that.”

  “Swell. Good luck.” Faxon waved his hand and started to walk away. Edsel let him get twenty feet, then aimed the new weapon and pressed the stud.

  The gun didn’t make any noise-, there was no flash, but Faxon’s arm was neatly severed. Quickly, Edsel pressed the stud again and swung the gun down on Faxon. The little man was chopped in half, and the ground on either side of him was slashed, also.

  Edsel turned, realizing that he had left his back exposed to Parke. All the man had to do was pick up the nearest gun and blaze away. But Parke was just standing there, his arms folded over his chest.

  “That beam will probably cut through anything,” Parke said. “Very useful.”

  Edsel had a wonderful half-hour, running back and forth to the door with different weapons. Parke made no move to touch anything, but watched with interest. The ancient Martian arms were as good as new, apparently unaffected by their thousands of years of disuse. There were many blasting weapons, of various designs and capabilities. Then heat and radiation guns, marvelously compact things. There were weapons which would freeze and weapons which would burn; others which would crumble, cut, coagulate, paralyze, and do any of the other things to snuff out life.

  “Let’s try this one,” Parke said. Edsel, who had been on the verge of testing an interesting-looking three-barreled rifle, stopped.

  “I’m busy,” he said.

  “Stop playing with those toys. Let’s have a look at some real stuff.”

  Parke was standing near a squat black machine on wheels. Together they tugged it outside. Parke watched while Edsel moved the controls. A faint hum started deep in the machine. Then a blue haze formed around it. The haze spread as Edsel manipulated the controls until it surrounded the two men.

  “Try a blaster on it,” Parke said. Edsel picked up one of the explosive pistols and fired. The charge was absorbed by the haze. Quickly he tested three others. They couldn’t pierce the blue glow.

  “I believe,” Parke said softly, “this will stop an atomic bomb. This is a force field.”

  Edsel turned it off and they went back inside. It was growing dark in the cave as the sun neared the horizon.

  “You know,” Edsel said, “you’re a pretty good guy, Parke. You’re okay.”

  “Thanks,” Parke said, looking over the mass of weapons.

  “You don’t mind my cutting down Faxon, do you? He was going straight to the Government.”

  “On the contrary, I approve.”

  “Swell. I figure you must be okay. You could have killed me when I was killing Faxon.” Edsel didn’t add that it was what he would have done.

  Parke shrugged his shoulders.

  “How would you like to work on this kingdom deal with me?” Edsel asked, grinning. “I think we could swing it. Get ourselves a nice place, plenty of girls, lots of laughs. What do you think?”

  “Sure,” Parke said. “Count me in.” Edsel slapped him on the shoulder, and they went through the ranks of weapons.

  “All these are pretty obvious,” Parke said as they reached the end of the room. “Variations on the others.”

  At the end of the room was a door. There were letters in Martian script engraved on it.

  “What’s that stuff say?” Edsel asked.

  “Something about ‘final weapons,’“ Parke told him, squinting at the delicate tracery. “A warning to stay out.” He opened the door. Both men started to step inside, then recoiled suddenly.

  Inside was a chamber fully three times the size of the room they had just left. And filling the great room, as far as they could see, were soldiers. Gorgeously dressed, fully armed, the solders were motionless, statue-like.

  They were not alive.

  There was a table by the door, and on it were three things. First, there was a sphere about the size of a man’s fist, with a calibrated dial set in it. Beside that was a shining helmet. And next was a small, black box with Martian script on it.

  “Is it a burial place?” Edsel whispered, looking with awe at the strong unearthly faces of the Martian soldiery. Parke, behind him, didn’t answer.

  Edsel walked to the table and picked up the sphere. Carefully he turned the dial a single notch.

  “What do you think it’s supposed to do?” he asked Parke. “Do you think—” Both men gasped, and moved back.

  The lines of fighting men had moved. Men in ranks swayed, then came to attention. But they no longer held the rigid posture of death. The ancient fighting men were alive.

  One of them, in an amazing uniform of purple and silver, came forward and bowed to Edsel.

  “Sir, your troops are ready.” Edsel was too amazed to speak.

  “How can you live after thousands of years?” Parke answered. “Are you Martians?”

  “We are the servants of the Martians,” the soldier said. Parke noticed that the soldier’s lips hadn’t moved. The man was telepathic. “Sir, we are the Synthetics.”

  “Whom do you obey?” Parke asked.

  “The Activator, sir.” The Synthetic was speaking directly to Ee, looking at the sphere in his hand. “We require no food or sleep, sir. Our only desire is to serve you and to fight.” The soldiers in the ranks nodded approvingly.

  “Lead us into battle, sir!”

  “I sure will!” Edsel said, finally regaining his senses. “I’ll show you boys some fighting, you can bank on that!”

  The soldiers cheered him, solemnly, three times. Edsel grinned, looking at Parke.

  “What do the rest of these numbers do?” Edsel asked. But the soldier was silent. The question was evidently beyond his built-in knowledge.

  “It might activate other Synthetics,” Parke said. “There are probably more chambers underground.”

  “Brother!” Edsel shouted. “Will I lead you into battle!” Again the soldiers cheered, three solemn cheers.

  “Put them to sleep and let’s make some plans,” Parke said. Dazed, Edsel turned the swi
tch back. The soldiers froze again into immobility.

  “Come on outside.”

  “Right.”

  “And bring that stuff with you.” Edsel picked up the shining helmet and the black box and followed Parke outside. The sun had almost disappeared now, and there were black shadows over the red land. It was bitterly cold, but neither man noticed.

  “Did you hear what they said, Parke? Did you hear it? They said I was their leader! With men like those—” He laughed at the sky. With those soldiers, those weapons, nothing could stop him. He’d really stock his land—prettiest girls in the world, and would he have a time!

  “I’m a general!” Edsel shouted, and slipped the helmet over his head. “How do I look, Parke? Don’t I look like a—” He stopped. He was hearing a voice in his ears, whispering, muttering. What was it saying?

  “… damned idiot, with his little dream of a kingdom. Power like this is for a man of genius, a man who can remake history. Myself!”

  “Who’s talking? That’s you, isn’t it, Parke?” Edsel realized suddenly that the helmet allowed him to listen in on thoughts. He didn’t have time to consider what a weapon this would be for a ruler.

  Parke shot him neatly through the back with a gun he had been holding all the time.

  “What an idiot,” Parke told himself, slipping the helmet on his head. “A kingdom! All the power in the world, and he dreamed of a little kingdom!” He glanced back at the cave.

  “With those troops—the force field—and the weapons—I can take over the world.” He said it coldly, knowing it was a fact. He turned to go back to the cave to activate the Synthetics, but stopped first to pick up the little black box Edsel had carried.

  Engraved on it, in flowing Martian script, was, “The Last Weapon.”

  I wonder what it could be, Parke asked himself. He had let Edsel live long enough to try out all the others; no use chancing a misfire himself. It was too bad he hadn’t lived long enough to try out this one, too.

  Of course, I really don’t need it, he told himself. He had plenty. But this might make the job a lot easier, a lot safer. Whatever it was, it was bound to be good.

  Well, he told himself, let’s see what the Martians considered their last weapon. He opened the box.

  A vapor drifted out, and Parke threw the box from him, thinking about poison gas.

  The vapor mounted, drifted haphazardly for a while, then began to coalesce. It spread, grew, and took shape.

  In a few seconds, it was complete, hovering over the box. It glimmered white in the dying light, and Parke saw that it was just a tremendous mouth, topped by a pair of unblinking eyes.

  “Ho ho,” the mouth said. “Protoplasm!” It drifted to the body of Edsel. Parke lifted a blaster and took careful aim.

  “Quiet protoplasm,” the thing said, nuzzling Edsel’s body. “I like quiet protoplasm.” It took down the body in a single gulp.

  Parke fired, blasting a ten-foot hole in the ground. The giant mouth drifted out of it, chuckling.

  “It’s been so long,” it said.

  Parke was clenching his nerves in a forged grip. He refused to let himself become panicked. Calmly he activated the force field, forming a blue sphere around himself.

  Still chuckling, the thing drifted through the blue haze.

  Parke picked up the weapon Edsel had used on Faxon, feeling the well-balanced piece swing up in his hand. He backed to one side of the force field as the thing approached, and turned on the beam.

  The thing kept coming.

  “Die, die!” Parke screamed, his nerves breaking.

  But the thing came on, grinning broadly.

  “I like quiet protoplasm,” the thing said as its gigantic mouth converged on Parke.

  “But I also like lively protoplasm.” It gulped once, then drifted out of the other side of the field, looking anxiously around for the millions of units of protoplasm, as there had been in the old days.

  FISHING SEASON

  They had been living in the housing project only a week, and this was their first invitation. They arrived on the dot of eight-thirty. The Carmichaels were obviously prepared for them, for the porch light was on, the front door partially open, and the living room a blaze of light.

  “Do I look all right?” Phyllis asked at the door. “Seams straight, hair curly?”

  “You’re a vision in a red hat,” her husband assured her. “Just don’t spoil the effect by leading aces.” She made a small face at him and rang the doorbell. Soft chimes sounded inside.

  Mallen straightened his tie while they waited. He pulled out his breast handkerchief a microscopic fraction farther.

  “They must be making gin in the subcellar,” he told his wife. “Shall I ring again?”

  “No—wait a moment.” They waited, and he rang again. Again the chimes sounded.

  “That’s very strange,” Phyllis said a few minutes later. “It was tonight, wasn’t it?” Her husband nodded. The Carmichaels had left their windows open to the warm spring weather. Through the Venetian blinds they could see a table set for Bridge, chairs drawn up, candy dishes out, everything in readiness. But no one answered the door.

  “Could they have stepped out?” Phyllis Mallen asked. Her husband walked quickly across the lawn to the driveway.

  “Their car’s in.” He came back and pushed the front door open farther.

  “Jimmy—don’t go in.”

  “I’m not.” He put his head in the door. “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Silence in the house.

  “Hello!” he shouted, and listened intently. He could hear Friday-night noises next door—people talking, laughing. A car passed in the street. He listened. A board creaked somewhere in the house, then silence again.

  “They wouldn’t go away and leave their house open like this,” he told Phyllis. “Something might have happened.” He stepped inside. She followed, but stood uncertainly in the living room while he went into the kitchen. She heard him open the cellar door, call out, “Anyone home!” And close it again. He came back to the living room, frowned and went upstairs.

  In a little while Mallen came down with a puzzled expression on his face. “There’s no one there,” he said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Phyllis said, suddenly nervous in the bright, empty house. They debated leaving a note, decided against it and started down the walk.

  “Shouldn’t we close the front door?” Jim Mallen asked, stopping.

  “What good will it do? All the windows are open.”

  “Still—” He went back and closed it. They walked home slowly, looking back over their shoulders at the house. Mallen half expected the Carmichaels to come running after them, shouting “Surprise!”

  But the house remained silent.

  Their home was only a block away, a brick bungalow just like two hundred others in the development. Inside, Mr. Carter was making artificial trout flies on the card table. Working slowly and surely, his deft fingers guided the colored threads with loving care. He was so intent on his work that he didn’t hear the Mallens enter.

  “We’re home, Dad,” Phyllis said.

  “Ah,” Mr. Carter murmured. “Look at this beauty.” He held up a finished fly. It was an almost replica of a hornet. The hook was cleverly concealed by overhanging yellow and black threads.

  “The Carmichaels were out—we think,” Mallen said, hanging up his jacket

  “I’m going to try Old Creek in the morning,” Mr. Carter said. “Something tells me the elusive trout may be there.” Mallen grinned to himself. It was difficult talking with Phyllis’s father. Nowadays he never discussed anything except fishing. The old man had retired from a highly successful business on his seventieth birthday to devote himself wholeheartedly to his favorite sport.

  Now, nearing eighty, Mr. Carter looked wonderful. It was amazing, Mallen thought. His skin was rosy his eyes clear and untroubled, his pure white hair neatly combed back. He was in full possession of his senses, too—as long as you talked about fis
hing.

  “Let’s have a snack,” Phyllis said. Regretfully she took off the red hat, smoothed out the veil and put it down on a coffee table. Mr. Carter added another thread to his trout fly, examined it closely, then put it down and followed them into the kitchen.

  While Phyllis made coffee, Mallen told the old man what had happened. Mr. Carter’s answer was typical.

  “Try some fishing tomorrow and get it off your mind. Fishing, Jim, is more than a sport. Fishing is a way of life, and a philosophy as well. I like to find a quiet pool and sit on the banks of it. I figure, if there’s fish anywhere, they might as well be there.”

  Phyllis smiled, watching Jim twist uncomfortably on his chair. There was no stopping her father once he got started. And anything would start him.

  “Consider,” Mr. Carter went on, “a young executive. Someone like yourself, Jim—dashing through a hall. Common enough? But at the end of the last long corridor is a trout stream. Consider a politician. You certainly see enough of them in Albany. Briefcase in hand, worried—”

  “That’s strange,” Phyllis said, stopping her father in mid-flight. She was holding an unopened bottle of milk in her hand.

  “Look.” Their milk came from Stannerton Dairies. The green label on this bottle read: “Stanneron Daries.”

  “And look.” She pointed. Under that, it read: “lisensed by the neW yoRK Bord of healthh.” It looked like a clumsy imitation of the legitimate label.

  “Where did you get this?” Mallen asked.

  “Why, I suppose from Mr. Elger’s store. Could it be an advertising stunt?”

  “I despise the man who would fish with a worm,” Mr. Carter intoned gravely. “A fly—a fly is a work of art. But the man who’d use a worm would rob orphans and burn churches.”

  “Don’t drink it,” Mallen said. “Let’s look over the rest of the food.”

  There were three more counterfeited items. A candy bar which purported to be a Mello-Bite and had an orange label instead of the familiar crimson. There was a jar of Amerrican ChEEse, almost a third larger than the usual jars of that brand, and a bottle of SPArkling Watr.

  “That’s very odd,” Mallen said, rubbing his jaw.

  “I always throw the little ones back,” Mr. Carter said. “It’s not sporting to keep them, and that’s part of a fisherman’s code. Let them grow, let them ripen, let them gain experience. It’s the old, crafty ones I want, the ones who skulk under logs, who dart away at the first sight of the angler. Those are the lads who put up a fight!”