The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales From Fantasy Adventures

by Philip Harbottle (ed. )

  To the majority, however, it was just a blind unthinking cruelty that would eventually die but with one lad it had turned to hatred.

  His name was Wayne Cantra, a large boy with ginger hair and a heavy freckled face. He hated Beal because somehow the smaller boy made him feel inferior and he wouldn’t fight. Wayne was sadistic, he favored a savage kidney punch or an agonizing kick to the knee or ankle. With the passing of time, however, a great deal of support began to fall away, particularly among the girls.

  “Leave the poor little devil alone, can’t yer, this has gone on long enough.”

  A fair number of the boys were changing, too. “He don’t hurt no one and he never runs to the teachers.”

  Worse, although Beal wouldn’t fight he had become skilled at ducking and weaving. He rode a large number of the blows and evaded quite a few more. Recently Wayne had thrown heavy blows at Beal’s head, only to strike empty air and nearly lose his balance.

  Infuriated, Wayne began to organize special tactics. One of which was to snatch Beal’s school books as the day ended. These he would throw into the road, preferably just in front of the approaching school bus.

  Needless to say, young Beal paid for this at home.

  “You think I want to buy the school, boy? How many times have I got to buy the bloody books that you can’t take care of?”

  Despite these apparent successes, Wayne was becoming desperate.

  Support was now falling away on an almost weekly basis and Wayne could only rely on four lads of his own age who hated Tommy Beal almost much as he did.

  “Tell you what we’ll do, getting a bit dangerous to rough him up properly here. When he goes out in the country on one of them weekend walks of his, we’ll follow out of sight and spring the little bastard on the way back.”

  The weekend they choose was the one in which Tommy Beal found the alien.

  He had not the slightest idea that the creature was out of this world and his innocence was complete. He had read in the papers and had it underlined on television that there was a vast and illegal trade in exotic creatures from abroad. Probably it was one of those, come from India or Malaysia, somewhere like that. He liked it, he had the feeling it liked him and it was in trouble—he could sense that. In any case, he could tell it was freezing cold by the way it was shivering. He covered it carefully with his jacket and thought: ‘perhaps she’s thirsty.’ There was a small stream just below and he always carried a tin mug.

  Half way back he wondered why he thought of the thing as a ‘she’ but in his mind it sort of fitted and he did not question it again.

  When he returned, however, she had gone. There was an impression in the grass where she had been with his jacket, neatly folded, beside it but there was no clue as to where she had gone.

  He worried about her for some time, hoping she’d made it to safety. He had the odd feeling he had missed something very precious.

  On his way back home he noticed a small blue flower in the long grass, which he did not recognize. Unfortunately it was protected by the thin, barbed branches of a hawthorn. What he needed was something like a piece of wood to hold those branches back.

  Ah! A length of dead sapling, a bit long and worm-eaten in places but strong enough for the job.

  He lifted it and stretched forward but the rear part seemed caught on something, probably held by bindweed or ivy, something like that. It was held so firmly that it almost seemed to be jerked from his hand and he nearly lost his balance.

  He stood upright again and looked around. Where the devil had it gone? Oh yes, probably in that bed of nettles over there. Well he was not going to there, hang that for a pastime.

  It was then, less than forty metres distant, hidden by trees, someone screamed.

  There were shouts, a splintering of small branches and a terrified voice: “Get it off of me, get it off!” Another scream and: “It’s got my bloody legs—get it away from me!”

  He hurried towards the sound and found two of the boys supporting Wayne an either side.

  “What happened?”

  “We was attacked.” All had forgotten the reason they were in the woods. “Damn great snake, we all saw it.”

  “It nearly got me.” Wayne was blubbering. “Tied itself round my legs and brought me down—look.”

  There were deep impressions, bruised and slightly bleeding round calf and shin of both legs. It looked as if a thick wire had been tied there and suddenly jerked tight.

  “I thought I was going to die.” Tears ran down Wayne’s face.

  “A boa constrictor,” said one of the boys.

  “According to Mr. Brixton at the school, there are no large snakes in this part of the country,” said one of the boys.

  “Just because he’s a master doesn’t mean he knows everything,” said another. “In any case we all saw it—must have escaped from somewhere, a zoo or something.”

  From that day on, Wayne seemed to lose fire. It was two weeks before he tried to mount something again, but that, too, went wrong. Two were stung by wasps, and a third was fouled by a seagull before the latest trick had begun.

  Wayne’s last supporters slowly detached themselves from the group. Varying excuses were used but the implications were clear: they had formed their own conclusions. Play hell with another poor little bastard if you like but not with Beal, not anymore, it always backfires on us.

  Wayne was beginning to draw the same conclusions himself and began to start a line of verbal persecution. ‘Young Tommy Beal is a bit queer if you ask me, goes in for occult stuff. I’ve got an aunt from Europe somewhere who said he had the evil eye as soon as she saw him’.

  * * * *

  It was only a few weeks after this that Cole’s body was found. Landring, having made sure that everything was carefully swept under the carpet, continued with the exterior motions. An elderly detective named Ransom was given the job of checking for witnesses in case someone had seen Cole in an inebriated state beforehand.

  No, but someone had seen young Tommy Beal leaving the complex about half an hour before dusk, maybe he had seen the man.

  The detective duly presented himself at Beal’s house.

  “He’s still at school. Don’t tell me that the little swine has got himself wrong with the law now?”

  “Oh, no, sir, nothing like that, no question of it all—troublesome lad, is he, sir?”

  “Not in the way you mean it, Detective Ransom, no, but weird, not like other boys if you know what I mean?”

  Ransom didn’t but it might be worthwhile finding out later. “Would six this evening be a suitable time, sir?”

  * * * *

  Ransom was quick to note that the boy was different but this he quickly brushed aside. He was more interested in the immediate reaction; clearly the lad was terrified. He was shaking visibly and he stuttered occasionally.

  “Never been interviewed by the police before, Tommy?”

  “No, sir, never.”

  “Nothing to be afraid of, laddie, you’re not involved in any way. All we are looking for is witnesses. Someone who was later taken ill while taking the short cut through the old sports complex—a big tall man in blue jeans.”

  “I didn’t see anyone like that, sir. I didn’t see any man at all, I swear sir.”

  “No problem, lad, no problem at all. If you saw no one, that’s it.” He laid his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell you what, son. I’ll leave it today; I can see you’re a bit upset. You’re not used to the police, I can see that. I’ll give you a call around the same time tomorrow. Time to settle down, eh? And, maybe you’ll remember something tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  The local police always favored the same bar, The Grapevine, and Hoathe still favored it even after retirement. He met old colleagues there and it always relaxed his mind to talk ‘shop’.

  It was not quite coincidence that he choose Ransom’s table. He said: “What’ll you have? You look as if you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

&n
bsp; “I’ll have my usual, thanks. And, yes, I have not only a lot on my mind but too much on my plate as well. First that hold up in Welsh Drive, a near fatal domestic out at Potter’s Field, but I’ve been handed that damn Beal kid as well.”

  “Having trouble there?”

  “You could say that—the little bastard has done a runner. I gave him a break as he was obviously nervous, said I would call next day, which I did, but he’d gone. His father said he’d done it properly, taken quite a bit of stuff with him. He added, as I left, “If you can’t find the little swine, expect no tears from me.”

  Ransom sighed. “It means, of course, I’ll have to search his room for leads.”

  Hoathe saw his chance. “You could delegate, a retired officer in good health, say with the permission of an area officer etc, etc. Hell, it’s well within the non-hazardous section.”

  “They’d pay peanuts for that, a day’s work would hardly buy a beer.”

  “True, but I get hellish bored, y’know—”

  * * * *

  Two days later he dropped some written pages on Quentin’s front room table.

  “What’s this lot?”

  “The kid kept a diary in an old exercise book, found it hidden in his bedroom. I’d like you to look it through for me, I’ve quite a few facts, to bring together myself.”

  Quentin looked again at the pages, noted that they were a copy and started to read.

  An hour later Hoathe rejoined him. “You’ve read it through?”

  “Three times, the boy was not quite right in his head, was he? I mean, it’s all sheer fantasy, it couldn’t happen.”

  “Mind if I just follow through, old chum? I happen to have quite a few facts which are unknown to you. For instance, Ransom was dead sure that the boy knew a damn sight more than he was saying and that was the reason he ran away.”

  “Right, old friend, we’ll play this any way you want, but I still think it comes from a lad with a disturbed mind.”

  Hoathe shrugged. “I wish it was that simple. I could dismiss it but the facts won’t let me. As a starter, does he describe the alien?”

  “Well, not in detail, no. He says she was a sort of shining, silver-white with huge golden eyes.”

  “Does he refer, or imply in any way at all, that he thought she was an alien?”

  Quentin frowned. “I see what you’re driving at and you’re quite right. He thought she came from India and, no, he makes no mental connection with the events he recounts and her.”

  Hoathe nodded quickly. “Fine, now you keep giving an outline and I’ll fill in the facts when appropriate.”

  “Right, well, the next incident he mentions concerns that bully boy, Wayne. You remember that he was attacked by and brought down by a snake. You know, and I know, that there are no snakes of any size in this part of the country. We checked and nothing had escaped from anywhere. The point is that the dead sapling, which he was using and felt had been snatched from his hand, had somehow got there before him. It was lying about two metres away. Wayne and young Beal recognized it instantly. Only later did he begin to draw conclusions and—”

  Hoathe interrupted him quickly “Got to hold you there to make another point. As stated earlier, young Tommy ran away from home but he was picked up four days later. He’d been hiding out with an ancient aunt a few miles up the coast. He was brought back and put in a cell to be questioned later.”

  “A cell, a proper cell, for a kid of twelve!”

  “My thoughts exactly, but blame Landring. In any case, if you don’t, a lot of people will. Much to my satisfaction he’ll never talk his way out of this one.”

  Hoathe paused and gulped at his beer before dropping his bombshell. “When someone went to let him out, the boy had gone. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know how. That is the real reason I have failed to agree with you on this fantasy angle. The cell door had a manual lock and an electro-magnetic lock which could only be opened by the primary duty officer.”

  Quentin pushed the printed pages away from him. “No more for me, please, my theories are giving way to a kind of coldness inside which I don’t care for.”

  “A feeling shared! Care to hear my theory?” Hoathe did not wait for an answer. “The alien he met—and there can be no doubt she was exactly that—took pity on him or took a liking to him. She saw that his life was pretty hellish and devised a means to protect him until she could do more.”

  “How to protect him?” Quentin was getting out of his depth

  “After his meeting with the alien, some inner faculty inside him warned his unconscious mind of approaching trouble. Anything he was touching at the time was given a brief pseudo life in his defense.”

  “Oh God, that length of sapling!” Quentin could see it suddenly in his mind, turning suddenly from an object of wood into something lithe and scaled.

  “The boy’s defense faculty seemed able to discriminate,” said Hoathe. “Something nasty for something nasty and an unpleasant deterrent for a mild scheme. The boy describes how part of the school wall seemed to come alive beneath his hand. How wasps went sailing over that wall and down onto the little group below.”

  “Shut up!” said Quentin hoarsely. “Just shut up.” He felt as if unseen fingers were touching his body and encasing it in ice. He could see it all, the boy, well dressed, clearly of good background, taking a short cut through the complex. Cole, also in the complex, the worse for drink and probably short of money. There was a quick and easy hit, a bloody school kid probably with money.

  It seemed to Quentin that the picture became even more real in his mind. Must have been near the West entrance with Cole lurching out from behind that broken wall there.

  The little boy, terrified, staggering back, touching one of the pipes by accident, and then—?

  In his mind Quentin saw the pipe, ripple, shine, develop jaws and rise in an enormous black loop above Cole—

  He forced the picture from his mind. “It’s absurd, wilder that fantasy. We have to assume that whatever it was that took Cole as far as the playing field lost its short life there and became a pipe again.”

  “My reactions entirely.” Hoathe might have been reading the other’s thoughts. “There is only one dreadful contradiction. The police surgeon looked over Cole’s body before it went the examiner. He swore to several witnesses, on oath, that some surface areas of the body had been—partly digested!”

  THE GUNMAN, by Philip E. High

  Needless to say, the formula in any state was illegal.

  It had been discovered and stolen by a research chemist working for one of the big combines in the West.

  He was well aware that the formula, given to his employers, would bring him little or no reward. Handled illegally and to the right people, however would bring rich rewards.

  The formula, in liquid state, could be contained in a capsule no bigger than the normal pill.

  Dropped into a glass of water, the capsule would dissolve in eight seconds.

  It was colorless, odorless and tasteless.

  Best of all, it was not a poison.

  Any unfortunate deaths that might occur could never be traced to its use.

  The actual results were obscure yet devastating.

  No, not insanity, just change. The recipients remained, outwardly, as before and quite rational and exhibited no symptom that a psychiatrist could pin down.

  For example, a well-known business magnate sold his business outright and joined a religious organization.

  It is, perhaps, fortuitous, that this got several financially involved directors off the hook.

  Adam Wenstone was chief director and absolute owner of a large business complex in the East.

  His father had escaped the normal Inheritance Tax by passing the business on to his son at the age of seventy.

  It was a sound business, and making a steady profit but there were those among the directors who thought it could do better. The number of opportunities which had cropped up and had somehow been missed!
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  So great had been the opportunities that two of the Directors had seen fit to take secret gambles of their own—with the firm’s money.

  Good God, who could have foreseen that Maxtrose investments would go down the pan overnight leaving nothing?

  If only a greater part of the business was left to the other directors. With time and a little ducking and weaving they might have kept the inevitable at bay for long enough to recoup the loss but not with Wenstone in control. He checked and re-checked regularly and took painstaking computer surveys.

  Desperate, Argyle and Martin, the two directors, snatched at the only straw which had become available to them.

  “Are you absolutely sure this bloody stuff will work?” Martin wiped his sweaty palms with a handkerchief.

  “For the tenth time man, not absolutely sure. Nothing is absolutely sure, you must know that.”

  “Suppose it fails?”

  “It has succeeded on twelve occasions so I see no reason for it to fail now. On the other hand, since you keep pushing it, I have taken alternative measures.”

  Martin dabbed at his palms again. “What other alternative—?” He stopped, his face pale. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Can you think of anything better? After all, we only have to resort to it if this formula fails.”

  * * * *

  Adam Wenstone was thirty-three, slim and fit. Outwardly gentle and easy-going; he had an astute mind and was interested in many things but riotous living was not one of them.

  Yet he awoke on that particular morning with the smell and the distinct taste of liquor in his mouth.

  He tried to open his eyes and they refused to open.

  He was conscious again of the smells and tried to identify them. Horses, yes, no mistake about that; there was one near somewhere.

  He came back to the liquor again. How? He was teetotal. Yet somehow in an odd way, his body felt as if it was used to it and liked it.

  His senses returned to the smell, a disgusting mixture of horse, sweat and unwashed body.

  It was his body and it stank.

  His arm shifted but he hadn’t shifted it.