The Alien MEGAPACK®

by Talmage Powell

  “I suggest we negotiate.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.

  “Why not?” Michaelson repeated.

  “Why not what?” Maota dragged his eyes back.

  “Negotiate.”

  “No.” Maota’s eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.

  “All right, then. At least it’s a quick death. I hear that thing just disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that’s that.”

  Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man’s finger slid closer toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.

  “Wait!”

  “Now what?”

  “At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.”

  The gun wavered. “I am not an unreasonable man,” the webfoot said.

  Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.

  “No, stay where you are. Throw it.”

  “This book is priceless. You just don’t go throwing such valuable items around.”

  “It won’t break. Throw it.”

  Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota’s feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but his desire to hear the book was strong.

  * * * *

  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.

  The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.

  “See?” he said. “The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.”

  Michaelson laughed. “You certainly have an imagination.”

  “What difference does it make?” Maota cried, suddenly angry. “You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.”

  The old man’s eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman’s chest. The gnarled finger moved.

  Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.

  He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet.

  They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson’s white teeth, over Maota’s pink, toothless gums. The dead city’s fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought.

  Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or hand—touched the firing stud.

  There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused.

  “It only hit the ground,” Michaelson said.

  A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how deep—stared at them.

  Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. “The book!” he cried. “The book is gone!”

  “No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.”

  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota’s mouth, but he didn’t know or care.

  Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.

  “We killed it,” the old man moaned.

  “It was just a book. Not alive, you know.”

  “How do you know?” The old man’s pale eyes were filled with tears. “It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.”

  “There are other books. We’ll get another.”

  Maota shook his head. “There are no more.”

  “But I’ve seen them. Down there in the square building.”

  “Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You killed it!” Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.

  When he could talk again, Maota said, “I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I’ve disgraced myself.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Michaelson helped him to his feet. “We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.”

  “Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don’t take them we lose forever.”

  “I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?”

  “You are a god,” Maota said. “One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them.”

  “That’s another thing. I am not a god. Can’t you understand?”

  “Of course you are.” Maota looked up, very sure. “Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook.”

  “No, no. I don’t step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It’s a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I’m human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I’ll die. See? I’m human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that.”

  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. “You lie.”

  “No.”

  “If I had this machine, could I travel as you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll kill you and take yours.”

  “It would not work for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Each machine is tailored for each person.”

  The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book.

  “Look,” Michaelson said. “I’m sure I’ve convinced you that I’m human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?”

  He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson’s face. Finally he shook his head sadly. “When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I.”

  He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.

  Michaelson caught up to him. “Are you leaving the city?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away. Far away.” Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.

  “Don’t be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?”

  “There are many directions. You would not understand.”

  “East. West. North. South. Up. Down.”

>   “No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.”

  Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.

  Michaelson said, “This is where you live?”

  “Yes.”

  Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a “clock” was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.

  Maota pointed to it.

  “You asked about this machine,” he said. “Now I will tell you.” He laid his hand against it. “Here is power to follow another direction.”

  * * * *

  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. “Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.”

  “Of course.” Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. “What do you suppose happened to this race?”

  “You tell me.”

  “They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don’t know how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not die out, as a species becomes extinct.”

  Michaelson was amused, but interested. “Something like a fourth dimension?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the face of the instrument? Press the button, and.…”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now I will do so.”

  Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.

  The old man’s knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more carefully. No question about it.

  The old man was dead.

  * * * *

  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man’s body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the knoll.

  Here he buried him.

  But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense more complete than death.

  In the days that followed he gave much thought to the “clock.” He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.

  Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota’s grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.

  And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man’s house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the button.

  The high-pitched whine started.

  Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; nothing else. Then Maota’s chuckle came. No sound, an impression only like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.

  “Look!” Maota’s thought was directed at him in this place of no direction. “Think of the city and you will see it.”

  Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.

  Maota’s chuckle again. “The city will remain as it is. You did not win after all.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “But this existence has compensations,” Maota said. “You can be anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.”

  Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life force—he didn’t stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body different from Old Maota’s? Could it be that there was some thread stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?

  “I don’t like your thoughts,” Maota said. “No one can go back. I tried. I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication with you. No one can go back.”

  Michaelson decided he try.

  * * * *

  “No!” Maota’s thought was prickled with fear and anger.

  Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota’s protests, and gave his most violent command.

  At first he thought it didn’t work. He got up and looked around, then it struck him. He was standing up!

  The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the “clock” was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.

  To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota’s presence.

  “You devil!” Maota’s thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable. “I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god…!”

  THE MENACE FROM ANDROMEDA, by Arthur Leo Zagat & Nat Schachner

  Originally published in Amazing Stories, April 1931.

  With a puzzled frown, Donald Standish looked up from the photographic plates in front of him to the patch of dark blue heaven visible through the half-opened dome of the Mt. Wilson observatory. There floated the enigmatic nebula of Andromeda—the huge telescope probing directly toward it—as if to pluck out the very secret of its being. He arose, and paced the confines of the huge room. Under thirty, clean cut in features, he had already earned an enviable reputation as an astronomer, which had won him a coveted place in the world-famous observatory. From the very beginning, the great nebula had exercised a peculiar fascination over him. In some inexplicable way Standish had always felt that there lay the secret of the universe waiting for him in the role of a Perseus to deliver and bring forth.

  In truth, many other contemplative observers had speculated about that faint, dusty patch of light sprawled athwart the enchained and enchanted body of the legendary daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia. For centuries men had pondered in vain, seeking the nature of the faint light-cloud which so persistently evaded their probings. It was not until recently, with the great advance in the manufacture and use of precision instruments and telephoto lenses, that the astounding truth had been revealed to startled astronomers—this faint glimmer in the skies is a great island universe of stars; far beyond the confines of our own galaxy—millions on millions of suns and attendant planets, careening through the outermost reaches of space-time, so inconceivably remote that a ray of light traveling 186,000 miles per second would take nearly a million years to reach the earth.

>   Standish turned once more to the sheaf of photographs. Yes—there was no doubt about it, the faint pin-prick of light labeled on the sky charts as 12478, which he had himself named Alcoreth, showed an unmistakable increase in brightness in this most recent of his photographs.

  For over a year, on every clear night, he had photographed the great nebula. The minute pin-pricks of light, representing huge stars, had been laboriously ticketed and compared. This queer behavior on the part of Alcoreth, hitherto a placid, ordinary star, aroused his interest.

  “Something interesting happening to the constellation of that old lady,” Donald remarked to himself, meditatively stroking his chin. “I’d better turn the prisms on her and see what’s going on in her innards to account for it.”

  Deftly he adjusted the great spectroscope, and swung it on the errant orb. As he gazed, a startled “Whew” escaped him. These were not the spectral lines and bands customarily associated with hot gaseous stars in eruption.

  “This is becoming more interesting—better verify it,” he thought. Quickly he took out his series of comparison spectra. None of them checked with this spectrum.

  Again he arose, and paced the room. This was evidently not a burning sun. Apparently it was a relatively cold mass. What then was it? Was it shining by reflected light? But, he argued with himself, there was no sun within billions of miles to produce such a vast outpouring of reflected light. There must be some other cause for its luminosity. Excitedly Standish paced about. Luminescence—phosphorescence. This must be a world composed of some radio-active mineral! He strode back to the spectroscope. No, these were not the characteristic lines of any radio-active mineral known to science. Again he took up his restless pacing. The word phosphorescence brought to his mind pictures of the fields at night alive with the darting sparks of fireflies—of the forests, and the glow of rotting fungus and decaying wood—of the tropic seas under the Southern Cross, criss-crossed with pallid witch-fires.

  He stopped in his tracks. By George, that was it! Life forms—protoplasm—under certain conditions would become strongly luminescent. But no—that was too fantastic for serious consideration. And yet—and yet. Try as he would to dismiss the thought from his mind, it occurred again and again, until it obsessed him. He must check it, and that this very minute.