These Savage Futurians

by Philip E. High

  Table of Contents

  These Savage Futurians

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  These Savage Futurians

  Philip E. High

  THESE SAVAGE FUTURIANS

  by

  PHILIP E. HIGH

  ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036

  these savage futurians

  Copyright ©, 1967, by Ace Books, Inc. All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Gray Morrow

  the double invaders

  Copyright ©, 1967, by Ace Books, Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  1

  He stood on a high white cliff looking out across the sea. Far out, clumps of weed and wreckage drifted slowly down the channel looking, in the blue-grey water like the backs of sleeping dolphins.

  Closer to shore an old plastic paddle-boat butted stubbornly against the current, making such slow progress it appeared almost stationary.

  He had once seen the inside of a paddle-boat. He could imagine the drive-men crouched over the bars, faces dewed with sweat and pedalling desperately to stop the vessel losing way.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stiffened then turned slowly. “Please?”

  “You heard me—what are you doing here?”

  “I was looking at the sea.”

  “And why are you not at work?”

  “It is my free day.” He fumbled in his pocket for. the pass and handed it over.

  He was a tall young man with a thin tanned face, dark untidy hair and intelligent blue eyes. His body appeared thin but was strong and lithely muscled.

  The questioner studied him briefly and examined the pass.

  A certain slowness of movement and the slightly halting speech had already been noted.

  The pass was in order and was handed back.

  “Identity disc.” The questioner waited while the other fumbled the disc from his clothing and finally extended it from the chain which encircled his neck.

  The identity disc bore no writing or symbols. It was a circle of metal into which had been punched a large number of holes. The questioner ran blunt brown fingers across its surface. The holes, varying in size and arrangement, gave a complete picture of the disc’s owner—ROBERT VENTNOR. AGE 27. AGRICULTURAL LABOURER. UNMARRIED. PSYCHIATRIC CLASSIFICATION 225/9/446. At the side of the disc three separate perforations gave a psycho-genetic warning—P/D/G.

  Ventnor’s father had been destroyed for gadgeteering and it was apparent that this tendency had been carried forward to die next generation. Worse, although latent, the characteristic was predominant and increasing. The questioner had already decided that something must be done about it.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Gret.”

  “That is not your village.”

  “True, but there is a girl—”

  “It is unwise to pursue the women of other villages.”

  “There is no law against it, Padre.”

  “And no law to protect you if the males of that village take offence at your intrusion.” The Padre turned abruptly and walked away. A squat man, wearing the traditional black of his kind, with a curious circle of unbroken white about his throat, he wore also a round hat with an up-curled brim which never seemed to leave his head.

  Ventnor watched him go with a feeling of relief. He had heard that Padres, long ago, had been men of honour, healers and dispensers of mystery. Today, however, they were watchdogs, spies and the administrators of summary justice.

  He turned slowly in case the Padre was still watching and began to trudge in the direction of Gret. He was, in truth, neither slow nor halting of speech but he had carefully cultivated these mannerisms since the age of eighteen.

  His father had been voluble, swift of movement, eager and inquisitive. Characteristics which, in the long run, had killed him or, at least, helped.

  Ventnor senior had been clever with his hands and instead of confining himself to simple carpentry had improvised and created. Nothing startling, an original door-catch, a planting implement, a swing-hinge—enough to set him apart as a gadgeteer, enough for them to mark him.

  Once marked there had been nothing to do but wait; there was no point in running. No one saw the marker come and no one saw it go but there had been a flash—

  Ventnor shuddered slightly, he still remembered it vividly. His father drinking from a plastic cup and suddenly— suddenly nothing. A flash, the cup spinning in a little circle on the hard floor and a few flakes of white ash drifting down from nowhere.

  Of deliberation Ventnor junior had made himself slow of movement and halting of speech. He rejected his apprenticeship and volunteered for cultivation. At the time it had seemed far safer.

  He had often regretted it, but he had carefully kept to himself the inner urges of creation—the desire to improvise, improve or construct from his own original fund of ideas.

  They knew, of course, Robert Ventnor was a gadgeteer; that was why they had marked his disc P/D—Potential Danger.

  Ventnor looked out across the sea again. Somewhere out there was the Island—the Island of the Masters.

  He was wrong; the Island was in the Atlantic, but no one had told him that. As far as he knew it was beyond the horizon and often on a clear day he had felt a frightened awe when the coast of France became visible.

  He came to a line of whitened stones marking the boundaries of his village and quickened his pace. It was a long walk to Gret with continuous hills and then a long winding path down to the sea.

  When he reached it the scene was familiar, men tilling the small cultivation patches, garments fluttering in a brisk wind from the sea. Women were filling plastic baskets with bright green newly cut protages and swaying away with them balanced on their heads.

  As he approached the men paused in their work and stared. They stared with an open-mouthed and uncomprehending intensity as if he had three arms or two heads and he felt a twinge of alarm. Previously they had only glanced and turned away, now their eyes were fixed on him unblinkingly.

  He felt himself colouring and knew that his step was faltering slightly. This was a warning—a traditional warning—and, clearly they had been expecting him.

  Mentally he hesitated. Now was the time to go back, now, if he returned, the men would stop staring and continue with their work. If he did not turn back, however, a warning would be shouted down to the village below and, when he arrived, men of his own age would be there to greet him—violently.

  His common sense told him to go back and a stubborn pride told him to go on. After all Elseth had promised, on his last rest, on his last visit, she had promised.

  He had looked down at her, gripping her shoulder. “You will be my woman? You will come and house with me?”

  “Your woman, Robert Ventnor? Yes—yes, I will be your woman—if you are strong enough to take me.”

  He had known what she meant. Any other male who might desire her would try and stop him. At the time, inflamed by her promise, he had dismissed the problem as trivial, now—now he was not so sure.

  He was tall, strong, reasonably swift of movement, but it might not be just one suitor, it might be several.

  On the other hand, if he turned back, the word would quickly be passed on. They would call him ‘white-stomach’ and the women, the children, and the young girls would mock him openly when he returned.

  Robert Ventnor stuck out his chin, lengthened his step and followed the long winding path to the village of Gret.

  He thou
ght, dully, that it would not be a good place to escape from. It would be up-hill and often between gullies in the chalk. If he lost it would be a hard, bitter and wearing retreat—if he made it.

  When he reached the village she was leaning against one of the huts, smiling. She wore a shiny black plastic skirt and a sleeveless orange blouse. Copper bangles adorned her wrists and ankles and her toes curled in the dust of the street.

  When she saw him she tossed her head challengingly and put her hands on her hips. There was no affection in her eyes but they were bright with anticipation.

  “You have come, Robert, boy.”

  “I have come to take you as my woman.”

  “If you are strong enough.” She laughed shrilly. “Many suitors desire me here.”

  It was then that Corby came round the comer of the hut. Ventnor had met Corby once at an inter-village festival and had never liked him.

  Corby had little black eyes and a ginger moustache, the ends of which he had waxed so that they stood up at right angles to the comers of his mouth. It made him look like a wild boar. Corby had squat shoulders and short but bulgy freckled arms.

  He smiled, looking more like a boar than ever. “What you want here, Del, boy—what you want here?”

  When he saw that no answer was forthcoming, he charged.

  Ventnor hit him full in the mouth as he came in and Corby staggered, little eyes glazing. Ventnor hit him again and this time Corby dropped to his knees and began to fall forward. At the last moment he put out his hands and saved himself. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth and made small scarlet spots in the dust.

  Corby shook his head twice, inhaled deeply and staggered upright, but his hands were limp at his sides and, clearly, he was only half conscious.

  Ventnor knew nothing of rules; the word ‘sportsmanship’ had not been included in his vocabulary so he hit again with all his force. This time Corby went right down and stayed there, breathing stertorously and showing the whites of his eyes.

  It was then that several young men appeared from various parts of the village and” began to run towards him shouting: “Killer! Rapist! Robber!” Some of them carried heavy sticks or throwing clubs.

  Ventnor looked wildly about him, saw his cause was hopeless and turned to ran.

  Someone threw a stone, grazing his leg and then his reflexes took over and he was running out of the village at full speed.

  There were shouts behind him and the sound of pursuit but he did not look back. A stone, probably from a sling, hissed past his head. A throwing club, making a winning sound, passed above him, struck a bank of earth and bounced high into the air.

  He looked upwards, seeking, if possible, a quicker way to high ground and, on a hillock far to his right, he saw a figure. Only later did the significance of what he had seen sink into his mind. Stones were flying about him and his lungs were laboring but there was no mistake—the Padre!

  The Padre stood on a hillock, arms folded, feet slightly apart, staring downwards as if in triumph.

  A club struck Ventnor’s shoulder painfully and then he was round a bend in the path which gave him temporary cover, but he knew that the hunt was far from ended. There were shouts behind him, jeering, hoots of encouragement and, from the cultivation patches, the mocking laughter of the women. God, it must be a thousand paces to the top—he’d never do it!

  Somehow, however, his feet still pounded on the rough soil. His vision was blurred and tinged with scarlet and he felt as if there were a knife wound in his side, but he did not falter. It was as if his pain-wracked body laboured upwards on its own; as if his own fears and terrors drove it onwards and it was determined not Jo succumb. Yet it shouted for respite, the lungs burned and throbbed, blood pounded noisily in his head and his legs felt grossly heavy yet curiously numb.

  Then, somehow, as if in a dream, he reached the flat rolling land above the village, turned onto the path for Del and staggered to an uncertain stop.

  About a thousand paces down the path to Del another group of men stood ready to head him off. All of them were armed and two carried bows.

  Ventnor, wheezing for breath, did the only thing possible. He turned and ran in the opposite direction.

  There was no path, only the uneven ground and a long slope undulating slowly upwards. He knew why there was no path—he was heading towards forbidden territory and, once he reached the boundary line, he would be in it. He admitted to himself that he was frightened but he was more frightened of the immediate danger.

  The first pursuit party which had, no doubt, been joined by Corby, thirsting for vengeance, had reached level ground. A quick glance behind him showed that the second party had also taken up the chase.

  Then suddenly there was a second line of stones, this time painted red, and he hurled himself across them. He ran until he was safely out of arrow range then let himself collapse, literally sobbing with relief and exhaustion.

  He lay, it seemed, a long time, his heart beating so violently it seemed to thud against his ribs. His lungs ached, his clothing was soaked and sweat trickled down his body in streams. Finally he rolled over and sat upright.

  “Del boy!” Corby’s voice shouting from a distance but was clearly audible. “Del boy, you think you got away?” The voice paused then went on. “You think you safe now?” A shout of laughter from the others. “You safe all right, Del boy, yes, you safe there but try and get back, jest try.”

  Another shout of laughter from the others then Corby’s voice again. “Maybe you wait for darkness, eh? Won’t be no darkness for you, boy, not for you. We light fires on boundary, walk up and down with torches. Try getting back, eh? Just try.”

  Laughter, a series of jeering and obscene threats then Corby’s voice again. “Only one thing to do, Del friend, you come to us and maybe we beat you up only a little or you can just keep going. Yes, you can do that, you can keep going. Know what’s lying out there, what chance you’ll stand? Know what happens to those who leave?”

  Ventnor struggled shakily upright and looked at the group of menacing figures slightly below. Then he turned slowly and walked shakily but steadily in the opposite direction.

  On the outskirts of Gret the Padre dispatched a message:

  Subject: Ventnor, Robert. Classification 225/9/446. Characteristic alteration in the identity disc of this specimen indicates increasing G-positive.

  Local population therefore incited to “elimination level.”

  Unfortunately, however, specimen escaped by flight beyond the boundaries.

  Padre 4

  G.B. S.E. Sector D-14

  The message was received and passed through various departments before it ended up in the right office but on the wrong desk.

  Hobart tossed it on the right one. “Yours, old man.”

  Matheson nodded, studied it and frowned. “My God, another ‘marker’ job. I hate endorsing these things.”

  Hobart moved his shoulders slightly. “Routine, all it needs is your signature.”

  “My signature deprives a man of his life.”

  “Oh, come off it, you know damn well it’s necessary.”

  Matheson sighed, tiredly. “Wish I was so damn certain or, for that matter, so detachedly and insufferably self-righteous.”

  “Let’s not get personal, old chap. You’re not being scientific about this. One cannot mix sentiment with science-history should prove that.”

  “It does, it does. At the same time, such convictions fail to salve my conscience.”

  Hobart chuckled dryly. “Don’t look now, but your inhibitions are showing.” Then, more gently: “Look, its an experimental culture. It is housed, clothed, medically examined and controlled. This culture, if it is to succeed, cannot afford variants. Four generations of psycho-genetic control cannot be done in for the sake of one lousy variant. God, man! All the specimens are well-treated, well-fed, literate, within limitations. All we do is guide.”

  Matheson shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder—I wonder if it will ever m
ature. A few hundred thousand villages dotting the coastlines of the world—will they ever form the basis of a new and stable civilization?”

  Hobart spread his hands. “The cultures inland are not permitted to exist for nothing but for comparison purposes, so let’s do a little comparing, eh? What have we got inland? A host of blasted savages that almost go back to the Stone Age. It is true that some possess a few ancient fire-arms but the picture is there for anyone to see. These savages are divided into groups or, more correctly, tribes. These tribes fight wars, hold superstitious rites, and entertain forms of government that go right back to the cave-dweller. Absolute dictatorship under a king or paranoiac leader, they employ witch-doctors, medicine men and morally and hygienically they are so many beasts.”

  Matheson nodded but was still obviously dubious. “This man”—he glanced at the message again—“this man Ventnor is heading for the wild areas—why do I have to endorse his execution? They’ll kill him—if not the savages it will be something else. He can’t survive.”

  “Orders are orders, my friend. We make dead sure.”

  “I suppose so.” Matheson nodded then endorsed the order with a peculiar suggestion of savagery. “You’re right, everyone is right, nonetheless I cannot escape the feeling that we think we’re omnipotent. .. .”

  Ventnor walked stiffly onwards. Strangely, for a virtual primitive, he was a realist almost to the point of fatalism. He could add it up on his fingers. If they said they would stop him from going back, they would stop him. If he did not go back, his absence would be reported and his very presence in forbidden territory would ensure his execution.

  Ventnor did not want to die but he was fully aware of the fact that he was going to. He was resigned, bitterly resigned; he hadn’t done anything, not deliberately.

  He shrugged. Might as well go on, what difference did it make? He had about three days before they sent a marker—if this hostile territory permitted him to live that long.

  Lengthening shadows reminded him that darkness was coming and he realized suddenly that he was tired to the point of exhaustion.

  He found a hollow into which twigs, dead leaves and dry grass had drifted and lay down, uncaring if something got him in the night.