These Savage Futurians

by Philip E. High

  When he awoke, just before dawn, his body was stiff and cold but his mind was clearer. He rose, swinging his arms to restore the circulation and relieve the stiffness in his muscles. His body still ached from the previous day’s gauntlet but, apart from that, he felt tolerably fit.

  He looked about him. Slowly rising ground covered in sparse grass, outcroppings of white chalk, a few stunted trees clinging defiantly to the soil and, far to his left, the white dawn-glimmer of the ocean.

  He walked stiffly forwards, conscious that he was both hungry and thirsty.

  He was fortunate—after a few hundred paces he found a hollow in the soil which was filled with rain water. He drank, uncaring that it was slightly rank and white with chalk.

  When he raised his head a few moments later, he was shocked to see a protege growing, splendidly alone and fully mature, a bare twenty paces away. Probably grown from a wind-born seed from one of the cultivation patches.

  He devoured the juicy green leaves ravenously, pushing them into his mouth with his fingers. Finally, satisfied, he wiped his hands on his shirt-front and stood upright. As he did so, something caught his eye—a curious rectangular object protruding from the soil.

  He bent down, puzzled. The object was half covered in moss but there was something about it. He scratched away some of the moss with a sharp stone. The object was white and covered with black symbols which, although curiously unlike the script of villages, was, after some effort, understandable.

  The symbols said—although they conveyed no particular significance—Dover 3 K.L. DEAL—the rest of the object was broken at the end.

  He shrugged uncomprehendingly and went on, wary of danger. This was, he reminded himself, forbidden territory into which he was venturing.

  2

  Despite his wariness, his mind was active as he tried to recall all he had heard about the territory. He was surprised to discover it was very little and most of it was implication rather than fact. A major part was hearsay, someone who knew someone who had—or more often, repeated the memories of a long dead relative.

  He flicked open the files of memory trying to separate fact from general acceptance. There had been—so the Masters said—a great war which had ravaged the entire world. Ventnor’s education had been psycho-monitored so the word ‘war’ conveyed very little to him. He had a blurred mental picture of fire and destruction in some vague way engineered by evil men but very little else.

  According to general opinion in these ravaged areas-forbidden territories—were beasts, huge never-dying fires, dreadful diseases and invisible creatures which struck one down without warning.

  He shivered slightly. He could see no beasts or fires, but disease, like the monsters, was invisible. He went grimly onwards with a fluttery feeling of fear in his stomach.

  He reached a rising slope and began to climb it. Half way up, a detecting device embedded in the soil responded to his body heat and immediately recorded a complete picture, height, weight, approximate age, general characteristics and, to make quite sure, a photograph.

  The information was transferred inland and a man spoke: “Hello! Looks as though a specimen has escaped from the culture tray. Our friends won’t like that.”

  “Escaped or expelled? They’re not particular.”

  “I know. I often wonder why they bother. They’ll kill him before he gets far anyway.”

  “My guess is that they like to make sure irrespective of the fact that his chances of survival are ninety-five to one against. They like to stick to the book—‘deviants must be liquidated regardless’.”

  “You’re probably right. Poor devil, I wonder if he’s intelligent enough to realize— Oh, hell, keep an eye on him anyway, Roger, perhaps hell get near enough for us to help him.”

  Roger said, “Sure”—and added pessimistically—“they never do, you know. Our friends will bum him down within three days at the latest.” He paused, frowning. “Haven’t we a patrol out somewhere around there?”

  ‘Twenty kilometers away. We can try them but I don’t think they’ll make it in time. In the first place it’s a damned dangerous area and, in the second, he’s still in Hubel’s Kingdom.”

  “Think I’ll try anyway, if only to spite our friends on the Island. In my considered opinion, they not only think they own the world hut played a major part in its creation which, in view of history, is not a myth to be encouraged….”

  Ventnor strode on but with increasing caution. Half an hour later he found a length of substance which he thought was metal and weighed it experimentally in his hand. It was clumsy but would serve as a useful club in the event of trouble. It increased his confidence without affecting his wariness.

  He came to the top of a slight rise, make-shift club swinging loosely in his hand, and stopped dead, his mouth opening foolishly in disbelief.

  Below him the land sloped steeply downwards to a wide valley and the sea. It was the valley which stunned him for, completely filling it, was the ruins of a city, so vast, it staggered his imagination.

  Ventnor was used to villages which seldom contained more than eight hundred inhabitants. The concept of a community of forty or fifty times that number had never entered his mind.

  He looked about him again, conscious of a need for reassurance, but he could find none.

  To his left, a huge pile of rubble, still vaguely resembling a building, topped a steep hill. Below him the ruins of the city remained unchanged.

  He saw that most of the streets were overgrown with weeds, that the few buildings which remained were shells and that, generally, all that remained were the outlines of foundations. Yet from this height, despite the rubble and weed, the order of the city was clearly seen.

  Great highways, as wide as the village of Del, converged upon what had clearly been a double harbour. Now only a few blackened projections, like the fangs of a reef, protruded above the calm blue water. Within, twisted hulks, suggesting ocean-going vessels, were still visible beneath the surface.

  Despite his awe, he was conscious of a curious melancholy. It was dead, it was like looking at the skeleton of a long-remembered friend without knowing how or when he had died.

  Despite this, the city drew him; he was frightened yet fascinated. Almost against his will and gripping his club tightly, he began the long descent to the ruins below.

  After a few hundred paces he stumbled and realized that he was walking on the broken, weed-covered surface of what had once been a major highway. He followed it downwards, frightened, often stumbling but now determined to go on.

  As he descended, the resemblance to an orderly city slowly faded. There were only low walls and moss-covered foundations. The streets were choked with weeds, stunted trees and a bewildering tangle of ivy.

  Despite the bright sunshine, the city conveyed a frightening sense of desolation and despair. Here, he thought uneasily, invisible monsters might dwell unchallenged.

  As he reached level ground a solitary brown bird flew out of the tangle ahead of him so suddenly he raised his club in self-defence. He was conscious that his skin felt tight and his breathing shallow and jerky.

  “I’m frightened,” he thought and experienced a brief moment of panic. Having got down here, he wanted nothing better than to get away. Away from the desolation, the whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves.

  He looked back. The hill he had descended now looked vast and impossible of ascent. The heap of rubble at the summit seemed to him now dark and vaguely menacing.

  He hurried forward seeking his way out of the city which had become a maze—a maze which almost dictated his path. Here and there, streets were so choked with weed and rubble that progress was impossible.

  With the hill he had descended on his right and the sea behind him he found himself heading inland again.

  He took the remains of the protege from his pocket and began to eat as he walked.

  He came to a narrow chalky stream, forded it cautiously and climbing the opposite bank, stopped abruptly.


  Slightly ahead of him was a wide shallow depression— the word ‘crater’ had not been included in his vocabulary and he thought of it simply as a hole. From the ‘hole’ came a curious and somehow threatening hissing sound.

  Warily, crouching more from instinct that experience, the club held tightly in his hand, he crept forwards.

  The first thing he saw was the man. He stood with his back to a low wall in attitude both of desperation and defiance. He held a length of polished metal in his hand which flashed brightly as it caught the sun but he held it weakly as if on the point of exhaustion.

  Ventnor saw the reason. The man’s garments hung about his body in bloody tatters. The half naked chest was criss-crossed with long parallel scratches which were bleeding profusely. Occasionally the bright metal thing in the man’s hand drooped from weariness, touched the ground but was jerked back into the guard position with obvious effort.

  Ventnor edged forward a few more inches and almost instantly ‘froze’ with a cold feeling in his stomach.

  About twenty feet from the man in an uneven but menacing arc were six ‘things’. It was some seconds before he was able to relate the ‘things’ to something familiar and then it came to him—cats!

  He had often seen wild cats beyond the villages but these! They bore the shape of cats but there the resemblance ended. The head was flatter and wider, the fangs longer and unpleasantly curved. The claws, too, were like gray curved knives, apparently did not retract and appeared to grip the ground like sharp unbending fingers.

  It was their general appearance, however, which appalled him most—the creatures were furless. The skin was a dull blotchy gray and as smooth as plastic. It made them look sly, vicious and, in some inexplicable way, obscene.

  They watched the man unblinkingly, flat naked heads close to the ground and, periodically, as if following some precise plan, one or other of the creatures would arch its back, straighten its legs and hiss like a spitting kettle.

  Ventnor, stiff with terror, saw one of the creatures at the far end of the arc suddenly race forward on stiff legs and leap. The speed with which it moved was incredible.

  The bright metal weapon swung in a glittering arc—too late. The creature was back to its original position long before the defensive blow had completed its sweep but, on the man’s naked forearm, another line of deep scratches began to ooze scarlet.

  Ventnor was not sufficiently literate to put mental words to what he saw but inwardly, deep in his mind, he understood. These creatures were semi-intelligent and were working to a precise plan. They went in, clawed, and were gone before the man could defend himself for, despite his weapon, they were too fast for him. In due course, sheer exhaustion and loss .of blood would bring the man to his knees and then the whole pack would move in as a single unit and claw him to pieces.

  Ventnor glanced cautiously over his shoulder, wondering if he could creep back unnoticed. The rubble over which he had crawled, however, looked heaped and singularly precarious. He’d never get back without making a noise.

  He looked again at the man, weapon still clutched desperately in his hand, and was suddenly conscious of a curious and unfamiliar compassion. Alone, the man hadn’t a chance—not a chance. A sense of lightness, of responsibility began to assert itself in Ventnor’s mind despite his natural terror.

  He hesitated, undecided, moved slightly and, beneath his left elbow, a huge piece of rubble moved slightly as if balanced on something beneath.

  It was the movement which gave him the idea. Cautiously, and with agonizing slowness, he assumed a crouching position, bent forward and grasped the piece of rubble with both hands.

  It seemed to him that his muscles cracked with enough noise to be heard several feet away. Nonetheless, somehow he straightened, somehow, sweat trickling down his face and the blood pounding in his ears, he raised the object above his head.

  Briefly he glanced at the hole, at the exhausted man and then with a grunt of effort, pitched his burden at one of the cat-things directly below him. He had no idea how much his bomb weighed, but it looked and felt heavy enough. Before it landed, the club was back in his left hand and he was throwing a big round stone with his right.

  The cat-thing below apparently possessed acute senses for, at the last moment it darted forward but just a fraction too late. The heavy stone caught its hind quarters, pinning it to the ground and it screamed shrilly, front claws scrabbling desperately at the soil.

  The heavy stone Ventnor had thrown hit one of the creatures in the side, knocking it over. It rolled over twice, spitting and clawing at the air and then it was on its feet again. It spun round, curved fangs bared, looking for its attacker.

  It was then that the man took four swift paces forward and swung his weapon in a vicious arc.

  Suddenly there seemed to be two cats and then Ventnor realised that the bright weapon had cut the creature completely in half. Seizing the advantage of surprise, he jumped the ten feet to the bottom of the hole and swung his club with all his strength.

  There was a curiously satisfying crunching sound and there was a limp gray thing, twitching but lifeless in front of him.

  The rest of the creatures, apparently afraid, suddenly dove in all directions and went bounding away over the rubble like frightened race horses.

  The man with the weapon walked unsteadily over to the lump of rubble Ventnor had thrown and stabbed downwards. The clawing spitting thing which had been pinned to the ground was suddenly silent.

  The man tottered back to the wall and leaned against it, panting. “Take a lot of killing them gouge-cats.” He extended a bloody hand. “Dunno who you are, mate, but thanks. Took a lot of nerve; they could have turned on you easily.” He gripped Ventnor’s hand with obvious sincerity. “Yeah, could have turned on you, see?. You caught ‘em by surprise. They don’t like surprise, undermines ‘em, surprise does.”

  He thrust his long bright weapon into a container dangling from his waist. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll wash in the stream up ahead—come on.” He went unsteadily but determinedly forward, tattered, dusty, the blood-soaked trousers fluttering in threads about his legs.

  After a few hundred paces they came to a continuation of the chalky stream. It was only a few inches deep but the man removed his clothes, lay full length and let the water run over him.

  “Name is Berman,* he remarked from the water. “Joe Berman.”

  Ventnor felt called upon to reply and gave his own name.

  The other sat upright, eyes narrowed. “You’re from one of the villages, should have seen it, no one dresses like that here—what you doing in Hubel’s Kingdom?”

  “They drove me out.” Ventnor went into details.

  The other stood upright. “I’m still listening.” He pointed. “See my belt? Little bag tied on it, inside you’ll find a little pot full of green stuff. Chuck it over.”

  Ventnor found the object near the weapon-holder and tossed it over.

  Berman caught it deftly, unscrewed the top and began to smear his wounds with the greenish substance it contained.

  “A-septic this is, see? Gouge-cats is poison, you got to clean it out.” He winced and grinned twistedly. “Bums but cleans, see?” He screwed the top on the jar, fetched his tattered clothing from the side of the stream and dropped it into the water. “Blood, got to get rid of the stink of it Everything that crawls will be after us otherwise.”

  He trod on the soaked garments, wrung them out carefully then spread them on the bank of the stream. “Soon dry in the sun.” He paused, frowning. “You understand I should kill you? Hubel doesn’t like strangers, Hubel doesn’t. Not to worry, you saved my life. You good brave boy and I’ll put in a word. I’m a lieuty, reccy lieuty, first class. Hubel listens to his officers, you’ll be all right, I’ll see to that. In any case, Hubel likes brave boys, maybe make you a soldier, eh?”

  He became suddenly conscious of Ventnor’s blank uncomprehending face and grinned. “You ain’t got a clue what I’m jawi
ng about, can see that. Don’t teach much in the villages I’m told. Never mind, let’s get moving ‘fore them cats get their nerve back.” He sighed and looked at his wounds. “Should have known better than to take a short cut but its usually fairly safe in the day.”

  He felt his clothing. “Dry enough. Once we get clear of the city the cats won’t bother. Cats don’t like the open, cats don’t.”

  A few moments later they were moving on but, after about a thousand paces, Berman turned. “Disc! You got a disc, boy, you got a disc?”

  “Why yes, I’ve—”

  Berman ripped open his shirt before he could finish the sentence.

  “As I thought, like the one the gel had. Gotta get rid of it. Metal’s tough but brittle, needs a sharp hard knock. Put the chain across that big flat stone there.”

  “But I was told never to—”

  “You’re out now, got to lose it, see? Don’t know quite what they do or how they do it but disc burns up suddenly, you burn with it, follow?” He found a heavy stone and weighed it in his hand. “Mind your face—ah—again—got him I”

  There was a tinkling sound and Ventnor watched the disc and chain fall to the ground with something akin to superstitious terror.

  “Come.” Berman tugged at his arm. “You’re safe now. There’s a rest cave at the top of the hill, we’ll bed up there.”

  They followed what had clearly been a road. It went up and down, over low hills and down into small valleys. Finally it began to ascend steadily.

  Later, far behind them, when the afternoon sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon, an identity disc suddenly flickered, turned white and puffed upwards in a sheet of flame.

  The disc was ‘tuned’ to an instrument far out in the Atlantic and the chemical content of the minor explosion analysed. The readings showed no chemical contents such as might be expected from the destruction of the organic human body and, almost immediately, alarms began to ring,

  Hobart looked at the readings and turned pale. “My God, Matheson, he’s escaped! This will mean an investigation, heads are going to roll before this business is finished.”