The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF

by Martin Greenberg

  But as time went on he felt an intense longing to watch once more the strange life beyond the Barrier. Now that he had killed a Giant he felt a strange sense of kinship with the monstrous beings. He thought of the Thin-One, Loud-Voice, Bare-Head and the Little Giant almost as old friends. At times he even caught himself regretting that he must kill them all. But he knew that in this lay the only hope for the survival of himself and his people.

  And then, at last, he was satisfied that he could leave the children to fend for themselves. Even should he fail to return from the Inside they would manage. No-Toes, the eldest of the female children, had already proved to be capable nurse.

  And so he roamed once more the maze of caves and tunnels just outside the Barrier. Through his doorways and peepholes he spied upon the bright, fascinating life of the Inner World. From the Cave-of-Thunders – though how it had come by its name none of the People has ever known – to the Place-of-Little-Lights he ranged. Many feedings passed, but he was not obliged to return to his own food store. For the corpses of the People were everywhere. True, they were beginning to stink a little, but like all his race Shrick was never a fastidious eater.

  And he watched the Giants going about the strange, ordered routine of their lives. Often he was tempted to show himself, to shout defiance. But this action had to remain in the realm of wish-fulfillment dreams – he knew full well that it would bring sure and speedy calamity.

  And then, at last, came the opportunity for which he had been waiting. He had been in the Place-of-Little-Lights, watching the Little Giant going about his mysterious, absorbing business. He had wished that he could understand its purport, that he could ask the Little Giant in his own tongue what it was that he was doing. For, since the death of Wesel, there had been none with whom a communion of mind was possible. He sighed, so loudly that the Giant must have heard.

  He started uneasily and looked up from his work. Hastily Shrick withdrew into his tunnel. For many heartbeats he remained there, occasionally peeping out. But the other was still alert, must have known in some way that he was not alone. And so, eventually, Shrick had retired rather than risk incurring the potent wrath of the Giants once more.

  His random retreat brought him to a doorway but rarely used. On the other side of it was a huge cavern in which there was nothing of real interest or value. In it, as a rule, at least one of the Giants would be sleeping, and others would be engaged in one of their incomprehensible pastimes.

  This time there was no deep rumble of conversation, no movement whatsoever. Shrick’s keen ears could distinguish the breathing of three different sleepers. The Thin-One was there, his respiration, like himself, had a meager quality. Loud-Voice was loud even in sleep. And Bare-Head, the chief of the Giants, breathed with a quiet authority.

  And the Little Giant who, alone of all his people, was alert and awake was in the Place-of-Little-Lights.

  Shrick knew that it was now or never. Any attempt to deal with the Giants singly must surely bring the great, hot light foretold by Three-Eyes. Now, with any luck at all, he could deal with the three sleepers and then lay in wait for the Little Giant. Unsuspecting, unprepared, he could be dealt with as easily as had Fat-Belly.

  And yet – he did not want to do it.

  It wasn’t fear; it was that indefinable sense of kinship, the knowledge that, in spite of gross physical disparities, the Giants and the People were as one. For the history of Man, although Shrick was not to know this, is but the history of the fire-making, tool-using animal.

  Then he forced himself to remember Wesel, and Big-Ears, and the mass slaughter of almost all his race. He remembered Three-Eyes’ words – but this I can tell you, the People are doomed. Nothing you or they can do will save them. But you will kill those who will kill us, and that is good.

  But you will kill those who will kill us –

  But if I kill all the Giants before they kill us, he thought, then the world, all the world, will belong to the People . . .

  And he still hung back.

  It was not until the Thin-One, who must have been in the throes of a bad dream, murmured and stirred in his sleep that Shrick came out of his doorway. The keen blade with which he had slain Fat-Belly was grasped in both his hands. He launched himself toward the uneasy sleeper. His weapon sliced down once only – how often had he rehearsed this in his imagination! – and for the Thin-One the dream was over.

  The smell of fresh blood, as always, excited him. It took him all of his will power to restrain himself from hacking and slashing at the dead Giant. But he promised himself that this would come later. And he jumped from the body of the Thin-One to where Loud-Voice was snoring noisily.

  The abrupt cessation of that all too familiar sound must have awakened Bare-Head. Shrick saw him shift and stir, saw his hands go out to loosen the bonds that held him to his sleeping place. And when the Giant Killer, his feet scrabbling for a hold, landed on his chest he was ready. And he was shouting in a great Voice, so that Shrick knew that it was only a matter of heartbeats before the Little Giant came to his assistance.

  Fat-Belly had been taken off guard, the Thin-One and Loud-Voice had been killed in their sleep. But here was no easy victory for the Giant Killer.

  For a time it looked as though the chief of the Giants would win. After a little he ceased his shouting and fought with grim, silent desperation. Once one of his great hands caught Shrick in a bone-crushing grip, and it seemed as though the battle was over. Shrick could feel the blood pounding in his head, his eyeballs almost popping out of their sockets. It took him every ounce of resolution he possessed to keep from dropping his blade and scratching frenziedly at the other’s wrist with ineffectual hands.

  Something gave – it was his ribs – and in the fleeting instant of relaxed pressure he was able to twist, to turn and slash at the monstrous, hairy wrist. The warm blood spurted and the Giant cried aloud. Again and again Shrick plied his blade, until it became plain that the Giant would not be able to use that hand again.

  He was single-handed now against an opponent as yet – insofar as his limbs were concerned – uncrippled. True, every movement of the upper part of his body brought spears of pain lancing through Shrick’s chest. But he could move, and smite – and slay.

  For Bare-Head weakened as the blood flowed from his wounds. No longer was he able to ward off the attacks on his face and neck. Yet he fought, as his race had always fought, to his dying breath. His enemy would have given no quarter – this much was obvious – but he could have sought refuge with the Little Giant in the Place-of-Little-Lights.

  Toward the end he started shouting again.

  And as he died, the Little Giant came into the cave.

  It was sheer, blind luck that saved the Giant Killer from speedy death at the intruder’s hands. Had the Little Giant known of the pitifully small forces arrayed against him it would have gone hard with Shrick. But No-Toes, left with her charges, had grown bored with the Place-of-Meeting. She had heard Shrick talk of the wonders of the Inside; and now, she thought, was her chance to see them for herself.

  Followed by her charges she wandered aimlessly along the tunnels just outside the Barrier. She did not know the location of the doors to the Inside, and the view through the occasional peepholes was very circumscribed.

  Then she came upon the doorway which Shrick had left open when he made his attack on the sleeping Giants. Bright light streamed through the aperture – light brighter than any No-Toes had seen before in her short life. Like a beacon it lured her on.

  She did not hesitate when she came to the opening. Unlike her parents, she had not been brought up to regard the Giants with superstitious awe. Shrick was the only adult she could remember having known – and he, although he had talked of the Giants, had boasted of having slain one in single combat. He had said, also, that he would, at some time or other, kill all the Giants.

  In spite of her lack of age and experience, No-Toes was no fool. Womanlike, already she had evaluated Shrick. Much of his
talk she discounted as idle bragging, but she had never seen any reason to disbelieve his stories of the deaths of Big-Tusk, Sterret, Tekka, Fat-Belly – and all the myriads of the People who had perished with them.

  So it was that – foolhardy in her ignorance – she sailed through the doorway. Behind her came the other children, squealing in their excitement. Even if the Little Giant had not at first seen them he could not have failed to hear the shrill tumult of their irruption.

  There was only one interpretation that he could put upon the evidence of his eyes. The plan to suffocate the People had failed. They had sallied out from their caves and tunnels to the massacre of his fellow Giants – and now fresh reinforcements were arriving to deal with him.

  He turned and fled.

  Shrick rallied his strength, made a flying leap from the monstrous carcass of Bare-Head. But in mid flight a hard, polished surface interposed itself between him and the fleeing Giant. Stunned, he hung against it for many heartbeats before he realized that it was a huge door which had shut in his face.

  He knew that the Little Giant was not merely seeking refuge in flight – for where in the world could he hope to escape the wrath of the People? He had gone, perhaps, for arms of some kind. Or – and at the thought Shrick’s blood congealed – he had gone to loose the final doom foretold by Three-Eyes. Now that his plans had begun to miscarry he remembered the prophecy in its entirety, was no longer able to ignore those parts that, in his arrogance, he had found displeasing.

  And then No-Toes, her flight clumsy and inexpert in these – to her – strange, vast spaces was at his side.

  “Are you hurt?” she gasped. “They are so big – and you fought them.”

  As she spoke, the world was filled with a deep humming sound. Shrick ignored the excited female. That noise could mean only one thing. The Little Giant was back in the Place-of-Little-Lights, was setting in motion vast, incomprehensible forces that would bring to pass the utter and irrevocable destruction of the People.

  With his feet against the huge door he kicked off, sped rapidly down to the open doorway in the Barrier. He put out his hand to break the shock of his landing, screamed aloud as his impact sent a sickening wave of pain through his chest. He started to cough – and when he saw the bright blood that was welling from his mouth he was very frightened.

  No-Toes was with him again. “You are hurt, you are bleeding. Can I—?”

  “No!” He turned a snarling mask to her. “No! Leave me alone!”

  “But where are you going?”

  Shrick paused. Then: “I am going to save the world,” he said slowly. He savored the effect of his words. They made him feel better, they made him bulk big in his own mind, bigger, perhaps, than the Giants. “I am going to save you all.”

  “But how—?”

  This was too much for the Giant Killer. He screamed again, but this time with anger. With the back of his hands he struck the young female across the face.

  “Stay here!” he ordered.

  And then he was gone along the tunnel.

  The gyroscopes were still singing their quiet song of power when Shrick reached the Control Room. Strapped in his chair, the navigator was busy over his plotting machine. Outside the ports the stars wheeled by in orderly succession.

  And Shrick was frightened.

  He had never quite believed Wesel’s garbled version of the nature of the world until now. But he could see, at last, that the ship was moving. The fantastic wonder of it all held him spellbound until a thin edge of intolerable radiance crept into view from behind the rim of one of the ports. The navigator touched something and, suddenly, screens of dark blue glass mitigated the glare. But it was still bright, too bright, and the edge became a rapidly widening oval and then, at last, a disk.

  The humming of the gyroscope stopped.

  Before the silence had time to register a fresh sound assailed Shrick’s ears. It was the roar of the main drive.

  A terrifying force seized him and slammed him down upon the deck. He felt his bones crack under the acceleration. True child of free fall as he was, all this held for him the terror of the supernatural. For a while he lay there, weakly squirming, whimpering a little. The navigator looked down at him and laughed. It was this sound more than anything else that stung Shrick to his last, supreme effort. He didn’t want to move. He just wanted to lie there on the deck slowly coughing his life away. But the Little Giant’s derision tapped unsuspected reserves of strength, both moral and physical.

  The navigator went back to his calculations, handling his instruments for the last time with a kind of desperate elation. He knew that the ship would never arrive at her destination, neither would her cargo of seed grain. But she would not – and this outweighed all other considerations – drift forever among the stars carrying within her hull the seeds of the destruction of Man and all his works.

  He knew that – had he not taken this way out – he must have slept at last, and then death at the hands of the mutants would inevitably have been his portion. And with mutants in full charge anything might happen.

  The road he had taken was the best.

  Unnoticed, inch by inch Shrick edged his way along the deck. Now, he could stretch his free hand and touch the Giant’s foot. In the other he still held his blade, to which he had clung as the one thing sure and certain in this suddenly crazy world.

  Then he had a grip on the artificial skin covering the Giant’s leg. He started to climb, although every movement was unadulterated agony. He did not see the other raise his hand to his mouth, swallow the little pellet that he held therein.

  So it was that when, at long last, he reached the soft, smooth throat of the Giant, the Giant was dead.

  It was a very fast poison.

  For a while he clung there. He should have felt elation at the death of the last of his enemies but – instead – he felt cheated. There was so much that he wanted to know, so much that only the Giants could have told him. Besides – it was his blade that should have won the final victory. He knew that, somewhere, the Little Giant was still laughing at him.

  Through the blue-screened ports blazed the sun. Even at this distance, even with the intervening filters, its power and heat were all too evident. And aft the motors still roared, and would roar until the last ounce of fuel had been fed into hungry main drive.

  Shrick clung to the dead man’s neck, looked long and longingly at the glittering instruments, the shining switches and levers, whose purpose he would never understand, whose inertia would have defeated any attempt of his fast ebbing strength to move them. He looked at the flaming doom ahead, and knew that this was what had been foretold.

  Had the metaphor existed in his language, he would have told himself that he and the few surviving People were caught like rats in a trap.

  But even the Giants would not have used that phrase in its metaphorical sense.

  For that is all that the People were – rats in a trap.

  E FOR EFFORT

  T. L. Sherred

  The captain was met at the airport by a staff car. Long and fast it sped. In narrow, silent room the general sat, ramrod-backed, tense. The major waited at the foot of the gleaming steps shining frostily in the night air. Tires screamed to a stop and together the captain and the major raced up the steps. No words of greeting were spoken. The general stood quickly, hand outstretched. The captain ripped open a dispatch case and handed over a thick bundle of papers. The general flipped them over eagerly and spat a sentence at the major. The major disappeared and his harsh voice rang curtly down the outside hall. The man with glasses came in and the general handed him the papers. With jerky fingers the man with glasses sorted them out. With a wave from the general the captain left, a proud smile on his weary young face. The general tapped his fingertips on the black glossy surface of the table. The man with glasses pushed aside crinkled maps, and began to read aloud.

  Dear Joe:

  I started this just to kill time, because I got tired of just looking
out the window. But when I got almost to the end I began to catch the trend of what’s going on. You’re the only one I know that can come through for me, and when you finish this you’ll know why you must.

  I don’t know who will get this to you. Whoever it is won’t want you to identify a face later. Remember that, and please, Joe – hurry!

  Ed

  It all started because I’m lazy. By the time I’d shaken off the sandman and checked out of the hotel, every seat in the bus was full. I stuck my bag in a dime locker and went out to kill the hour I had until the bus left. You know the bus terminal – right across from the Book-Cadillac and the Statler, on Washington Boulevard near Michigan Avenue. Like Main in Los Angeles, or maybe Sixty-third in its present state of decay in Chicago, where I was going. Cheap movies, pawnshops, and bars by the dozens, a penny arcade or two, restaurants that feature hamburg steak, bread and butter and coffee for forty cents. Before the War, a quarter.

  I like pawnshops. I like cameras, I like tools, I like to look in windows crammed with everything from electric razors to sets of socket wrenches to upper plates. So, with an hour to spare, I walked out Michigan to Sixth and back on the other side of the street. There are a lot of Chinese and Mexicans around that part of town, the Chinese running the restaurants and the Mexicans eating Southern Home Cooking. Between Fourth and Fifth, I stopped to stare at what passed for a movie. Store windows painted black, amateurish signs extolling in Spanish “Detroit premier . . . cast of thousands . . . this week only . . . ten cents—” The few eight-by-ten glossy stills pasted on the windows were poor blowups, spotty and wrinkled; pictures of mailed cavalry and what looked like a good-sized battle. All for ten cents. Right down my alley.