by Hank Davis
Mr. Lovecraft, you really knew what you were talking about. I’ve seen it and I wish I could go mad. Or maybe I did a long time ago . . .
The ship had a lifeboat, so I could set the ship’s controls on timer to take it on a long orbit out to the edge of the system, while we left in the lifeboat. No one would find it, or the bodies on board, for a long time.
As we headed for my ship, I asked Callie, “Are you going to be all right?”
She gave me a look that would make liquid helium look warm. “I’ve seen it,” she said again.
I wanted to keep quiet, but I had to find out what she was going to do. “We’re a long way from Earth,” I said. “Do you need funds to get home?”
“He was a fool,” she said. She picked up that I was worried about her mental state, because next she said, “Oberst was a fool. He didn’t know how good I was. How much I picked up from his thoughts. I know his secret account numbers and I.D. codes. With them, I’m a billionaire. I can get home. Even better, I can afford the memory wipe treatment. Wipe out the last few days. I hope it will work.”
Then she started again, saying “I saw it,” a few more times, until she turned to me again and said, “I know what you’re looking for, and I know where it is.”
I hoped I knew what she meant, but I just said, “Where what is?”
“Oberst had people looking for another gate. They found one a week ago. It’s located at—” and she read off numbers which meant nothing to her, but which I memorized. Later, I’d punch them into my ship’s computer.
“Once we dock with my ship, you can go into the station,” I said. Then I almost said, “Will you be all right?” but didn’t because it was a stupid question. But it was also a stupid thought, and of course she had read it without my saying anything.
“Stop saying that!” she said. “Stop thinking it.”
She wouldn’t be all right ever again, unless the memory wipe treatment worked. I hoped it would.
I saw it, too.
I hoped that Oberst didn’t have any more of his thugs guarding the other gate. I hoped it for their sake. It doesn’t seem to want me to be hurt.
And if the gate is there, maybe it would like to go home. If “like” or “want” have any meaning to it. Even if it isn’t homesick, maybe it’ll follow me, as it’s been doing for half a century, when I walk through the gate to whatever’s on the other side.
And stay there.
Clark Ashton Smith
Here’s another gem from the heyday of the pulps, originally appearing in the October, 1932 Wonder Stories under a title not of the author’s choosing, “Master of the Asteroid.” The space explorer was trapped in his wrecked ship on an asteroid which was large enough to hold a thin atmosphere and support a host of odd beings who seemed to think the crashed explorer was a god. Perhaps he should have wondered if they had mistaken him for someone—or something—else . . .
Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961), a poet, sculptor, and painter, was also a prolific author of sf, fantasy, and horror stories, writing close to 300 short stories. He was a star contributor to the great fantasy-horror pulp, Weird Tales, where his stories appeared alongside those of such other luminaries as H.P. Lovecraft (with whom Smith carried on a long and voluminous correspondence), Robert E. Howard, and Seabury Quinn. He also wrote science fiction stories, including such standout classics as “The City of the Singing Flame” and its sequel, “Beyond the Singing Flame.” Some of his sf tales had a horror slant, and when they appeared in Hugo Gernsback’s Wonder Stories they were apparently a bit too intense for the editor, who often published them with cuts to make them less horrific. Thanks to William A. Dorman and Scott Connors, this is the version as Smith originally wrote it, with no cuts and all shivers intact.
THE GOD OF THE
ASTEROID
Clark Ashton Smith
Man’s conquest of the interplanetary gulfs has been fraught with many tragedies. Vessel after vessel, like a venturous mote, has disappeared in the infinite—and has not returned. Inevitably, for the most part, the lost explorers have left no record of their fate. Their ships have flared as unknown meteors through the atmosphere of the further planets, to fall like shapeless metal cinders on a never-visited terrain; or have become the dead, frozen satellites of other worlds or moons. A few, perhaps, among the unreturning fliers, have succeeded in landing somewhere, and their crews have perished immediately, or survived for a little while amid the inconceivably hostile environment of a cosmos not designed for men.
In later years, with the progress of exploration, more than one of the early derelicts has been descried, following its solitary orbit; and the wrecks of others have been found on ultra-terrene shores. Occasionally—not often—it has been possible to reconstruct the details of the lone, remote disaster. Sometimes, in a fused and twisted hull, a log or record has been preserved intact. Among others, there is the case of the Selenite, the first known rocket-ship to dare the zone of the asteroids.
At the time of its disappearance, fifty years ago, in 1980, a dozen voyages had been made to Mars, and a rocket-base had been established in Syrtis Major, with a small permanent colony of terrestrials, all of whom were trained scientists as well as men of uncommon hardihood and physical stamina.
The effects of the Martian climate, and the utter alienation from familiar conditions, as might have been expected, were extremely trying and even disastrous. There was an unremitting struggle with deadly or pestiferous bacteria new to science, a perpetual assailment by dangerous radiations of soil and air and sun. The lessened gravity played its part also, in contributing to curious and profound disturbances of metabolism. The worst effects were nervous and mental. Queer, irrational animosities, manias or phobias never classified by alienists, began to develop among the personnel at the rocket-base.
Violent quarrels broke out between men who were normally controlled and urbane. The party, numbering fifteen in all, soon divided into several cliques, one against the others; and this morbid antagonism led at times to actual fighting and even bloodshed.
One of the cliques consisted of three men, Roger Colt, Phil Gershom and Edmond Beverly. These three, through banding together in a curious fashion, became intolerably antisocial toward all the others. It would seem that they must have gone close to the borderline of insanity, and were subject to actual delusions. At any rate, they conceived the idea that Mars, with its fifteen earth-men, was entirely too crowded. Voicing this idea in a most offensive and belligerent manner, they also began to hint their intention of faring even further afield in space.
Their hints were not taken seriously by the others, since a crew of three was insufficient for the proper manning of even the lightest rocket-vessel used at that time. Colt, Gershom, and Beverly had no difficulty at all in stealing the Selenite, the smaller of the two ships then reposing at the Syrtis Major base. Their fellow-colonists were aroused one night by the cannon-like roar of the discharging tubes, and emerged from their huts of sheet-iron in time to see the vessel departing in a fiery streak toward Jupiter.
No attempt was made to follow it; but the incident helped to sober the remaining twelve and to calm their unnatural animosities. It was believed, from certain remarks that the malcontents had let drop, that their particular objective was Ganymede or Europa, both of which were thought to possess an atmosphere suitable for human respiration. It seemed very doubtful, however, that they could pass the perilous belt of the asteroids. Apart from the difficulty of steering a course amid these innumerable, far-strewn bodies, the Selenite was not fuelled or provisioned for a voyage of such length. Gershom, Colt and Beverly, in their mad haste to quit the company of the others, had forgotten to calculate the actual necessities of their proposed voyage, and had wholly overlooked its dangers.
After that departing flash on the Martian skies, the Selenite was not seen again; and its fate remained a mystery for thirty years. Then, on tiny, remote Phocea, its dented wreck was found by the Holdane expedition to the asteroids.
Much interest prevailed, for the shape of the partially bare mound was plainly recognizable and not to be confused with the surrounding rocks. Holdane ordered a landing, and several men in space-suits proceeded to examine the wreck. They soon identified it as the long-missing Selenite.
Peering in through one of the thick, unbreakable neo-crystal ports, they met the eyeless gaze of a human skeleton, which had fallen forward against the slanting, overhanging wall. It seemed to grin a sardonic welcome. The vessel’s hull was partly buried in the stony soil, and had been crumpled and even slightly fused, though not broken, by its plunge. The manhole lid was so thoroughly jammed and soldered that it was impossible to effect an entrance without the use of a cutting-torch.
Enormous, withered, cryptogamous plants with the habit of vines, that crumbled at a touch, were clinging to the hull and the adjacent rocks. In the light snow beneath the skeleton-guarded port, a number of sharded bodies were lying, which proved to be those of tall insect forms, like giant phasmidae. From the posture and arrangement of their lank, pipy members, longer than those of a man, it seemed that they had walked erect. They were unimaginably grotesque, and their composition, due to the almost non-existent gravity, was fantastically porous and insubstantial. Many more bodies, of a similar type, were afterwards found on other portions of the planetoid; but no living thing was discovered. All life, it was plain, had perished in the trans-arctic winter of Phocea’s aphelion.
When the Selenite had been entered, the party learned, from a sort of log or notebook found on the floor, that the skeleton was all that remained of Edmond Beverly. There was no trace of his two companions; but the log, on examination, proved to contain a record of their fate as well as the subsequent adventures of Beverly almost to the very moment of his own death from a doubtful, unexplained cause.
The tale was a strange and tragic one. Beverly, it would seem, had written it day by day, after the departure from Syrtis Major, in an effort to retain a semblance of morale and mental coherence amid the black alienation and disorientation of infinitude. I transcribe it herewith, omitting only the earlier passages, which were full of unimportant details and personal animadversions. The first entries were all dated, and Beverly had made an heroic attempt to measure and mark off the seasonless night of the void in terms of earthly time. But after the disastrous landing on Phocea, he had abandoned this; and the actual length of time covered by his entries can only be conjectured.
THE LOG
Sept. 10th. Mars is only a pale-red star through our rear ports; and according to my calculations we will soon approach the orbit of the nearer asteroids. Jupiter and its system of moons are seemingly as far off as ever, like beacons on the unattainable shore of immensity. More even than at first, I feel that dreadful, suffocating illusion, which accompanies ether-travel, of being perfectly stationary in a static void.
Gershom, however, complains of a disturbance of equilibrium, with much vertigo and a frequent sense of falling, as if the vessel were sinking beneath him through bottomless space at a headlong speed. The causation of such symptoms is rather obscure, since the artificial gravity regulators are in good working-order. Colt and I have not suffered from any similar disturbance. It seems to me that the sense of falling would be almost a relief from this illusion of nightmare immobility; but Gershom appears to be greatly distressed by it, and says that his hallucination is growing stronger, with fewer and briefer intervals of normality. He fears that it will become continuous.
* * *
Sept. 11th. Colt has made an estimate of our fuel and provisions and thinks that with careful husbandry we will be able to reach Europa. I have been checking up on his calculations, and find that he is altogether too sanguine. According to my estimate, the fuel will give out while we are still midway in the belt of asteroids; though the food, water and compressed air would possibly take us most of the way to Europa. This discovery I must conceal from the others. It is too late to turn back. I wonder if we have all been mad, to start out on this errant voyage into cosmical immensity with no real preparation or thought of consequences. Colt, it would seem, has lost even the power of mathematical calculation: his figurings are full of the most egregious errors.
Gershom has been unable to sleep, and is not even fit to take his turn at the watch. The hallucination of falling obsesses him perpetually, and he cries out in terror, thinking that the vessel is about to crash on some dark, unknown planet to which it is being drawn by an irresistible gravitation. Eating, drinking and locomotion are very difficult for him, and he complains that he cannot even draw a full breath—that the air is snatched away from him in his precipitate descent. His condition is indeed painful and pitiable.
* * *
Sept. 12th. Gershom is worse—bromide of potassium and even a heavy dose of morphine from the Selenite’s medicine lockers, have not relieved him or enabled him to sleep. He has the look of a drowning man and seems to be on the point of strangulation. It is hard for him to speak.
Colt has become very morose and sullen, and snarls at me when I address him. I think that Gershom’s plight has preyed sorely upon his nerves—as it has on mine. But my burden is heavier than Colt’s: for I know the inevitable doom of our insane and ill-starred expedition. Sometimes I wish it were all over. . . . The hells of the human mind are vaster than space, darker than the night between the worlds . . . and all three of us have spent several eternities in hell. Our attempt to flee has only plunged us into a black and shoreless limbo, through which we are fated to carry still our own private perdition.
I, too, like Gershom, have been unable to sleep. But, unlike him, I am tormented by the illusion of eternal immobility. In spite of the daily calculations that assure me of our progress through the gulf, I cannot convince myself that we have moved at all. It seems to me that we hang suspended like Mohammed’s coffin, remote from earth and equally remote from the stars, in an incommensurable vastness without bourn or direction. I cannot describe the awfulness of the feeling.
* * *
Sept. 13th. During my watch, Colt opened the medicine locker and managed to shoot himself full of morphine. When his turn came, he was in a stupor and I could do nothing to rouse him. Gershom had gotten steadily worse and seemed to be enduring a thousand deaths . . . so there was nothing for me to do but keep on with the watch as long as I could. I locked the controls, anyway, so that the vessel would continue its course without human guidance if I should fall asleep.
I don’t know how long I kept awake—nor how long I slept. I was aroused by a queer hissing whose nature and cause I could not identify at first. I looked around and saw that Colt was in his hammock, still lying in a drug-induced sopor. Then I saw that Gershom was gone, and began to realize that the hissing came from the air-lock. The inner door of the lock was closed securely—but evidently someone had opened the outer manhole, and the sound was being made by the escaping air. It grew fainter and ceased as I listened.
I knew then what had happened—Gershom, unable to endure his strange hallucination any longer, had actually flung himself into space from the Selenite! Going to the rear ports, I saw his body, with a pale, slightly bloated face and open, bulging eyes. It was following us like a satellite, keeping an even distance of ten or twelve feet from the lee of the vessel’s stern. I could have gone out in a space-suit to retrieve the body; but I felt sure that Gershom was already dead, and the effort seemed more than useless. Since there was no leakage of air from the interior, I did not even try to close the manhole.
I hope and pray that Gershom is at peace. He will float forever in cosmic space—and in that further void where the torment of human consciousness can never follow.
* * *
/>
Sept. 15th. We have kept our course somehow, though Colt is too demoralized and drug-sodden to be of much assistance. I pity him when the limited supply of morphine gives out.
Gershom’s body is still following us, held by the slight power of the vessel’s gravitational attraction. It seems to terrify Colt in his more lucid moments; and he complains that we are being haunted by the dead man. It’s bad enough for me, too, and I wonder how much my nerves and mind will stand. Sometimes I think that I am beginning to develop the delusion that tortured Gershom and drove him to his death. An awful dizziness assails me, and I fear that I shall start to fall. But somehow I regain my equilibrium.
* * *
Sept. 16th. Colt used up all the morphine, and began to show signs of intense depression and uncontrollable nervousness. His fear of the satellite corpse appeared to grow upon him like an obsession; and I could do nothing to reassure him. His terror was deepened by an eerie, superstitious belief.
“I tell you, I hear Gershom calling us,” he cried. “He wants company, out there in the black, frozen emptiness; and he won’t leave the vessel till one of us goes out to join him. You’ve got to go, Beverly—it’s either you or me—otherwise he’ll follow the Selenite forever.”
I tried to reason with him, but in vain. He turned upon me in a sudden shift of maniacal rage.
“Damn you, I’ll throw you out, if you won’t go any other way!” he shrieked.
Clawing and mouthing like a mad beast, he leapt toward me where I sat before the Selenite’s control-board. I was almost overborne by his onset, for he fought with a wild and frantic strength . . . I don’t like to write down all that happened, for the mere recollection makes me sick . . . Finally he got me by the throat, with a sharp-nailed clutch that I could not loosen, and began to choke me to death. In self-defense, I had to shoot him with an automatic which I carried in my pocket. Reeling dizzily, gasping for breath, I found myself staring down at his prostrate body, from which a crimson puddle was widening on the floor.
