The Third Science Fiction Megapack

by E. C. Tubb

  Markham arrived half an hour later and immediately got onto Forensics. “Where’s that bloody alcohol?”

  “On it’s way. Oh, and I’ve been in touch with the Doctor at the hospital, personal friend of mine, fortunately. Your man, Lewis Mackton, was taken there this morning. His condition is stable. The Doc said there were traces on an alien liquid in his blood stream. There was too little left to work on but computer analysis suggested some sort of parallel with anaesthetic compounds.”

  “Dangerous side effects?”

  “The Doc said none were appearing and he was keeping his fingers crossed.”

  Later, Markham found a quiet corner and took out his notebook. Pointers were appearing, he had suspected from the first that the killer of Aaron Cord was not human. It had been equally clear that it was a carnivore, but now new facts were emerging. The unknown was highly intelligent, had a clear idea of his prey and had some sophisticated drugs to back it up.

  The alcohol arrived mid morning; they were generous, they had supplied a full jerry can.

  Markham did not look for anything elaborate at first and was quite satisfied with the small tin cup, which the gardener found for him at the back of a cupboard.

  “I take it you have spray machines for clearing insects or gentle watering?”

  “Oh, yes, sir—three, although the old one you have to pump with your foot.”

  “Fine, thank you. Please see that they are in full working order when I need them.”

  With some balancing, they managed to half fill the tin cup and Markham put it carefully on the counter.

  “The steps I am about to take may produce absolutely nothing or may be highly dangerous. Any one of you may back out now if you wish.”

  He looked around but no one moved. “Right, thank you all. To continue, the question in all your minds right now must be, ‘what the hell is he doing?’ With equal honesty I have to tell you, I don’t know. I have a faint lead but beyond that I am fumbling in the dark.”

  He turned to his assistant. “You armed, Wayne?”

  “As far as is possible, Chief. One shot gun and a gun hand spray full of alcohol.”

  “Didget?

  “The same, Chief.”

  Wilcox raised the standard camera without being asked. “Ready for a full frontal.”

  The gardener pushed forward. “What do you want of me, Mr. Markham?”

  “Nothing, lad. I can’t use you, can’t expose you to risk—you’re not in the police.”

  “I’d like to do something, sir. Mr. Cord was a good man and I mean good. Not like the religious garbage some of them used to throw at me in the orphanage. I mean real good…if I was in trouble, Mr. Cord was there—know what I mean? I’m only a bloody gardener, sir, but Mr. Cord treated me like an equal, almost like I was a partner. Please, I’d like to feel I was helping.”

  Markham knew he could do nothing but tried to soften the blow. “Keep within shouting distance, boy, we’ll call if we need you.”

  Markham led the way down the shingle path and stopped beside the two small huts.

  “You will notice that one side of the hut on the right appears to have been varnished. I don’t think it has but I’m about to find out for certain.”

  Markham went forward slowly, the tin cup ready in his hand. Outwardly he was calm but icy things seem to be running round inside him.

  Now that he was close to the shed, the substance no longer resembled varnish. In the first place, it was at least four or five centimetres thick and contained a tracery of fine lines like a road map. In some places where they joined, it seemed to him there was movement.

  Terror seized him, they were little pulses or nerve centers or something, He had his damn face within touching distance of a hostile alien life form.

  He threw the contents of the tin cup directly into the center of it and ran desperately backwards, terrified that he might trip.

  He heard himself shout, “Stand by!” as he reached the shingle path. The urge to keep on running had been almost overwhelming.

  Nothing happened at first and then a fist-size bubble appeared in the center of the substance.

  And it screamed!

  They heard a thin, almost grating, remote whistle but everyone there knew it was a scream.

  The entire object peeled itself from hut wall and fell to the ground. It lay there for some seconds, spread out, like a huge transparent bed sheet. Then it began to undulate, waves passed over its surface increasing in size. Then suddenly, the thing was airborne.

  Markham ducked desperately as it passed close above him in a rush of wind.

  He heard the bang of a shotgun. A ragged hole appeared in the creature’s surface but it was all too clear that it was already weakening. The undulations that gave it the power of flight began to lack forces. Pieces were flying off it, breaking into smaller pieces and vanishing.

  Then, abruptly, the efforts at flying came to an end. It became an untidy sphere, which dropped like a stone. They saw it hit the roof of a hut, bounce, and disappear on the far side.

  They ran round the hut, ready to attack but little of it was left. It had become a bubbling mess on the brown soil and was rapidly shrinking. It had vanished completely in less than fifteen seconds.

  They drenched the soil in alcohol later for safety reasons but all of them were convinced it had gone for good.

  They sat in the front part of the main building and tried to unwind. Conversation was limited and sometimes irrelevant.

  “That was a bloody good shot with the gun.”

  “Was it? The bloody thing was right above me, couldn’t miss. In any case, I was scared to death and I had the feeling that it was a gesture. I think if that damn thing hadn’t been dying already, I could have blown holes in it forever. It couldn’t be killed that way.”

  Markham, sucking at his empty pipe, reached into an inner pocket. “In twenty years of service, I’ve used this once.” He produced a flask. “I’d say it was time to make it twice.”

  “The bloody thing stank.” Didget took a gulp from the flask gratefully.

  “More than that,” Wayne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I learned something, the thing that all these scientific experts and imaginative writers miss. An alien need not be like that thing or a little bug-eyed monster to frighten you to death. It just has to be alien. It could be a flower of lovely colors, a beautiful butterfly—but if it was alien, you’d still go cold inside. I don’t think the human psyche has evolved enough to cope with aliens.”

  He stopped, suddenly embarrassed, and changed the subject. “Is that the end of this business, Chief?”

  Markham, on the point of nodding, nearly dropped his pipe. “Dear God, no! What am I thinking of?”

  He looked about him quickly. “Has that gardening lad gone home?”

  “No, sir, I’m still here.” He appeared from somewhere at the back of the shop. “I hung around in case you needed me.”

  “Thank God you did.” Markham smiled at him. “I keep calling you lad. How old are you? Hell, I’ve never even bothered to find out your name.”

  “I’m nineteen, sir, and the name is Sam.”

  “Right, young Sam. We need your help, particularly your memory. Those turnip seeds, you say they arrived a couple of days ago?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Markham. He only threw the packet away then. I think he was trying to find out where they came from. He’d had the seeds about five weeks, planted them about the same time.”

  “Planted them!” Markham felt goose pimples covering his body. He did not say ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ because the boy had no clue as to their importance, but he wished he had known.

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re in one of the smaller plots, just in front or the big greenhouse.”

  “Show us, please.”

  They stared at the row of turnip plants, feeling almost mesmerized. They looked ordinary enough yet—

  “How about you, Sam? How d
o you feel about them?”

  “Well, I reckon they got too much sort of foliage and the color ain’t quite right. That one clear of the rest, Mr. Cord set aside for study. He had his doubts, I think, and was going to dig that one up on Friday.”

  Markham thrust his pipe between his teeth and scowled. It was going to be Wednesday, tomorrow. Time was getting on, and the idea of doing the job in the dark was just too much.

  * * * *

  They started at seven a.m. the following day and this time they were more prepared.

  Markham had taken a chance and sent their findings directly to the Commander. Protocol had been affronted but it was worth the risk. In the early hours of the morning an unmarked car had arrived with protective clothing. They now wore gowns and goggled helmets with breathing masks.

  “What, exactly, are we going to do first. Chief?” Wayne was on edge and finding it difficult to keep his feet still.

  “First,” said Markham, “we are going to dig up the one Mr. Cord set aside. Fortunately young Sam found us three hoes with very long handles. We will pull the earth away from around it but slowly, very slowly indeed.

  Markham and Didget started the digging and the detective was aware that he had never been so frightened in his life. Undoubtedly Wayne had been correct when he spoke about alien life.

  They drew small amounts of soil away from the growth and it soon became apparent that bore no relation to a turnip. The tuber was three times the width of a normal turnip and a sickly orange color. Worse, it was covered in innumerable white and waving tendrils which somehow reminded them all of maggots.

  Shocked, they watched those same tendrils pulling the soil back as they removed it.

  “Oh, no you don’t, you bastard!” Didget gave it a savage and heavy jab with the edge of the hoe.

  The action seemed to trigger something. The creature stiffened and jerked itself abruptly from the soil. The false turnip foliage fell from the top of it and it turned as if to face them.

  It stood no chance—Wayne stepped forward and swung a heavy spade in a savage arc.

  He looked at the result, his body frozen in the act of delivery. Then he straightened, his face colorless. “Sorry, Chief, I’ve got to be sick.” He ran behind on of the huts.

  “At least it’s not immortal.” Wilcox was taking pictures, forcing his shaking hands to become steady. “It can be killed even it is a blasted alien.”

  Wayne returned. “I suppose I’ll be in trouble for this. I’ve not only killed a specimen, I’ve cut the bloody thing in halves. What do we do now—preserve the remains to be examined by scientists?”

  “No, we do not.” Markham’s voice was quite calm. “In front of the major seed shed, over to the left there, is an incinerator. Sam told me Cord bought it years ago as a curiosity. It not only burns garden rubbish, but can be adapted to heat, straightening bent forks and things like that. Its got foot bellows at the side to raise the temperature.”

  “You’re going to burn it?” Wayne sounded pleased but slightly shocked. “Won’t the scientific bodies raise hell about this?”

  “With luck, science will never know about this. Look, my friends, I must be honest about this. As you know, I had a long talk with the Commander yesterday and he, in his turn, has been in conference with the upper heads of government. They don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry from the scientific bodies crowding in on this thing; they want to put a lid on it. If the whole truth or even distorted versions of it got out, it could cause a worldwide panic. ‘Flesh-eating aliens’ would be an obvious headline, wouldn’t it? Unless things get out of hand, this is our baby and we have to deal with it.”

  “Only too glad.” Wayne had a long handled shovel. “Anyone got a hoe to push the parts onto this, please?”

  He watched Didget push the two pieces on the extended spade. “Even if I know it’s dead, I want it to burn, and burn and burn. I know, however, I can never erase it from my mind.”

  They carried the two parts, arms extended before them, slowly, almost ceremoniously to the incinerator. It was already hot, a small pile of coal beside would ensure it could be made hotter.

  Markham saw the end of a hoe push open the metal door to reveal the fire.

  He saw the spade tipped and the two parts falling into the flames.

  Wayne started the bellows and began to pump steadily. “Burn, you horrible thing, burn!”

  He paused and became practical. “Anything that touched it had better go in too. The ends of those hoes, and certainly this spade. We don’t know that they’re contaminated but they might be.”

  Markham’s thoughts at the moment were elsewhere. They were doing their best to keep a lid on the situation here, but it did not stop here, did it? Outside events would have to be tidied up to keep the public happy and the press assured.

  He was a good-natured man but he was a realist and had no illusions. Sooner or later a man would be found with a long history of mental problems. A man doomed to spend the rest of his life in an institution. This man would, of course, ‘confess’ to the crucifixion of Aaron Cord. Sufficient ‘evidence’ would be produced to confirm this and the man would be brought to trial. There, he would be found unfit to plead. He would be sent to an institution for life where he would have ended up anyway. It was all very tidy and convincing.

  Markham wished it was so easy here, but all he mad was theory. This theory was just his own guesswork, but it seemed to make a kind of sense. The thing that had looked like varnish was, he had decided, the organizer, the invasion leader or—stretching possibility—the mother of the seeds. In any case, it seemed to be here to keep a watchful eye on things.

  It, or the supposed turnips, had a liking for flesh, living flesh, and had an unpleasant means of getting it. They had a sting which rendered their prey unconscious. While he was unconscious they ate him alive.

  This made the invader only slightly more advanced than a spider but the danger did not stop.

  It could duplicate exactly the victim it had eaten and digested.

  Markham’s thoughts returned to the picture he would never be able to push from his mind.

  The alien thing had grown about a metre in length and broadened accordingly. The upper half, however, although as yet miniature, was already shaped and recognizable.

  The head of a dog. The head of a Retriever, the long ears already formed and a fuzz of black hair round the jaws.

  In his imagination he could see the possible future if they had failed to find it.

  One dark night, when fully developed, it would have scrambled out of the soil and trotted away.

  The invasion of Earth had begun.

  Later they drenched the entire plot in alcohol. The things dragged themselves out of the soil and lashed around like recently landed fish.

  Markham, dropping a lighted match on the highly inflammable soil could feel no pity. They all had had tiny human faces and untidy square-cut beards.

  THE 7TH ORDER, by Jerry Sohl

  The silver needle moved with fantastic speed, slowed when it neared the air shell around Earth, then glided noiselessly through the atmosphere. It gently settled to the ground near a wood and remained silent and still for a long time, a lifeless, cylindrical, streamlined silver object eight feet long and three feet in diameter.

  Eventually the cap end opened and a creature of bright blue metal slid from its interior and stood upright. The figure was that of a man, except that it was not human. He stood in the pasture next to the wood, looking around. Once the sound of a bird made him turn his shiny blue head toward the wood. His eyes began glowing.

  An identical sound came from his mouth, an unchangeable orifice in his face below his nose. He tuned in the thoughts of the bird, but his mind encountered little except an awareness of a life of low order.

  The humanoid bent to the ship, withdrew a small metal box, carried it to a catalpa tree at the edge of the wood and, after an adjustment of several levers and knobs, dug a hole and buried it. He contemplated it fo
r a moment, then turned and walked toward a road.

  He was halfway to the road when his ship burst into a dazzling white light. When it was over, all that was left was a white powder that was already beginning to be dispersed by a slight breeze.

  The humanoid did not bother to look back.

  * * * *

  Brentwood would have been just like any other average community of 10,000 in northern Illinois had it not been for Presser College, which was one of the country’s finest small institutions of learning.

  Since it was a college town, it was perhaps a little more alive in many respects than other towns in the state. Its residents were used to the unusual because college students have a habit of being unpredictable. That was why the appearance of a metal blue man on the streets attracted the curious eyes of passersbys, but, hardened by years of pranks, hazings and being subjected to every variety of inquiry, poll, test and practical joke, none of them moved to investigate. Most of them thought it was a freshman enduring some new initiation.

  The blue humanoid realized this and was amused. A policeman who approached him to take him to jail as a matter of routine suddenly found himself ill and abruptly hurried to the station. The robot allowed children to follow him, though all eventually grew discouraged because of his long strides.

  Prof. Ansel Tomlin was reading a colleague’s new treatise on psychology on his front porch when he saw the humanoid come down the street and turn in at his walk. He was surprised, but he was not alarmed. When the blue man came up on the porch and sat down in another porch chair, Tomlin closed his book.

  Prof. Tomlin found himself unexpectedly shocked. The blue figure was obviously not human, yet its eyes were nearly so and they came as close to frightening him as anything had during his thirty-five years of life, for Ansel Tomlin had never seen an actual robot before. The thought that he was looking at one at that moment started an alarm bell ringing inside him, and it kept ringing louder and louder as he realized that what he was seeing was impossible.

  “Professor Tomlin!”