The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  “Strange that none of Queekong’s wives are bearing young ones,” she said. She didn’t notice that Bassett stopped walking abruptly. “Usually at least a couple of his wives are carrying children,” she went on. “Yet I haven’t seen a sign of one in over two weeks.”

  “We’ve brought the sterility again!” Bassett exclaimed.

  And there was no doubt that he was right. Now they had only to figure what they had done to—or for—Queekong and his family that they had not done for the others.

  At first they could think of nothing, even while they knew they had the solution within their grasp. They had only to fit the facts together.

  Karol and Hegland tried to persuade Bassett to return to bed, but he was too excited to listen to them. “I feel it’s right in front of me,” he said, as he paced the porch. “But what is it? What is it?”

  The excitement, added to the fever from the chigger bites, had brought a red flush to Bassett’s face. Hegland was afraid that he was over-exerting himself. “You’d better go to bed, Frank; those chigger bites can be pretty rough on you if you don’t get the proper rest.”

  Bassett swung around to face Hegland with his mouth gaping, and his eyes wide and excited. “That’s it!” he shouted; “the chiggers! Don’t you see—the chiggers are the carriers! When the colonists first came they fumigated the native village, and deloused the Queegs—doing it as much to protect themselves as to help the Queegs. And we did the same for Queekong and his family; when we killed the chiggers we brought the sterility!”

  A weakness of relief seemed to drain the strength from Bassett’s legs and he sank into a chair. Karol and Hegland helped him back into bed.

  Bassett’s fever was worse the next day.

  Karol cared for him solicitously, but one incident puzzled Hegland. He had walked into the bedroom without knocking and surprised her in the act of bending over Bassett. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but when she heard the door open she swung around, and for just an instant her face flashed an expression of consternation.

  She recovered her poise instantly. “He seemed restless,” she said; “I gave him a sleeping powder.” She tucked a small bottle which she held in her hand into a pocket of her frock.

  Bassett slept most of the afternoon. But toward evening Karol called Hegland and he went into the bedroom to find Bassett sitting up in bed, deathly pale. “I’m thirsty,” Bassett said when he saw Hegland. “Will you give me a glass of water, please?”

  Hegland poured a glass full from a pitcher on the stand in the corner and brought it to him.

  As Bassett swallowed Hegland saw his back straighten. His throat swelled and jumped several times as he struggled to keep the water down.

  After a minute he was calm again. “Put another blanket on me, will you, Ned?”

  Soon Bassett’s head began to rock back and forth on his pillow. Abruptly he was sick again. Hegland ran to bring him a basin and Bassett began a long series of retching and vomiting, alternated by deep gaspings for breath. His eyes took on a glisten from the pain he was suffering and an hour later he was no longer rational.

  During one of Bassett’s quiet spells Hegland spoke to Karol. “This is something more than chigger fever,” he said.

  “But what can it be?” She had been steady-nerved, and more help to him during this crisis, then he would have expected.

  “I wish I knew; but I’m no doctor. We’ll just have to give him the best care we can and hope he recovers.”

  * * * *

  Bassett died during the night.

  Hegland buried him early the next morning because of the heat.

  Karol had remained self-composed throughout the ordeal; only after it was all over did she lock herself in her bedroom and cry.

  The next week both Karol and Hegland were very quiet. They abided by an unspoken agreement not to talk about Bassett, and tried to carry on the same as before. Karol did her housework, while Hegland made an attempt to work on his book. He accomplished very little; and, of course, it wasn’t the same with Bassett gone.

  All this time something in the back of his mind nudged Hegland’s thoughts. It was not until the fourth day, however, that he recognized what it was. He went around to the rear of the cottage and into a tool shed where Bassett had kept most of his equipment and supplies.

  He found what he sought in a metal box of fumigants. A small, round bottle, like the one Karol had held in her hand when he surprised her bending over Bassett.

  On the bottle was written: Danger. Poison.

  For some reason that he could not explain to himself Hegland never mentioned the bottle to Karol. And the third week his hunger for her returned. He despised her, hated her—but…

  He found her strolling in the front yard. She was wearing a bright red dress. As he came up, she twirled around, making the dress flare out at the hips. “How do I look, Ned?”

  Like the female piranya bird, Hegland thought.

  He took her in his arms, and…

  NO TIME FOR CHANGE

  Originally appeared in Science Fiction Quarterly, Feb. 1955.

  Great drops of oily sweat traced a zigzag course through the black barbs of the smuggler’s whiskers and brought a moist stinging to his cheeks. For six hours he had slogged through the semi-jungle underbrush in an effort to throw off his pursuers; now he cut sharply to his left and began pulling himself up the side of a steep bank. When he reached the top he let his tired body fall to the ground and lay flat, breathing deep into his broad-ribbed chest. He did not remove the pack he wore on his back.

  The smuggler was big. Hard flat muscles shaped the fabric of his flexible plastic suit to fit their contour, and the rugged features of his face wore an aspect of purpose. He had the appearance of a man used to this kind of a thing.

  There was no panic in his actions as he pulled himself along on his belly through the tall grasses—just an indomitability that showed in every small motion. At the top edge of the hill’s bank, he parted the brush to give himself a clear view of the surface below, laid a hand gun—equipped with silencer—at his side and waited.

  A few minutes went by before he spotted the vanguard of his pursuers. His sharp eye caught the movements of his followers as it wound its way around a tree trunk and across a small opening in the woods. The follower was about eight feet long, and twice as big around as his arm. Small metal legs ran down the length of its body on both sides and carried it through the underbrush faster than a man could walk. Just as he had suspected, the smuggler mused sourly; a mechanical “bloodhound.” The humans would not be far behind.

  Even as the smuggler made his observation, he swept up his gun and began firing. The first slug struck the “bloodhound” in the head and knocked it to one side—but slowed its progress not at all. The head was hidden in the brush after the first shot and the next few landed against its metal side and ricocheted off with a dull whine. By the time the man realized the futility of shooting at that body, the “bloodhound” was two-thirds of the way through the clearing. His next series of shots swept away, or mutilated, the small legs on the portion of its left side that remained in sight.

  After that, the few glimpses the smuggler caught of the mechanism showed him that its pace had been slowed; but it came on relentlessly. He was hoping for at least one more clear shot when three men, clad in solid green outfits, and carrying guns, appeared below him.

  For just an instant he weighed the pistol in his hand and observed them speculatively before he turned and crawled away.

  Once clear of view from the bank edge he pulled himself to his feet and stood for a minute getting his bearings. He consulted the compass on his wrist and set off in a dogged jog-trot. His remaining energy was being burned prodigally, he knew—but it was lose them now, or lose his life. He stopped only once to rip two large oblong slabs of tough bark from a dead tree trunk.

  When he came to a shallow, slow-flowing stream he walked in until the water came up mid-way to his calves.

  It f
ailed to penetrate his moisture-proofed boots or suit, and it was cool and not uncomfortable—but it slowed his progress more than he liked. His only hope now was that he had damaged the “bloodhound” enough to give him the time he needed.

  He walked parallel with the stream bank until he had covered several hundred yards, and when he came out of the water his first step was taken on one of the slabs of bark which he laid carefully on the ground ahead of him.

  He stepped from the first piece of bark to the second, then pivoted on one foot and picked up the initial slab. Putting it one stride length ahead of him he put his weight on it and reached back for the other. He continued the process until he was once again deep in the woods. His progress had been slow, but if his ruse worked he should have gained the time he needed.

  * * * *

  Two hours later the smuggler walked out of the forest onto a wide clear-glass highway and mingled with a slow-moving stream of traffic. Here, he knew, his spore would mingle with that of the hundreds of farmers coming from the city and returning. The “bloodhound” would never be able to single out his trail here.

  He walked along the highway until the blue-glass wall of a mighty city loomed up before him.

  At the gate he handed a sheaf of papers through one of the openings into a small out-shelter and waited while the guard inspected them.

  There seemed to be some question about the papers. The guard went through them slowly, and a puzzled frown settled on his features. He shifted his glance and looked the smuggler up and down carefully. Finally he turned and called to someone inside.

  The man who answered the call was dressed in the uniform of an officer. He was lean and hungry-looking, with a long neck and hollowed out cheeks.

  He wore an habitual expression of melancholy distrust.

  “This man’s been out of the city for six months, sir,” the guard said. “Do you want to talk with him before I let him through?”

  The officer glanced searchingly at the smuggler before he picked up his papers and read them carefully. After a moment he looked up. “Will you go around the guardhouse and come in the door on the far side, please?” he asked. His words were courteous but his manner was not.

  The smuggler shifted the pack on his back irritably, but did as he was told.

  The officer met him at the door. “Come in,” he said. He led the smuggler into a small inner office.

  “Sit down,” the officer said, shoving a chair forward. “Take off your pack and rest awhile.” He seated himself behind a small desk.

  The smuggler released a catch on his pack and it slid to the floor with a dull clinking sound. He stretched and rubbed his back with powerful long-fingered hands before he sat down.

  “My name’s Tewitt,” the officer said, leaning back in his chair and putting his long legs on the desk. “What’s yours?”

  “Coval Pariseau,” the smuggler answered.

  “Where you been the last six months?”

  “Out gathering ore samples for my company, Starwide Enterprises. Their headquarters are on Alexis III. You’ll find all that information in my papers.”

  “Just answer my questions, please,” Tewitt said with an affectation of boredom. He made a sucking noise with his tongue against his teeth. “Six months out in the woods alone is a pretty long time, ain’t it?”

  “Rex Major’s a big world.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I’ve got a rather good collection of samples,” Pariseau answered. “I won’t know for certain how valuable they are, of course, until I’ve had them assayed. Would you care to see them?”

  Tewitt waved his hand negligently. Abruptly he changed the trend of conversation. “You didn’t see anything of a space ship that landed about daylight this morning, did you?” he asked.

  “Sorry, I didn’t,” Pariseau answered. “If you know it came in, you should be able to locate it with a tracer.”

  “Oh we found the ship all right,” Tewitt said easily. “But its owner got away. And the ship was loaded with arms he was smuggling in.”

  “What would he smuggle arms here for?” Pariseau asked.

  Tewitt’s lips drew back from his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Things have been happening while you were out in the brush,” he said. “The Lottenbaies—the barbarians on our fringe—have been getting bolder. They’ve been stirring up our own natives against us, and buying arms from the smugglers who have been doing a big time business. I’d like to get my hands on one of those damn traitors; there’s nothing lower than a human who’d sell arms to his own people’s enemies. Sure you didn’t see anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Pariseau answered.

  “You could have had time, you know,” Tewitt said speculatively, “to take a ship to one of the other worlds, pick up arms, and bring them here in the six months you been out. And wouldn’t you say it looked rather suspicious, you showing up the same day the space ship landed?”

  “I don’t think so,” Pariseau answered. “A smart operator would lay low out there a few days before coming in.”

  “Unless he figured that we would think just that. And played it smarter by coming right in.”

  “You seem to think I might be lying,” Pariseau said. “Why don’t you give me a lie-detector test and find out?”

  “I’m going to do just that,” Tewitt answered; “pick up your bag and come with me.”

  * * * *

  They rode into the city in a low-slung cat-track.

  A short distance inside, they stopped in front of one of the towering blue-glass skyscrapers and went in. They took an elevator up to the one hundred and thirty-eighth floor and entered an office through a door inscribed: Harold Hesse Official Encephalogist.

  An office girl said, “Good afternoon, Captain Tewitt,” and passed them through.

  “This man says his name’s Coval Pariseau, Mr. Hesse,” Tewitt said to the huge bear of a man slumped in his chair like a passive, inert mass of flesh. “This morning we spotted a space ship coming down a few miles out in the brush, and when our Benz ’copter got there they found it was a one-man smuggler’s ship, full of weapons and ammunition.

  “The smuggler had scuttled out, but our men took out after him with a bloodhound. They got pretty close one time, but the smuggler shot up the hound and got away. This fellow showed up a short time later; I think he might be our man.”

  “We can soon find out.” Hesse’s voice rumbled up from deep in his chest. “Sit down. Over there,” he said to Pariseau, indicating a chair with his head but without moving the rest of his body. Only his eyes were alive, and quick.

  While he obeyed Pariseau looked at Hesse closely. Hesse’s large head was completely bald—so bare of hair that it was evident that none had ever grown there. Prominent ridges rimmed his temples, and his cheek bones were slightly wider than normal. Splashes of gold streaked the blue of his irises. They all added up to one thing: Hesse was not human.

  “Before we begin,” Hesse ignored Tewitt and spoke to Pariseau, “turn around and take a look at that wall panel behind you.”

  Pariseau did as he was told.

  “Those dials and gauges you see,” Hesse said, “will measure your pulse rate and variations, changes in body temperatures, emotional fluctuations, and the electrical activity of your brain as we talk. I’ll be reading them as we go along; the minute you tell a lie I’ll know it; and you’ll be in trouble. If you’re innocent, tell the truth and you have nothing to fear. Now lean your head back.”

  Gingerly Pariseau let his head rest in the grooved support on the top of his chair. Small, automatic arms moved around and clasped his temples firmly. “What’s your name?” Hesse asked.

  “Coval Pariseaix.”

  “What have you been doing for the past six months?”

  “Gathering ore samples.”

  “Did you come in on that smugglers’ ship this morning?”

  “No.”

  Hesse turned to Tewitt. “I guess that’s it,” he s
aid; “he’s telling the truth.”

  The officer had settled himself comfortably in his chair and seemed surprised at the sudden termination of the test. He stirred uneasily, his sallow face showing its distrust and lack of conviction. “I thought sure he was our man,” he said. Then his face brightened. “Do you mind if I ask him a few questions, Doc?” he asked.

  “What for?” Hesse wanted to know. “Don’t you think I know my job?”

  “Oh, sure you do.” Tewitt showed bad teeth in an ingratiating smile. “But I’m pretty good at accents, Doc. Now that I think of it, I’d like to listen to him talk some more; he might just possibly be a Lottenbaie in disguise. We know there’s some around. If he is I can tell. And there is such a thing as his mind being worked on so that he can-fool your gadgets, ain’t there?”

  Hesse shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Tewitt straightened up in his chair importantly and turned to Pariseau. “Start talking,” he said. “About anything.”

  Pariseau raised his eyebrows and looked back at the man inquiringly.

  “Give me a brief history of space colonization,” Tewitt said impatiently.

  “All right,” Pariseau answered. “Over seven thousand years ago, the humans on the planet Earth discovered spacebridge—a method of almost instantaneous space flight. Since that time, they found one thousand, seven hundred and sixty-four planets in the galaxy suitable for human habitation—at least that’s the last number I remember. Earth sent colonists to a few of those planets and, as Earth’s population increased, and the colonies flourished and expanded, the human race moved on until it had colonized the majority of those worlds. Is that what you want me to tell you?”

  “What world is this?” Tewitt asked.

  “Rex Major, a planet on the outer rim of the human expansion.”

  When Tewitt paused Hesse asked, “Satisfied?”

  “I don’t know,” Tewitt answered slowly. “He’s got some kind of an accent, but I can’t place it; the only thing I’m sure of is that he’s not a Lottenbaie. But I suppose we’ll have to let him go.”