Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

They began dancing slowly to the throbbing rhythm, dancing and holding on to each other tightly. Hyrel could feel her hot breath through her veil upon his neck, adding to the headiness of the liquor. His feeling of depression and inferiority flowed suddenly from him. Once again he was the all-conquering male.

  His arm trembled as it drew her still closer to him and he began dancing directly and purposefully toward the shadows of a clump of artificial palms near one corner of the room. There was an exit to the garden behind the palms.

  Half way there they passed a secluded booth from which protruded a long leg clad in black mesh stocking. Hyrel paused as he recognized that part of the costume. It was she! The girl! The one he had met so briefly the night before!

  His arm slid away from the Persian dancer, took hold of the mesh-clad leg, and pulled. A female form followed the leg from the booth and fell into his arms. He held her tightly, kissed her white neck, let her perfume send his thoughts reeling.

  "Been looking for me, honey?" she whispered, her voice deep and throaty.

  "You know it!"

  He began whisking her away toward the palms. The Persian girl was pulled into the booth.

  Yes, she was wearing the same costume she had worn the night before, that of a can-can dancer of the 90's. The mesh hose that encased her shapely legs were held up by flowered supporters in such a manner as to leave four inches of white leg exposed between hose top and lacy panties. Her skirt, frilled to suggest innumerable petticoats, fell away at each hip, leaving the front open to expose the full length of legs. She wore a wig of platinum hair encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studded mask was as white as her hair and covered the upper half of her face, except for the large almond slits for her eyes. A white purse, jewel crusted, dangled from one arm.

  He stopped once before reaching the palms, drew her closer, kissed her long and ardently. Then he began pulling her on again.

  She drew back when they reached the shelter of the fronds. "Champagne, first," she whispered huskily into his ear.

  His heart sank. He had very little money left. Well, it might buy a cheap brand....

  * * * * *

  She sipped her champagne slowly and provocatively across the table from him. Her eyes sparkled behind the almond slits of her mask, caught the color changes and cast them back. She was wearing contact lenses of a garish green.

  He wished she would hurry with her drink. He had horrible visions of his wife at home taking off her telovis and coming to his chair. He would then have to press the switch that would jerk his shadowy self back along its invisible connecting cord, jerk him back and leave but a small mound of clothes upon the chair at the table.

  Deep depression laid hold of him. He would not be able to see her after tonight until he received his monthly dole two weeks hence. She wouldn't wait that long. Someone else would have her.

  Unless ...

  Yes, he knew now that he was going to kill his wife as soon as the opportunity presented itself. It would be a simple matter. With the aid of the telporter suit, he could establish an iron-clad alibi.

  He took a long drink of whiskey and looked at the dancers about him. Sight of their gay costumes heightened his depression. He was wearing a cheap suit of satin, all he could afford. But some day soon he would show them! Some time soon he would be dressed as gaily....

  "Something troubling you, honey?"

  His gaze shot back to her and she blurred slightly before his eyes. "No. Nothing at all!" He summoned a sickly smile and clutched her hand in his. "Come on. Let's dance."

  He drew her from the chair and into his arms. She melted toward him as if desiring to become a part of him. A tremor of excitement surged through him and threatened to turn his knees into quivering jelly. He could not make his feet conform to the flooding rhythm of the music. He half stumbled, half pushed her along past the booths.

  In the shelter of the palms he drew her savagely to him. "Let's--let's go outside." His voice was little more than a croak.

  "But, honey!" She pushed herself away, her low voice maddening him. "Don't you have a private room? A girl doesn't like to be taken outside...."

  Her words bit into his brain like the blade of a hot knife.

  No, he didn't have a private room at the club like the others. A private room for his telporter receiver, a private room where he could take a willing guest. No! He couldn't afford it! No! No! NO! His lot was a cheap suit of satin! Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne! A cheap shack by the river....

  An inarticulate cry escaped his twisted lips. He clutched her roughly to him and dragged her through the door and into the moonlight, whiskey and anger lending him brutal strength.

  He pulled her through the deserted garden. All the others had private rooms! He pulled her to the far end, behind a clump of squatty firs. His hands clawed at her. He tried to smother her mouth with kisses.

  She eluded him deftly. "But, honey!" Her voice had gone deeper into her throat. "I just want to be sure about things. If you can't afford one of the private rooms--if you can't afford to show me a good time--if you can't come here real often ..."

  The whiskey pounded and throbbed at his brain like blows from an unseen club. His ego curled and twisted within him like a headless serpent.

  "I'll have money!" he shouted, struggling to hold her. "I'll have plenty of money! After tonight!"

  "Then we'll wait," she said. "We'll wait until tomorrow night."

  "No!" he screamed. "You don't believe me! You're like the others! You think I'm no good! But I'll show you! I'll show all of you!"

  * * * * *

  She had gone coldly rigid in his arms, unyielding.

  Madness added to the pounding in his brain. Tears welled into his eyes.

  "I'll show you! I'll kill her! Then I'll have money!" The hands clutching her shoulders shook her drunkenly. "You wait here! I'll go home and kill her now! Then I'll be back!"

  "Silly boy!" Her low laughter rang hollowly in his ears. "And just who is it you are going to kill?"

  "My wife!" he cried. "My wife! I'll ..."

  A sudden sobering thought struck him. He was talking too much. And he wasn't making sense. He shouldn't be telling her this. Anyway, he couldn't get the money tonight even if he did kill his wife.

  "And so you are going to kill your wife...."

  He blinked the tears from his eyes. His chest was heaving, his heart pounding. He looked at her shimmering form. "Y-yes," he whispered.

  Her eyes glinted strangely in the light of the moon. Her handbag glinted as she opened it, and something she took from it glittered coldly in her hand.

  "Fool!"

  The first shot tore squarely through his heart. And while he stood staring at her, mouth agape, a second shot burned its way through his bewildered brain.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removed the telovis from her head and laid it carefully aside. She uncoiled her long legs from beneath her, walked to her husband's chair, and stood for a long moment looking down at him, her lips drawn back in contempt. Then she bent over him and reached down his thigh until her fingers contacted the small switch.

  Seconds later, a slight tremor shook Hyrel's body. His eyes snapped open, air escaped his lungs, his lower jaw sagged inanely, and his head lolled to one side.

  She stood a moment longer, watching his eyes become glazed and sightless. Then she walked to the telephone.

  "Police?" she said. "This is Mrs. Herbert Hyrel. Something horrible has happened to my husband. Please come over immediately. Bring a doctor."

  She hung up, went to her bathroom, stripped off her clothing, and slid carefully out of her telporter suit. This she folded neatly and tucked away into the false back of the medicine cabinet. She found a fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamas and got into them.

  She was just arriving back into the living room, tying the cord of her dressing gown about her slim waist, when she heard the sound of the police siren out front.

  * * *

  Cont
ents

  COLLECTIVUM

  By Mike Lewis

  The Oren were one and their strength was legion. They had it all figured out, in their own parasitical, cold-blooded way. But they'd neglected one she-cat of a girl....

  He crossed the rickety bridge at sundown and saw the squat, fat fellow whipping the girl with a board. His mind leaped to a conclusion: an Orenian prowler, convincing his victim to hold still. He clubbed the fat fellow with a rock and toppled him over the seawall into the lagoon where he floated face-down.

  "Are you stung?" he asked the girl.

  She picked herself up weakly, and she was a gold-bronze beauty with a black mane of hair and long, narrow eyes. She shook her head to his question and whimpered slightly while she examined her bruises.

  "He was my husband," she explained.

  "Not an Orenian?" he gasped.

  She shook her head. "But he was going to kill me."

  Morgan shot a horrified glance at the body floating far out on the swift tide. Three sharks were circling lazily. He looked around for a boat, saw none. He swiftly estimated his chances of swimming out after the fat man and towing him in. The chances appeared to be nil. Nevertheless, he began stripping off his shirt.

  "Don't bother," said the girl. "He was stung last week."

  Morgan stared at her silently for a moment. She seemed not in the least perturbed. If the man had been stung by an Orenian, he was lost anyway. Ruefully, he rebuttoned his shirt.

  "I leapt to a bad conclusion."

  "That he was an Orenian? He would have been, soon. Besides--you have to leap to conclusions nowadays, to stay alive."

  "You don't seem to worry."

  "I told you, he was going to kill me."

  "Why?"

  "Because--" She paused and stared out across the twilight water, gathering a slow frown. "Because he was crazy."

  Morgan's eyes flickered over her trim figure, and he thought--maybe. She had a trace of Seminole blood, he decided--with the quiet sultriness that it leant to her face.

  "I'm heading west," he announced.

  "To the cypress?" She cooly inspected his sturdy arms, clipped features, and the hatchet in his belt-rope. She nodded faintly to herself. "Want company?"

  He shrugged and turned half away. "It's okay with me." He set off down the road and she followed a few feet to the rear.

  "Florida coast's getting to be lousy with them," she called.

  "Orenians?"

  "Yeah. Whole truckload of them passed through yesterday. On their way to Miami, I guess. One man said he saw an airplane yesterday."

  "They must be reviving the industry up north."

  "Yeah. Trucks by the dozen. Say--where've you been hiding?"

  "Mangrove island. Been there six months."

  "Get lonesome?"

  "And tired of sitting still. Small island."

  "You should have stayed--but I'm glad you didn't."

  He shot her a sharp glance. She failed to look bereaved at the loss of her mate. But that was not unusual. Most marriages nowadays were contracted by brute force--and dissolved the same way. She probably felt that rolling the fat one in the drink gave her a claim on him.

  When the last trace of gray fled from the west, they walked westward along the old highway beyond the limits of the coastal town which was now nearly deserted. They talked softly as they trudged along, and he learned that her name was Shera and that she had been a dancer in a small Miami nightspot, before the Orenians came. She had joined the fat one a year ago--because he owned a gun, and was therefore good insurance against wandering Orenians. But when the ammunition was gone, she tried to leave him, which resulted in the incident by the waterfront.

  Morgan was irked that he had blundered into a family affair, and troubled that he had relieved the fellow of all worldly cares. Nevertheless, if the man had been stung, the free world would say--"job well done." For in a few weeks he would have ceased to be strictly human, becoming a dangerous threat to his fellows. And if the girl had been unable to escape from him before that time, she would have been subject to the same plight. Morgan decided that he would have done the same thing if given time to weigh the situation beforehand.

  "How far are we going?" she asked.

  "We're turning off on the next side-road," he grunted.

  "You know the country?"

  "I used to." He waved his arm to the south. "Road winds through a swamp, then climbs to high ground. Ends in a spruce forest."

  "Got any food?"

  "Will have, tomorrow. Ditches are full of warmouth perch. Plenty of swamp cabbage, wild oranges, bull frogs, papaya."

  "I'm hungry now."

  "That's tough."

  She whimpered a little but soon fell silent. He saw she was limping, and he slowed his pace. Pity was a lost emotion in an age of chaos; but she was strong, healthy, and appeared capable of doing a day's work. He decided to humor her, lest she decide to trudge alone.

  * * * * *

  When they reached the swamp, branches closed over the narrow trail road, screening off the sky and hiding the thin slice of moon. The girl hung close to his elbow. A screech owl hooted in the trees, and a thousand frogs clamored in the blackness. Once the scream of a panther split the night, and the girl sobbed as if echoing the cry. They hurried ahead through the overgrown weeds.

  "Drop flat!" he hissed suddenly.

  She obeyed without a sound. They crouched together at the edge of the road, listening. A distant rustling came from the roadway to the south.

  "Orenians?" she whispered.

  "Orenians."

  "How many?"

  "Can't tell. They always march in step. Keep quiet."

  Morgan gripped the hatchet and set himself for a quick spring. As they drew nearer, he decided that there were two of them. Their movements were perfectly coordinated, since they were of one mind, one consciousness--that of Oren. The girl tapped his arm with the blade of a knife.

  "I'll take one," she breathed.

  When the footsteps were almost upon them, Oren halted. There was no outcry; the Orenians had no need for vocal communication; their thought-exchange was bio-electromagnetic.

  "Now!" howled Morgan, and launched himself at the enemy.

  His hatchet cleft the face of the nearest foe, and he turned instantly to help the girl. A pair of bodies thrashed about on the ground. Then she stood up, and he heard her dry the knife on some grass. It was over in an instant.

  "Not stung?"

  "No."

  "That was too easy," he said. "I don't like it."

  "Why?"

  "They don't ambush that easy unless they're in rapport with another group someplace close. We'll have some more of them after us if we don't get away."

  They hurried about the unpleasant task of splitting open the once-human skulls to remove the legless parasite-entities that filled the bony hollows where brains belonged. The Oren creatures lived in their stolen homes long after the borrowed body died, and they could signal others to the vicinity. Morgan tossed the globular little creatures in the ditch where they lay squeaking faintly--helpless, once-removed from the body of the host who had long since ceased to exist as a human being.

  "Let's go!" he grunted.

  "Same way?"

  "Yeah."

  "But they came from that way!"

  "Have to chance it. Too dangerous, hanging around the highways. Out here we can find places to hide."

  They set off at a trot, chancing an ambush in reverse. But Morgan reasoned that the Orenians had been returning to the highway after a day's exploring on the side-roads. After plunging for half-an-hour through the darkness, the road began winding upward. The cypress archway parted, revealing star-scattered sky. They slowed to a walk.

  "Can't we sit down to rest?" she panted.

  "Can if you like. Alone."

  She shuddered and caught at his arm. "I'll stick."

  "Sorry," he murmured. "We can stop soon. But they'll be chasing along the road looking for us. I
want to get into the spruce forest first."

  She was silent for a time, then said; "With Earlich, it was the other way around."

  "Earlich? The fat boy? What do you mean?"

  "I always had to wait on him."

  "Did you wait?"

  "Until he ran out of bullets."

  Morgan clucked in mock disapproval. But he was not in the least shocked. In the flight from Oren, it was devil take the hindmost. Weaklings, and people who paused for pity, had long since been stung. After several weeks of agony in which the brain became the nutrient fodder of the growing Oren embryo, they were lost in the single communal mind of Oren, dead as individuals. The adult parasite assumed the bodily directive-function of the brain. The creatures so afflicted became mere cells in a total social organism now constituting a large part of humanity.

  Shera suddenly whistled surprise. "Is that a cabin there?--through the trees?"

  They had penetrated several hundred yards into the spruce. A black hulk lay ahead in a small clearing.

  "Yeah," Morgan grunted. "I'd hoped it'd still be there."

  She nudged him hard. "Close-mouthed, aren't you?"

  "If I told you it was here, and then it was gone--how would you feel?"

  "You think about things like that?" She stared at him curiously in the faint moonlight. "Nobody else does. Not now."

  "Come on," he growled. "Let's see if it's occupied."

  The door was locked. Morgan chopped it open without ceremony. The cabin was vacant except for a corpse on the floor. The corpse was of ancient vintage and slightly mummified. He noticed that it had killed itself with a shotgun--possibly because of an Oren-sting. He caught up the scarce weapon lest the girl grab it and run. Then he dragged the corpse out by the foot and left it under an orange tree. The oranges were green, but he picked a few to stave off the pangs of hunger.

  When he returned, Shera had found matches and a lamp. She sat at a table, counting twelve-gauge shells.

  "How many?"

  "Even dozen." She gazed greedily at the gun. "I won't steal it."

  He pitched her an orange and propped the gun in the corner. "If you did, it would be a mistake."