WHEN HE woke, it was with full consciousness of what had occurred, and he came to his feet with a rush, only to relax. He was in the same office as before, overheated, bare walls and desk, nothing changed. He was still hungry, sweating and irritated, but now had a headache as well. Then his eyes steadied on the figure behind the desk and he grew alert again.
A short, fat man with a long, droopy nose, again presumably Terran like himself, was smiling at him. The man was bald, looked about sixty years old and wore a featureless coverall of gray. Two scribers were clipped to his pocket, but nothing else gave a clue to his position in life. Powers studied the face in front of him and felt repelled. In lean, hard condition himself, the sight of the bloated body disgusted him and so did the oleaginous smile which was fixed on the sweating, jowled face.
The man spoke, using Slavang, the language of Terra, fluently, but with a guttural and unpleasant accent. Powers noticed that the smile never reached the cold, black eyes and readied himself again, sitting down as he did so and trying to appear at ease.
"I have a few questions, Commander," the man said. "Please answer them promptly and don't waste my time being indignant. You asked to be here, you know, we didn't send for you. You applied for Survey & Contact voluntarily." There was nothing pleasant about the thick, grating voice or the words, but the meaningless smile never left the fat countenance.
Powers gasped audibly because the other's statement had taken the wind out of his sails. His protest and request to withdraw his application died stillborn. After all, he had volunteered. Steadying himself, he nodded, incapable of calm speech.
With no more preamble, the fat man began a stream of brutally personal questions, noting the answers on a pad in front of him.
Did Powers like women? Sexually? What other ways? Was he sexually attracted to men? Had he ever been? Which women had he been attracted to? Where? Under what circumstances? How? What forms of love-making did he prefer? Had he experimented with women of other races than his own Caucasoid strain? With men? With creatures of other races? From other worlds? Did he go to joy houses? Alone?
Bill Powers was a healthy, and perfectly normal male, a bachelor, but no celibate. The stream of questions began to really disgust him, as they passed from personal to prurient, from clinical to obscene, while all the time the fat smile and the jet eyes never wavered. Biting his lip, Powers managed to contain himself, although barely, and continued his increasingly terse answers. Just when he felt that his patience was about to snap completely the questions stopped. The fat man folded his notebook pad and tucked it into a side pocket. Then he rubbed his fleshy hands together and placed them on the desk, before addressing Powers.
"Do you still wish to continue your application for Survey & Contact, Commander? If so, I must tell you that you are in mortal danger."
Hungry, hot, furious and baffled, Powers stared back at the cold eyes. Despite his intense irritation, he was conscious suddenly that he was being told the exact truth. The greasy smile had disappeared from his interrogator's face and the short figure had assumed both a menace and a dignity it had not previously possessed. The annoying accent was still present, but the voice was unmistakably sincere.
Powers thought hard for a moment. "Can I ask what you mean?" he said.
"You may ask, indeed," said the fat man. "My answer may not satisfy you. The next step in interrogation is a test, but a physical test—a survival test. I can give you no details whatsoever about it, but I can say this. Failure is lethal. Every member, real member, or Field Agent, of Survey & Contact, excluding hired help, has passed it. If you choose, you may return, as of this minute to your normal duties, and your regular service. There will be no mark on your record. You may become a Fleet Admiral and a very good one. But your application file for this branch will be closed and never reopened." He paused and then continued.
"There is one final point. The records of those who have failed this next test are also closed. Failure in this test, you see, means death. The percentage of failures is 37.9. I can allow you, by Survey & Contact regulations, our private regulations, exactly three minutes for a decision."
The words rang hollowly in the small room. 37.9! Failure is death! Powers thought desperately. This was insane. Get out of here quickly and forget the whole business. No one but a madman would consider such a lethal proposal. He looked up and heard the fat man speaking.
"All failures die. They are marked as dying in the line of duty. A full pension is paid to any person or persons designated."
Powers stared at the floor again, his strong hands clenching and opening convulsively. This was the end of the line. To hell with courage. Get out now, Powers!
He looked up and met the fat man's stare evenly, conscious even as he did so that breakfast might have been his last meal.
"I'll do it," he said flatly. "Do I sign anything, any release?"
He thought he detected a flicker of something, possibly respect in the jet eyes, but he couldn't be sure.
"Not necessary," was the answer. "The service regulations cover it. The test starts—now!"
Powers felt the Sleep gas hit again, but as he went under he knew surprise, for he could hear the fat man still talking, this time with no accent at all.
"Good luck, Son, and remember—never give up ... never!"
Then all faded out again and was gone.
AS HE CAME awake, he was conscious of two things, the light and coolness. As he opened his eyes, a third, an up-and-down motion, was added to the other sensations. Finally, the fact that he was dripping wet was brought home to him with a vengeance as his head was suddenly buried in water, which made him choke. Fighting clear of it into the air, he spat out the liquid, finding that it was salt and bitter-tasting as well, and sat up, staring about him.
He was sitting on a tiny raft, a crude thing, low and awash in the water. Made of a few logs, loosely lashed together with what looked like vegetable fibers, the raft rode soggily on a dirty-looking sea. The ropes holding it together looked frayed and creaked audibly as the waves lifted the raft.
The water was dark and scummy-looking and the waves were mild. Overhead, a cloudy, brown sky hid the sun, but enough dim light came through so that Powers could see fairly well in every direction.
Looking down, he saw that he was almost naked, wearing only issue cloth shorts and a belt. He was barefoot. From the belt hung a short, heavy dagger, and he slipped the two-edged blade out of its metal sheath with satisfaction, testing its sharpness on his thumb.
Then he stood up, balancing carefully on the two center logs of the four-log raft, and slowly turning his head. He could see nothing in any direction but one, save water. About a mile away, a rocky island rose out of the ocean, its sides sheer and menacing. No other object broke the limited horizon. A black structure which looked artificial and not natural crowned the island's height.
Sitting down, Powers drew his knife and cut off a tiny piece of wood from one of the logs. The wood was soft, waterlogged almost, but would still float. Throwing the chip over the side, he re-sheathed the knife and watched the movement of the piece of wood with one eye, while estimating the distance to the island with the other.
At the same time his mind was racing furiously. He assumed automatically that he had been knocked out by the Sleep gas, put in deep freeze and dumped on an alien planet. Unless, of course, he was in some monstrous environmental testing lab maintained by Survey & Contact for the purpose. This latter was possible though unlikely, from the sheer amount of space involved.
He checked the wood chip until it was out of sight and tried to estimate his speed. He was drifting at about one knot on a current right for the island, which was almost certainly no accident. Looking up, he could see it clearly in the gray light, even from a sitting position, and decided the raft would bring him to shore in about two hours, if nothing changed.
A faint drizzle, imperceptible almost as a mist, began to fall, but, although his exposed skin felt chilly, he was not acutely un
comfortable. The ocean, or whatever it was, seemed about 72° Farenheit and the air perhaps 10° cooler. He could survive a long time under such conditions. He was conscious of mild thirst but it was only mild, and the fact that he had missed lunch could be dismissed also. He might have been in deep freeze a month or ten seconds but he felt perfectly fit.
KEEPING an eye on the island, already perceptibly closer, he began a careful examination of the raft. All the survival courses he had ever taken had stressed utilization of whatever unlikely materials were available. He could hear the instructor now at Grand Base O.C.S. during the castaway's course.
"Beings, remember! Examine and catalog what is available at once! If an emergency strikes, there will be no time!"
So far, nylon shorts and belt, metal buckle, seven-inch, two-edged knife, its metal sheath clipped to the belt, plus a sagging raft.
Just how sagging, he soon discovered. It was breaking up. The lashings as he had thought, were tattered bits of some plant fiber rope, and very few were still holding. Even as he watched, a section snapped, worn out by time and hard usage, and a log drifted away. The raft was only minutes away from dissolution with three logs left.
He thought quickly. Where in the universe could he be? Was that grimy-looking ocean dangerous? Although it tasted unpleasant, the flavor was more that of a dirty tide pool than something poisonous. But if harmless, what lived in it? It looked capable of concealing anything, and for the first time a thrill of fear ran through him. He could die on this test: almost half the applicants had, according to the fat man.
Another fiber parted and the two logs supporting Powers' weight began to come apart at one end of the raft. At the same time paralysis seized him, numbing his muscles and sapping his nerve to the breaking point in a split second.
Out of the gentle curve of a wave, black and shining, a high, pointed fin had appeared mysteriously, no more than a few yards from the left side of the disintegrating raft. It stood at least a yard out of the water, the droplets gleaming from its smooth surface and then subsided as silently as it had come, leaving a man gaping at the dark water, frozen with a fear so stark and awful that his heart had almost stopped beating.
As a boy, Powers had been taken on a vacation to the South Pacific by his parents, to Rarotonga, and while swimming one day he had seen a native of the island seized and devoured by a huge Tiger shark, the clear water revealing every nasty detail. He never had got over it, and while not afraid of water, had never gone swimming alone since, nor entered any but clear, cold water, and fenced at that, if in an ocean. Now all the horrors rushed back and the screams of the long-dead native beat again upon his eardrums. He must be on Terra, some lost backwater of his own planet, and in front of him cruised a monster capable of shredding him apart in one bite.
But it was only for a second that he was bereft of control. A lifetime's arduous training and discipline overrode the panic, and he began to function as a reasoning being once more. He felt self-contempt wash out much of the fear.
A quick glance showed that the raft was almost gone. The two former center logs were tightly secured only at one end, by a loose strand in the middle where he crouched, and not at all at the other end behind him. He drew his knife, holding it blade up and looked at the island.
It now lay between one half and one quarter mile away. And for the first time he could see the black object which sprawled upon its peak. And this confirmed his decision. He was on Earth, on Terra itself. For before him, plainly visible, towered an ancient house, huge, colored in grays and blacks, with peaked roofs and chimneys and what looked like a myriad, black, gaping windows, staring out over the misty ocean.
Even as Powers fixed the identity of the house in his mind, the logs beneath him began to move apart. There was no delaying the decision, and while a tiny part of his mind still cowered in fear, shrieking "you'll be killed," it was overridden by his will.
He dived cleanly into the black water, and struck out for the island, using a side stroke which allowed him to keep his knife in his right hand.
As he rose on the first gentle wave, his stroke faltered. Two waves away, directly ahead and between him and the island, rose the towering dorsal fin. Now it had risen clear out of the water, and a six-foot length of shining black skin showed the back of whatever carried it.
But Powers had been driven too far by will, and in any case, could not now turn back if he wished. He had no place to go and knew it, except forward. He continued to stroke smoothly, straight for the island and the fin, too, although that had silently vanished again. His body seemed one giant nerve ending, keyed up to the surge of water against his skin which would give a useless warning of the monster's rush. But his knife was ready as ever, and he was prepared at least to leave a gash on its hide. A wave broke gently over his head, filling his open mouth with the taste of the water, salty and unpleasant, but his steady stroke never varied. On and on he went, numbing his imagination, swimming steadily and slowly for what seemed eternity.
AND SUDDENLY, he was there. His feet scraped bottom, and, hardly able to believe it, he staggered ashore on to a pebbled beach under the towering face of rock, and fell on the hard stones, his knees giving way from the strain and his heart pounding with relief.
It was at least five minutes, he estimated, before he could sit up. The prospect before him was not inviting, but at least he was on dry land and unharmed.
He was on a tiny beach, about ten yards long by eight deep, surrounded on all sides by walls of bleak, granitelike stone. No seaweed or shells lay on the margin to mark a tideline, and further back, no plants of any sort grew. He got up and began to examine his landing place carefully, noting absently that the light seemed to be decreasing. It must be evening, but the low cloud bank hid any trace of stars or sun, and the light was not that of a normal evening, anyway. His belief that he had been transported to Terra wavered for a moment, while he searched the desolate shingle for a clue as to where he might be.
The house! All at once the great house on the headland came back into his mind. He must be right below it. Even if it were empty, there would at least be shelter, and possibly food and water. There ought to be water at any rate.
Gloomily he studied the bleak walls of his temporary prison. The damp rock did not even have lichen growing on it. There was no other sign of life on the shore. He looked out to sea, but the visibility was far lower than when he had arrived. It was not night, but a gloomy dusk which now covered the waters.
Once again he circumnavigated the grim little beach, this time looking for footholds on the cliff. Above the center of the shingle, at its broadest point, the black face of the frowning rock actually leaned out, casting a deeper shadow, but at no place, even on the sides, was there a trace of footing. He found a small pool of water at one place, apparent seepage from the dank stones above, but it was evil-smelling and undrinkable.
This left the beach. Carefully, he waded out to the right-hand edge, holding on to the cliff as he did so. Where the cliff ended, his probing foot went down and he drew back hastily. He still could not see around the cliff. Looking out to sea again, he suddenly saw the great, black fin. It lay, almost motionless in the gentle swell, about fifteen yards off shore, a silent sentinel.
Shuddering involuntarily, he stepped quickly back on the beach and sat down. A gentle breeze had come up and the misty rain still fell, but the wind was barely audible and the regular plash of the tiny waves on the shingle was the only sound he could hear.
Sound! Perhaps the strange house was not empty! Springing up as the thought came to him, Powers yelled, funneling his hands around his mouth. Three times he bellowed, "Help," and then stood waiting, his ears straining. After a minute's silence, he tried again, and again stood listening.
This time he felt sure he heard something, but the answer was neither what he was expecting, nor was it reassuring.
From far above him there seemed to quaver for an instant a brief, high sound, somewhere between a wail and a shriek. It
only lasted a moment, rising to an almost inaudible tremolo, and then abruptly ceased, so that Powers was left wondering if he had really heard anything at all. In the end, he decided that he had, but also that he could derive little comfort from the sound. Whatever made it did not have human vocal chords, and there had been an element of want and hunger in the keening cry which had impressed itself most thoroughly in the stiff hairs on the back of his skull. Something strange, eerie and half-remembered had come into his mind, leaving him momentarily shaken and nerveless.
He stood for a moment, arms rigidly folded, cursing the Survey & Contact Division under his breath and adding a final epithet for himself and his own stupidity in volunteering. Then, once again, he rallied and began to review the known facts he had to work with.
HE WAS marooned on a rocky island, and there was an odd old-fashioned house. The house looked Terran, but the sea around the island tasted weird. Still, there was a monster shark offshore. But was it a shark? Other planets produced remarkably similar adaptations. Powers was neither a biologist nor an ecologist but he had done a lot of reading and he had seen similar life forms listed from several other worlds beside Earth. And now, there was that chilling sound his shouting had evoked from the clifftop. Some deep-buried memory, perhaps ancestral in nature, told him plainly that the sound he had heard was never produced by anything that walked on Earth. And yet there was that haunting sense of familiarity. Where was he?
The COMPLEAT Collected Short SFF Stories Page 3
