Before The Golden Age - A SF Anthology of the 1930s

by Edited By Isaac Asimov

  Ham surveyed the wildly magnificent panorama. Tomorrow, or rather, after resting, he would turn north. Patricia would turn south, and, beyond doubt, would die somewhere on Madman’s Pass. For a moment he had a queerly painful sensation, then he frowned bitterly.

  Let her die, if she was fool enough to attempt the pass alone just because she was too proud to take a rocket from an American settlement. She deserved it. He didn’t care; he was still assuring himself of that as he prepared to sleep, not in a Friendly tree, but in one of the far more friendly specimens of true vegetation and in the luxury of an open visor.

  The sound of his name awakened him. He gazed across the table-land to see Patricia just topping the divide, and he felt a moment’s wonder at how she managed to trail him, a difficult feat indeed in a country where the living vegetation writhes instantly back across one’s path. Then he recalled the blast of his flame-pistol; the flash and sound would carry for miles, and she must have heard or seen it.

  Ham saw her glancing anxiously around.

  “Ham!” she snouted again—not Yankee or poacher, but “Ham!”

  He kept a sullen silence; again she called. He could see her bronzed and piquant features now; she had dropped her transkin hood. She called again; with a despondent little shrug, she turned south along the divide, and he watched her go in grim silence. When the forest hid her from view, he descended and turned slowly north.

  Very slowly; his steps lagged; it was as if he tugged against some invisible elastic bond. He kept seeing her anxious face and hearing in memory the despondent call. She was going to her death, he believed, and, after all, despite what she had done to him, he didn’t want that. She was too full of life, too confident, too young, and above all, too lovely to die.

  True, she was an arrogant, vicious, self-centered devil, cool as crystal, and as unfriendly, but—she had gray eyes and brown hair, and she was courageous. And at last, with a groan of exasperation, he halted his lagging steps, turned, and rushed with almost eager speed into the south.

  * * * *

  Trailing the girl was easy here for one trained in the Hotlands. The vegetation was slow to mend itself, here in the Cool Country, and now again he found imprints of her feet, or broken twigs to mark her path. He found the place where she had crossed the river through tree branches, and he found a place where she had paused to eat.

  But he saw that she was gaining on him; her skill and speed outmatched his, and the trail grew steadily older. At last he stopped to rest; the table-land was beginning to curve upward toward the vast Mountains of Eternity, and on rising ground he knew he could overtake her. So he slept for a while in the luxurious comfort of no transkin at all, just the shorts and shirt that one wore beneath. That was safe here; the eternal underwind, blowing always toward the Hotlands, kept drifting mold spores away, and any brought in on the fur of animals died quickly at the first cool breeze. Nor would the true plants of the Cool Country attack his flesh.

  He slept five hours. The next “day” of traveling brought another change in the country. The life of the foothills was sparse compared to the table-lands; the vegetation was no longer a jungle, but a forest, an unearthly forest, true, of treelike growths whose boles rose five hundred feet and then spread, not into foliage, but flowery appendages. Only an occasional Jack Ketch tree reminded him of the Hotlands.

  Farther on, the forest diminished. Great rock outcroppings appeared, and vast red cliffs with no growths of any kind. Now and then he encountered swarms of the planet’s only aerial creatures, the gray, mothlike dusters, large as hawks, but so fragile that a blow shattered them. They darted about, alighting at times to seize small squirming things, and tinkling in their curiously bell-like voices. And apparently almost above him, though really thirty miles distant, loomed the Mountains of Eternity, their peaks lost in the clouds that swirled fifteen miles overhead.

  Here again it grew difficult to trail, since Patricia scrambled often over bare rock. But little by little the signs grew fresher; once again his greater strength began to tell. And then he glimpsed her, at the base of a colossal escarpment split by a narrow, tree-filled canyon.

  She was peering first at the mighty precipice, then at the cleft, obviously wondering whether it offered a means of scaling the barrier, or whether it was necessary to circle the obstacle. Like himself, she had discarded her transkin and wore the usual shirt and shorts of the Cool Country, which, after all, is not very cool by terrestrial standards. She looked, he thought, like some lovely forest nymph of the ancient slopes of Pelion.

  He hurried as she moved into the canyon. “Pat!” he shouted; it was the first time he had spoken her given name. A hundred feet within the passage he overtook her.

  “You!” she gasped. She looked tired; she had been hurrying for hours, but a light of eagerness flashed in her eyes. “I thought you had—I tried to find you.”

  Ham’s face held no responsive light. “Listen here, Pat Burlingame,” he said coldly. “You don’t deserve any consideration, but I can’t see you walking into death. You’re a stubborn devil but you’re a woman. I’m taking you to Erotia.”

  The eagerness vanished. “Indeed, poacher? My father crossed here. I can, too.”

  “Your father crossed in midsummer, didn’t he? And midsummer’s to-day. You can’t make Madman’s Pass in less than five days, a hundred and twenty hours, and by then it will nearly winter, and this longitude will be close to the storm line. You’re a fool.”

  She flushed. “The pass is high enough to be in the upper winds. It will be warm.”

  “Warm! Yes—warm with lightning.” He paused; the faint rumble of thunder rolled through the canyon. “Listen to that. In five days that will be right over us.” He gestured up at the utterly barren slopes. “Not even Venusian life can get a foothold up there—or do you think you’ve got brass enough to be a lightning rod? Maybe you’re right.”

  Anger flamed. “Rather the lightning than you!” Patricia snapped, and then as suddenly softened. “I tried to call you back,” she said irrelevantly.

  “To laugh at me,” he retorted bitterly.

  “No. To tell you I was sorry, and that——”

  “I don’t want your apology.”

  “But I wanted to tell you that——”

  “Never mind,” he said curtly. “I’m not interested in your repentance. The harm’s done.” He frowned coldly down on her.

  Patricia said meekly: “But I——”

  A crashing and gurgling interrupted her, and she screamed as a gigantic doughpot burst into view, a colossus that filled the canyon from wall to wall to a six-foot height as it surged toward them. The horrors were rarer in the Cool Country, but larger, since the abundance of food in the Hotlands kept subdividing them. But this one was a giant, a behemoth, tons and tons of nauseous, ill-smelling corruption heaving up the narrow way. They were cut off.

  Ham snatched his flame-pistol, but the girl seized his arm.

  “No, no!” she cried. “Too close! It will spatter!”

  * * * *

  IV.

  Patricia was right. Unprotected by transkin, the touch of a fragment of that monstrosity was deadly, and, beyond that, the blast of a flame-pistol would shower bits of it upon them. He grasped her wrist and they fled up the canyon, striving for vantage way enough to risk a shot. And a dozen feet behind surged the doughpot, traveling blindly in the only direction it could—the way of food.

  They gained. Then, abruptly, the canyon, which had been angling southwest, turned sharply south. The light of the eternally eastward Sun was hidden; they were in a pit of perpetual shadow, and the ground was bare and lifeless rock. And as it reached that point, the doughpot halted; lacking any organization, any will, it could not move when no food gave it direction. It was such a monster as only the life-swarming climate of Venus could harbor; it lived only by endless eating.

  The two paused in the shadow.

  “Now what?” muttered Ham.

  A fair shot at the mass was impo
ssible because of the angle; a blast would destroy only the portion it could reach.

  Patricia leaped upward, catching a snaky shrub on the wall, so placed that it received a faint ray of light. She tossed it against the pulsing mass; the whole doughpot lunged forward a foot or two.

  “Lure it in,” she suggested.

  They tried. It was impossible; vegetation was too sparse.

  “What will happen to the thing?” asked Ham.

  “I saw one stranded on the desert edge of the Hotlands,” replied the girl. “It quivered around for a long time, and then the cells attacked each other. It ate itself.” She shuddered. “It was—horrible!”

  “How long?”

  “Oh, forty to fifty hours.”

  “I won’t wait that long,” growled Ham. He fumbled in his pack, pulling out his transkin.

  “What will you do?”

  “Put this on and try to blast that mass out of here at close range.” He fingered his flame-pistol. “This is my last barrel,” he said gloomily, then more hopefully: “But we have yours.”

  “The chamber of mine cracked last time I used it, ten or twelve hours ago. But I have plenty of barrels.”

  “Good enough!” said Ham.

  He crept cautiously toward the horrible, pulsating wall of white. He thrust his arm so as to cover the greatest angle, pulled the trigger, and the roar and blazing fire of the blast bellowed echoing through the canyon. Bits of the monster spattered around him, and the thickness of the remainder, lessened by the incineration of tons of filth, was now only three feet.

  “The barrel held!” he called triumphantly. It saved much time in recharging.

  Five minutes later the weapon crashed again. When the mass of the monstrosity stopped heaving, only a foot and a half of depth remained, but the barrel had been blown to atoms.

  “We’ll have to use yours,” he said.

  Patricia produced one, he took it, and then stared at it in dismay. The barrels of her Enfield-made weapon were far too small for his American pistol stock!

  He groaned. “Of all the idiots!” he burst out.

  “Idiots!” she flared. “Because you Yankees use trench mortars for your barrels?”

  “I meant myself. I should have guessed this.” He shrugged. “Well, we have our choice now of waiting here for the doughpot to eat himself, or trying to find some other way out of this trap. And my hunch is that this canyon’s blind.”

  It was probable, Patricia admitted. The narrow cleft was the product of some vast, ancient upheaval that had split the mountain in halves. Since it was not the result of water erosion, it was likely enough that the cleft ended abruptly in an unscalable precipice, but it was possible, too, that somewhere those sheer walls might be surmountable.

  “We’ve time to waste, anyway,” she concluded. “We might as well try it. Besides—” She wrinkled her dainty nose distastefully at the doughpot’s odor.

  * * * *

  Still in his transkin, Ham followed her through the shadowy half dusk. The passage narrowed, then veered west again, but now so high and sheer were the walls that the Sun, slightly south of east, cast no light into it. It was a place of shades like the region of the storm line that divides the twilight zone from the dark hemisphere, not true night, nor yet honest day, but a dim middle state.

  Ahead of him Patricia’s bronzed limbs showed pale instead of tan, and when she spoke her voice went echoing queerly between the opposing cliffs. A weird place, this chasm, a dusky, unpleasant place.

  “I don’t like this,” said Ham. “The pass is cutting closer and closer to the dark. Do you realize no one knows what’s in the dark parts of the Mountains of Eternity?”

  Patricia laughed; the sound was ghostly. “What danger could there be? Anyway, we still have our automatics.”

  “There’s no way up here,” Ham grumbled. “Let’s turn back.”

  Patricia faced him. “Frightened, Yankee?” Her voice dropped. “The natives say these mountains are haunted,” she went on mockingly. “My father told me he saw queer things in Madman’s Pass. Do you know that if there is life on the night side, here is the one place it would impinge on the twilight zone? Here in the Mountains of Eternity?”

  She was taunting him; she laughed again. And suddenly her laughter was repeated in a hideous cacophony that hooted out from the sides of the cliffs above them in a horrid medley.

  She paled; it was Patricia who was frightened now. They stared apprehensively up at the rock walls where strange shadows flickered and shifted.

  “What—what was it?” she whispered. And then: “Ham! Did you see that?”

  Ham had seen it. A wild shape had flung itself across the strip of sky, leaping from cliff to cliff far above them. And again came a peal of hooting that sounded like laughter, while shadowy forms moved, flylike, on the sheer walls.

  “Let’s go back!” she gasped. “Quickly!”

  As she turned, a small black object fell and broke with a sullen pop before them. Ham stared at it. A pod, a spore-sac, of some unknown variety. A lazy, dusky cloud drifted over it, and suddenly both of them were choking violently. Ham felt his head spinning in dizziness, and Patricia reeled against him.

  “It’s narcotic!” she gasped. “Back!”

  But a dozen more plopped around them. The dusty spores whirled in dark eddies, and breathing was a torment. They were being drugged and suffocated at the same time.

  Ham had a sudden inspiration. “Mask!” he choked, and pulled his transkin over his face.

  The filter that kept out the molds of the Hotlands cleaned the air of these spores as well; his head cleared. But the girl’s covering was somewhere in her pack; she was fumbling for it. Abruptly she sat down, swaying.

  “My pack,” she murmured. “Take it out with you. Your—your—” She broke into a fit of coughing.

  He dragged her under a shallow overhang and ripped her transkin from the pack. “Put it on!” he snapped.

  A score of pods were popping.

  A figure flitted silently far up on the wall of rock. Ham watched its progress, then aimed his automatic and fired. There was a shrill, rasping scream, answered by a chorus of dissonant ululations, and something as large as a man whirled down to crash not ten feet from him.

  The thing was hideous. Ham stared appalled at a creature not unlike a native, three-eyed, two-handed, four-legged, but the hands, though two-fingered like the Hotlanders’, were not pincer-like, but white and clawed.

  And the face! Not the broad, expressionless face of the others, but a slanting, malevolent, dusky visage with each eye double the size of the natives’. It wasn’t dead; it glared hatred and seized a stone, flinging it at him with weak viciousness. Then it died.

  Ham didn’t know what it was, of course. Actually it was a triops noctivivans—the “three-eyed dweller in the dark,” the strange, semi-intelligent being that is as yet the only known creature of the night side, and a member of that fierce remnant still occasionally found in the sunless parts of the Mountains of Eternity. It is perhaps the most vicious creature in the known planets, absolutely unapproachable, and delighting in slaughter.

  At the crash of the shot, the shower of pods had ceased, and a chorus of laughing hoots ensued. Ham seized the respite to pull the girl’s transkin over her face; she had collapsed with it only half on.

  Then a sharp crack sounded, and a stone rebounded to strike his arm. Others pattered around him, whining past, swift as bullets. Black figures flickered in great leaps against the sky, and their fierce laughter sounded mockingly. He fired at one in mid-air; the cry of pain rasped again, but the creature did not fall.

  Stones pelted him. They were all small ones, pebble-sized, but they were flung so fiercely that they hummed in passage, and they tore his flesh through his transkin. He turned Patricia on her face, but she moaned faintly as a missile struck her back. He shielded her with his own body.

  * * * *

  The position was intolerable. He must risk a dash back, even though the d
oughpot blocked the opening. Perhaps, he thought, armored in transkin he could wade through the creature. He knew that was an insane idea; the gluey mass would roll him into itself to suffocate—but it had to be faced. He gathered the girl in his arms and rushed suddenly down the canyon.

  Hoots and shrieks and a chorus of mocking laughter echoed around him. Stones struck him everywhere. One glanced from his head, sending him stumbling and staggering against the cliff. But he ran doggedly on; he knew now what drove him. It was the girl he carried; he had to save Patricia Burlingame.

  Ham reached the bend. Far up on the west wall glowed cloudy sunlight, and his weird pursuers flung themselves to the dark side. They couldn’t stand daylight, and that gave him some assistance; by creeping very close to the eastern wall he was partially shielded.