The Human Zero- The Science Fiction Stories Of Erle Stanley Gardner

by Matin Greenberg

  Phil felt the impetus of the other’s charge wresting the rifle from his grip. He suddenly loosed his grip on it, dropped to his knees, shook off the other man.

  That individual, possessed of the rifle, let forth a roar of rage and swung the muzzle, only to find Phil, still on his knees, the butt of the automatic in his hand, eyes glittering, tense, and ready. The cowpuncher, trained in a quick and sure draw, had snaked the smaller weapon from its holster with a speed that was almost incredible.

  “Drop it!” he yelled.

  The tall man hesitated, and in that instant of hesitation there sounded the sharp twang of a bowstring. Something flashed through the air in a whispering path of hissing menace, struck the man square between the shoulders. With a thudding sound the arrow arrested its progress, quivered there in the man’s back.

  Phil snapped his automatic around,* fired into the jungle growth in the general direction from which the arrow had come. The report of the weapon rang out on the hot air, subsided with a volley of echoes.

  There came the sound of running steps, a crashing of brush, and silence.

  The tall man dropped the rifle, swayed. His eyes were already glazing. The snarl came to his lips. He tried to curse, and his voice failed him. He wobbled, tottered, crashed to the earth.

  Phil grabbed the gun. “No time for sentiment, folks. Let’s go while we may.”

  It was well that his forest training had enabled him to mark each turn of the path, each intersection which marked the branches of the trail. Now he ran with swift certainty of direction.

  From the high divide, with the castle well within reach, and a downhill trail to follow, he called a halt, looked back.

  The savage band had once more gone into motion. Here and there, through breaks in the foliage, could be seen the moving flash of dark skin as some runner pressed ahead of his mates up the trail.

  Then came a wild shout from the place where the tall man had fallen. The shout was taken up, became words, was hurled back down the trail from screaming throat to screaming throat, a wailing cry of savage exultation.

  Then the big drum began to boom forth some code message.

  Phil nodded.

  “They’ve found him. He was the one they wanted. I imagine we won’t be bothered now if we move fast.”

  And move fast they did.

  It was only after Phil had fitted the keys to the iron gate, heard the welcome click of the lock, that he felt safe. He ushered the others into the gate, closed and locked it, went through the smaller gate, and surveyed the domain to which he had taken title by right of conquest.

  There was a massive patio to the rear, a plateau which ran out over the outcropping of rock, surrounded by the smooth sides of the wall. On this plateau were trees and vines. There was a very commodious house, furnished with hand-carpentered furniture. The whole thing was an impregnable fortress, well equipped with guns and ammunition.

  Phil climbed to the roof, looked out over the ocean.

  Suddenly he let out a yell. Around a jutting promontory of the island appeared the white bow of a huge boat, cutting through the water at cautious half speed.

  Phil’s shout attracted the others.

  They crowded to him. Watched in silence as the length of the boat came into view.

  She was a large passenger steamer, and she had been battered by mountainous seas, yet had won through. Her lifeboats were either carried away or were stove in by the high seas. She had a tangle of wreckage on her boat deck, and more wreckage on the bow of the main deck, but she was cutting through the water slowly, majestically.

  Professor Parker nodded.

  “We could have expected it,” he said. “Most of the larger boats that were afloat when the world swung over were undoubtedly turned topsy turvy by the terrific waves. You will remember that our own craft rolled over and over. But it righted itself because it was small and buoyant. Big boats, once over, would never right themselves, but would go down.

  “But somewhere there were undoubtedly boats that won through.

  “While the catastrophe was world-wide, it is certain that some sections were spared, just as this island was spared. And the terrific current swept most of the north sea shipping down to this vicinity. It is almost exactly what I expected to find, this boat, and—”

  But Phil was not listening to explanations. There was a flag in a flag locker on the top of the castle: Grabbing it out, he tied one corner to the halyard, raised it and lowered it along the stumpy, homemade flagpole.

  There came a cloud of steam from the whistle of the boat. The steam stopped. Another cloud followed, then another. As the third cloud of steam was emerging, the sound of the first whistle came to their ears.

  “Three whistles!” said Phil. “A salute! They see us!”

  Professor Parker nodded his satisfaction.

  “Now,” he said, “we can get some authentic news. If there are any unsubmerged continents that have survived the period of stress equalization and tidal inundations, they doubtless have sent out radio broadcasts. And you will notice that the boat retains its radio equipment.”

  Phil turned to the girl.

  “Suppose,” he said in a low voice, “there are no more continents, and we have to begin life anew. Would you—er— I mean, is there anybody, such as a husband, that you left behind?”

  She laughed at him, extended her left hand.

  “Not even engaged,” she said.

  Phil grinned.

  “In that case,” he observed, “you ought to be ready to take things as they come, Miss Ranson.”

  She looked at him with that frankness of appraisal which characterizes the modern girl.

  “Yes,” she said; “it’s a new world, and I’m ready for it, regardless of what it is. I’m not afraid of the future . . . and you’d better begin calling me Stella, Phil.”

  And Phil Bregg, his face lighted with a zest for life, grinned at her.

  “Bring on the new world,” he said. “I like the people in it!”

  RAIN MAGIC

  Is “Rain Magic” fact or fiction? I wish I knew.

  Some of it is fiction, I know, because I invented connecting incidents and wove them into the yarn, its the rest of it that haunts me. At the time I thought it was just a wild lie of an old desert rat. And then I came to believe it was true.

  Anyhow, here are the facts, and the reader can judge for himself.

  About six months ago I went stale on Western stories. My characters became fuzzy in my mind; my descriptions lacked that intangible something that makes a story pack a punch. I knew I had to get out and gather new material.

  So I got a camp wagon. It's a truck containing a complete living outfit—bed, bath, hot and cold water, radio, writing desk, closet, stove, et cetera. I struck out into the trackless desert, following old, abandoned roads, sometimes making my own roads. I was writing as l went, meeting old prospectors, putting them on paper, getting steeped in the desert environment.

  February 13 found me at a little spring in the middle of barren desert. As far as 1 knew there wasn't a soul within miles.

  Then I heard steps, the sound of a voice. 1 got up from my

  typewriter, went to the door. There was an old prospector getting water at the spring. But he wasn't the typical desert rat. I am always interested in character classification, and the man puzzled me. I came to the conclusion he'd been a sailor.

  So I got out, shook hands, and passed the time of day. He was interested in my camp wagon, and l took him in, sat him down, and smoked for a spell. Then l asked him if he hadn't been a sailor.

  I can still see the queer pucker that came into his eyes as he nodded.

  Now sailors are pretty much inclined to stay with the water. One doesn't often find a typical sailor in the desert. So I asked him why he'd come into the desert.

  He explained that he had to get away from rain. When it rained he got the sleeping sickness.

  That sounded like a story, so I made it a point to draw him out. It cam
e, a bit at a time, starting with the Sahara dust that painted the rigging of the ship after the storm, and winding up with the sleeping sickness that came back whenever he smelled the damp of rain-soaked vegetation.

  I thought it was one gosh-awful lie, but it was a gripping, entertaining lie, and l thought I could use it. I put it up to him as a business proposition, and within a few minutes held in my possession a document which read in part as follows:

  For value received, I hereby sell to Erie Stanley Gardner the story rights covering my adventures in Africa, including the monkey-man, the unwritten language, the ants who watched the gold ledge, the bread that made me ill, the sleeping sickness which comes back every spring and leaves me with memories of my lost sweetheart, et cetera, et cetera.

  After that I set about taking complete notes of his story. I still thought it was a lie, an awful lie.

  Like all stories of real life in the raw it lacked certain connecting incidents. There was no balance to it. It seemed disconnected in places.

  Because l intended to make a pure fiction story out of it, / didn't hesitate to fill in these connections. I tried to give it a sweep of unified action, and I took some liberties with the facts as he had given them to me. Yet, in the main, l kept his highlights, and I was faithful to the backgrounds as he had described them.

  Because he had just recovered from a recurrence of the sleeping sickness, I started the story as it would have been told to a man who had stumbled onto the sleeping form in the desert. It was a story that “wrote itself." The words just poured from my fingertips to the typewriter. But I was writing it as fiction, and I considered it as such.

  Not all of what he told me went into the story. There was some that dealt with intimate matters one doesn't print. There was some that dealt with tribal customs, markings of different tribes, et cetera, et cetera. In fact, I rather avoided some of these definite facts. Because I felt the whole thing was fiction, I was rather careful to keep from setting down definite data, using only such as seemed necessary.

  Then, after the story had been written and mailed, after l had returned to headquarters, I chanced to get some books dealing with the locality covered in the story, telling of tribal characteristics, racial markings, et cetera.

  To my surprise, l found that every fact given me by the old prospector was true. I became convinced that his story was, at least, founded on fact.

  And so I consider uRain Magic" the most remarkable story l ever had anything to do with. I'm sorry I colored it up with fiction of my own invention. I wish I'd left it as it was, regardless of lack of connective incident and consistent motivation.

  Somewhere in the shifting sands of the California desert is an old prospector, hiding from the rain, digging for gold, cherishing lost memories. His sun-puckered eyes have seen sights that few men have seen. His life has been a tragedy so weird, so bizarre that it challenges credulity. Yet of him it can be said, “He has lived ”

  —Erle Stanley Gardner

  CHAPTER 1

  Through the Breakers

  No, no—no more coffee. Thanks. Been asleep, eh? Well, don’t look so worried about it. Mighty nice of you to wake me up. What day is it?

  Thursday, eh? I’ve been asleep two days then—oh, it is? Then it’s been nine days. That’s more like it. It was the rain, you see. I tried to get back to my tent, but the storm came up too fast. It’s the smell of the damp green things in a rain. The doctors tell me it’s auto-hypnosis. They’re wrong. M’Gamba told me I’d always be that way when I smelled the jungle smell. It’s the sleeping sickness in my veins. That’s why I came to the desert. It doesn’t rain out here more than once or twice a year.

  When it does rain the jungle smells come back and the sleeping sickness gets me. Funny how my memory comes back after those long sleeps.; It was the drugged bread, king-kee they called it; but the language ain’t never been written down. Sort of a graduated monkey talk it was.

  It’s hot here, come over in the shadow of this Joshuay palm. That’s better.

  Ever been to sea? No? Then you won’t understand.

  It was down off the coast of Africa. Anything can happen off the coast of Africa. After the storms, the Sahara dust comes and paints the rigging white. Yes, sir, three hundred miles out to sea I’ve seen it. And for a hundred miles you can get the smell of the jungles. When the wind’s right.

  It was an awful gale. You don’t see ’em like it very often. We tried to let go the deckload of lumber, but the chains jammed. The Dutchmen took to the riggin’^ jabberin’ prayers. They were a weak-kneed lot. It was the Irishman that stayed with it. He was a cursin’ devil.

  He got busy with an ax. The load had listed and we was heeled over to port. The Dutchmen in the riggin’ prayin’, an’ the Irishman down on the lumber cursin’. A wave took him over and then another wave washed him back again. I see it with my own eyes. He didn’t give up. He just cursed harder than ever. And he got the chains loose, too. The deckload slid off and she righted.

  But it was heavy weather and it got worse. The sky was just a mass of whirlin’ wind and the water came over until she didn’t get rid of one wave before the next bunch of green water was on top of her.

  The rudder carried away. I thought everything was gone, but she lived through it. We got blown in, almost on top of the shore. When the gale died we could see it. There was a species of palm stickin’ up against the sky, tall trees they were, and below ’em was a solid mass of green stuff, and it stunk. The whole thing was decayin’ an’ steamin’ just like the inside of a rotten, damp log.

  The old man was a bad one. It was a hell ship an’ no mistake. I’d been shanghaied, an’ I wanted back. Thirty pound I had in my pocket when I felt the drink rockin’ my head. I knew then, but it was too late. The last I remembered was the grinnin’ face of the tout smilin’ at me through a blue haze.

  The grub was rotten. The old man was a devil when he was sober, an’ worse when he was drunk. The Irish mate cursed all the time, cursed and worked. Between ’em they drove the men, drove us like sheep.

  The moon was half full. After the storm the waves were rollin’ in on a good sea breeze. There wasn’t any whitecaps. The wind just piled the water up until the breakers stood fourteen feet high before they curled an’ raced up the beach.

  But the breakers didn’t look so bad from the deck of the ship. Not in the light of the half moon they didn’t. We’d been at work on the rudder an’ there was a raft over the side. I was on watch, an’ the old man was drunk, awful drunk. I don’t know when the idea came to me, but it seemed to have always been there. It just popped out in front when it got a chance.

  I was halfway down the rope before I really knew what I was doin’. My bare feet hit the raft an’ my sailor knife was workin’ on the rope before I had a chance to even think things over.

  But I had a chance on the road in, riding the breakers. I had a chance even as soon as the rope was cut. The old man came and. stood on the rail, lookin’ at the weather, too drunk to know what he was looking at, but cockin’ his bleary eye at the sky outa habit.

  He’d have seen me, drunk as he was, if he’d looked down, but he didn’t. If he’d caught me then I’d have been flayed alive. He’d have sobered up just special for the occasion.

  I drifted away from him. The moon was on the other side of the hull, leavin’ it just a big, black blotch o’ shadow, ripplin’ on the water, heavin’ up into the sky. Then I drifted out of the shadow and into golden water. The moon showed over the top of the boat, an’ the sharks got busy.

  I’d heard they never struck at a man while he was strugglin’. Maybe it’s true. I kept movin’, hands and feet goin’. The raft was only an inch or two outa water, an’ it was narrow. The sharks cut through the water like hissin’ shadows. I was afraid one of ’em would grab a hand or a foot an’ drag me down, but they didn’t. I could keep the rest of me outa the water, but not my hands an’ feet. I had to paddle with ’em to get into shore before the wind and tide changed. I sure di
dn’t want to be left floatin’ around there with no sail, nor food; nothin’ but sharks.

  From the ship the breakers looked easy an’ lazylike. When I got in closer I saw they were monsters. They’d rise up an’ blot out all the land, even the tops of the high trees. Just before they’d break they’d send streamers of spray, high up in the heavens. Then they’d come down with a crash.

  But I couldn’t turn back. The sharks and^the wind and the tide were all against me, and the old man would have killed me.

  I rode in on a couple of breakers, and then the third one broke behind me. The raft an’ me, maybe the sharks all got mixed up together. My feet struck the sand, but they wouldn’t stay there.

  The strong undertow was cuttin’ the sand out from under me. I could feel it racin’ along over my toes, an’ then I started back an’ down.

  The undertow sucked me under another wave, somethin’ alive brushed against my back, an’ then tons o’ water came down over me. That time I was on the bottom an’ I rolled along with sand an’ water bein’ pumped into my innards. I thought it was the end, but there was a lull in the big ones, an’ a couple o’ little ones came an’ rolled me up on the beach.

  I was more dead than alive. The water had made me groggy, an’ I was sore from the pummelin’ I’d got. I staggered up the strip of sand an’ into the jungle.

  A little ways back was a cave, an’ into the cave I flopped. The water oozed out of my insides like from a soaked sponge. My lungs an’ stomach an’ ears were all full. I tried to get over a log an’ let ’er drain out, but I was too weak. I felt everything turnin’ black to me.

  The next thing I knew it was gettin’ dawn an’ shadowy shapes were flittin’ around. I thought they was black angels an’ they were goin’ to smother me. They stunk with a musty smell, an’ they settled all over me.