“Past tense. He’s dead.” Marshall smiled oddly. “But he must have decided to do us one last favor before he died. In return for the favor we were doing him. He must have broadcast a telepathic message to New Lisbon.”
The New Lisbon man eyed Marshall strangely. “Are you telling me that you found an intelligent alien in the jungle?”
“That’s right. And we’re going to go back and locate the body, and see if we can preserve it for science. It’s the least we can do for him. At least one remnant of his race will be preserved. They won’t die away without leaving a trace,” Marshall said, as he walked toward the helicopter that would take him back to civilization.
VAMPIRES FROM OUTER SPACE
(1959)
Three of the five stories in Super-Science Fiction’s glorious SPECIAL MONSTER ISSUE! of April, 1959 were my work: the lead novelet, “Mournful Monster,” under the Dan Malcolm pseudonym, a short called “A Cry for Help” bylined Eric Rodman, and this one, the second lead, which ran under the name of Richard F. Watson.
I wrote it in September, 1958, right after my first visit to San Francisco, which is why the story is set there. (I lived in New York then, the city of my birth, and had not the slightest inkling, then, that thirteen years later I was going to move to the San Francisco area.) The title on the manuscript when I turned it in was simply “Vampires from Space,” but the meaningless phrase “outer space” was just then establishing itself as a cliché, and Scottie stuck it right in. It is, I think, the only place the phrase can be found in all my millions of words of science fiction.
——————
The first report of what was quickly to become known as the Vampire Menace reached the central office of the Terran Security Agency half an hour after the attack had taken place. The date was June 11, 2104. Agency Subchief Neil Harriman was busy with routine matters when the courier burst into his office, carrying a message pellet gaudy with the red-and-yellow wrapping that meant Top Level Emergency.
Harriman reached one big hand out for the message pellet. “Where’s it from?”
“San Francisco. It just came in by simultaneous visitape. Marked special for your office, with all the emergency labels.”
“Okay,” Harriman said. He flipped the switch that darkened the office and brought the viewing screen down from its niche in the ceiling. As Harriman unwrapped the message pellet and began to slip it into the viewer, he glanced up at the courier, who was standing by with expectant curiosity. Harriman scowled darkly. No words were necessary. The courier gulped, moistened his lips, and backed out of the office, his curiosity about the emergency message doomed to be unsatisfied.
Alone, Harriman nudged the starter button and the tape started to unwind past the photon-cell eye of the viewer. An image formed in glowing natural colors at the far side of the room.
The voice of the speaker said, “This is Special Agent Michaels reporting from San Francisco, chief. There was a killing out here twenty minutes ago. The local police sent for me because it looked like Agency business.”
The screen showed one of San Francisco’s steep hills. Some twenty feet from the camera’s eye a body lay grotesquely sprawled, face downward, head toward the foot of the hill. Gray fog swirled over the scene. It was nearly noon at Harriman’s New York office, but it was still quite early in the morning across the continent in California. Transmission of the message-tape was virtually instantaneous, thanks to progress in communications science.
Harriman watched patiently, wondering why it had been necessary to bring to his attention a routine West Coast murder. The image bounced as the man holding the camera walked toward the corpse.
Special Agent Michaels’ voice said, “This is just the way he was found, twenty minutes ago.”
A hand reached down and turned the cadaver over so its face was visible. An involuntary gasp broke from Harriman’s lips. The dead man’s face was the color of chalk. Harriman had never seen so pale a face before. The victim’s eyes were open, and frozen in them was an image of pain, of shock, of horror beyond human comprehension.
There were two dark little holes an inch apart on the dead man’s throat, just over the jugular.
“There isn’t a drop of blood in him, chief,” Michaels said quietly in commentary. “He’s as dry as if he was pumped clean with a force-pump. We’ve identified him as Sam Barrett, a salesman in a used car showroom. Unmarried, lived with his aged mother. He worked around the corner on Van Ness Avenue. There were two eye-witnesses at the scene of the crime.”
The camera’s eye panned to a balding man in his forties who stood at the edge of the sidewalk, nervously twisting his hands together. He looked almost as pale as the ghastly body on the ground.
“Go on,” prompted Michaels. “This is for the record. Tell us who you are and what you saw.”
“My name is Mack Harkins,” the balding man said in a thin, hesitant voice. “I live over on Austin Street, couple of blocks from here. Work at the Dynacar showroom around the corner. I was walking along and suddenly I looked up ahead and saw a man struggling with—well—some kind of thing.”
“Describe it,” Michaels prodded gently.
“Well—bigger than a man, purple-colored, with big bat-wings. You know, one of those bat-people, what do you call them?”
“Nirotans?”
“Yeah, that’s it. One of them Nirotans, bending over the man’s throat like he was sucking blood from him. Before I knew what was going on, the bat-thing saw me and bolted away into an alley.” Harkins shuddered. “I went to look at the body. No blood at all, just like he is now. Drained.”
“You’re sure it was a Nirotan you saw?” Michaels asked.
“I ain’t sure of anything. But there was this big purple thing with bat-wings wrestling with poor Barrett. If it wasn’t one of them Nirotans, I’d like to know what it was, then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harkins. I think the local authorities would like to ask you some questions now.” The camera flashed toward the second witness.
The second witness was not human. He was a member of one of the half-dozen different species of alien beings that frequented Earth since the opening of the age of interstellar travel some three decades earlier.
The camera focused on the short, stockily-built being whose only external physical differences from humanity were the two tiny, heat-sensitive antennae that sprouted just above each eye.
“You are from Drosk?” Michaels asked.
The alien nodded. “I am Blen Duworn, attaché to the Drosk Trade Commission office in San Francisco,” he said in smooth, faultless English. “I was out for a morning stroll when I came upon the scene this man has just described to you.”
“Tell us what you saw.”
“I saw a large winged entity vanishing into that alley. I saw a man falling toward the ground, and another man—Mr. Harkins, rushing toward him. That is all.”
“And this large winged entity you saw—can you identify it more precisely?”
The alien frowned. “I am quite sure it was a Nirotan,” he said after a brief pause.
“Thank you,” Michaels said. The screen showed another view of the bloodless corpse. “That’s where it stands as of now, chief. I’ll keep in touch on further developments as they break. Awaiting your instructions.”
The screen went dead.
In his darkened office, Neil Harriman sat quietly with folded hands while a chill of terror rippled quickly through him. He recovered self-control with a considerable effort, and switched on the light.
His mind refused to accept what the message tape had just told him.
Harriman’s particular job in the workings of the Terran Security Agency was to deal with crime involving Earthmen and aliens. There was plenty of bad blood between the people of Earth and the strange-looking visitors from space. A planet which had not yet fully reconciled itself even to racial differences in its own one species of intelligent life could not easily adjust to the presence of bizarre life-forms, some of them c
onsiderably superior to the best that Earth had.
Up till now, Harriman’s job had largely been to protect the aliens from the hostility of Earthmen. The green-skinned Qafliks, for example, had touched off demonstrations in those parts of the world where white skin was still thought to be in some way superior to all other colors of skin. In other places, the peculiar sexual mores of the uninhibited Zadoorans had angered certain puritanical Terrestrials. So Harriman’s wing of the Agency had been given the task of protecting Earth’s many alien visitors until the people of Earth were mature enough to realize that it was not necessary to hate that which was strange.
But now an entirely new and dangerous aspect had entered the picture. One of the aliens had murdered an Earthman. And, thought Harriman bleakly, it would have to be a Nirotan that had committed the crime.
The Nirotans were recent additions to the Terran scene. They had first landed on Earth less than a year previously, and no more than a few thousand were present at this time. They were not pretty. Descended from a primitive bat-like form, they were frightening in appearance—purple-hued creatures seven feet tall, their bodies covered with thick coarse fur, their eyes tiny and set deep in their skull, their faces weird and strange. They had wings, bat-like membranes of skin stretched over vastly elongated finger-bones, while a small pair of well-equipped hands provided them with the manipulative abilities necessary for the development of a civilization.
They were traders, bringing with them curiously fashioned mechanical contrivances that were in great demand on Earth. But they had little contact with Earthmen. The Nirotans seemed to be a withdrawn, self-contained race, and few Earthmen cared for the company of such repellent-looking beings in any event. So little was known about them. Dark rumors had arisen that they were vampire beings, thirsty for human blood. The ordinary people of Earth regarded the Nirotans with fear and loathing for this reason, and gave them a wide berth.
So far as anyone had known, the vampire story was nothing but a terror-inspired myth. Until now.
The murder story, Harriman thought, would have to be hushed up somehow. At least until the investigation had definitely proven the guilt or innocence of the Nirotans. If the world ever learned of the “vampire” attack, there would be an hysterical uprising that might bring about the death of every Nirotan—or every alien of any kind—on Earth. Reprisal from the stars would be swift.
Harriman scowled tightly. This was too big for him to handle on his own. He restored the message tape to its container and picked up his phone.
“Harriman speaking. Let me talk to Director Russell. And fast.”
His call went through rush channels, and a moment later the deep, resonant voice of the Director of the Terran Security Agency said, “Hello, Harriman. I was just about to call you anyway. I want to see you in a hurry. And I mean hurry.”
Director Russell was a short, rotund man who normally wore an affable expression during even the most grave crisis. But there was nothing cheerful about his plump face now. He nodded curtly to Harriman as the Subchief entered. Harriman saw two message pellets lying on Russell’s desk, both of them wrapped in the red-and yellow emergency trimmings.
Russell said, “I’ve been reading some of your mail, Harriman. You know that I’m always notified when an emergency message arrives here. You got one about half an hour ago. Then another one showed up for you, and I figured I’d save some time by having a look at it myself. And no sooner did I finish scanning that one when another one showed up.” Russell tapped the two message pellets on his desk. “One of these is from Warsaw. The other is from London. They’re both about the same thing.”
“The Nirotans?”
Russell nodded darkly. “Tell me about your tape.”
“A man was murdered in San Francisco this morning. Body found completely drained of blood, with puncture-holes over the jugular. Two witnesses—a Drosk and a man named Harkins. They saw the victim struggling with something that looked like a Nirotan.”
The Director’s eyebrows rose. “Witnesses? That’s more than we have on these other two.”
“What are they?”
“Murder reports. One in Poland last night, the other in London about two hours ago. An old man and a girl, both bloodless.”
“We’ll have to keep this quiet,” Harriman said. “If the people find out—”
“They have. There’s already been a vampire-hunt in Warsaw. Two Nirotans were flushed by the mob and just barely escaped with their lives. Londoners are talking vampire too. It looks damned bad for the Nirotans, Harriman. Especially with this eye-witness thing in San Francisco. Everyone called the Nirotans vampires all along—and now there’s something concrete to pin suspicions to.”
“But they’ve been here for almost a year,” Harriman protested. “Why should they suddenly break out in a wave of blood-drinking the same night?”
“Are you defending them?” Russell asked.
“I’m just speculating. We have no definite proof that they’re guilty.”
“Maybe,” Russell said, “they just couldn’t hold out any longer with all that nice fresh blood tempting them.”
Harriman eyed his chief strangely. He knew Russell did not have much liking for the alien beings on Earth. The Director was, in many respects, an old-fashioned man.
“You aren’t pre-judging the Nirotans, are you?” Harriman asked.
“Of course not. But it certainly looks bad for them. I’ve ordered all Nirotans taken into protective custody until things cool down a little.”
“Good idea,” Harriman agreed. “If some of them got lynched by the mobs we might find ourselves at war with Nirota tomorrow.”
“I’m aware of that,” Russell said. “Also, I’m having the three bodies flown here for examination. And I want to get a live Nirotan to examine, too.”
“That won’t be so easy,” Harriman said. “They don’t like Earthmen peering at them up close.”
“They’d better like it,” Russell said. “Take a trip over to the Nirotan consulate downtown and talk to the head man.”
Harriman nodded. “Right. But I don’t think they’re going to cooperate.”
The news sheets picked up the story with almost supernatural speed. THREE VAMPIRE VICTIMS, screamed the headlines of the afternoon editions. BLOODLESS BODIES FOUND IN FRISCO, LONDON, WARSAW. NIROTANS SUSPECTED.
Harriman made an appointment to see the ranking member of the Nirotan Consulate at half past two that afternoon. Until that time, he busied himself with keeping up on news reports.
Angry mobs were beginning to form. A country-wide pogrom was under way in Poland, the object to hunt down any Nirotans that could be found and destroy them. Ancient superstitious legends had been reawakened in Central Europe. There was talk of silver bullets, of wooden stakes through the heart.
“Dracula-men from the stars,” shouted a West Coast newspaper. In Los Angeles, crowds surrounded the Nirotan headquarters, climbing towering palms to hurl bricks at the windows. A major incident was brewing as news of the triple killings swept the world. Fear and hatred were turned against alien beings of all sorts. Harriman sent out a world-wide order instructing authorities everywhere to give sanctuary to aliens of any kind, in case the mob generalized its hate and struck out against all non-humans.
At two that afternoon the first body arrived—from London, flown over by transatlantic rocket. Harriman had a moment to view the corpse before heading downtown to the Nirotan consulate.
The victim was a girl of about seventeen, with plain but pleasant features. The sheet was lifted from her body and Harriman saw its paper-whiteness, and the two dark little holes at her throat. Horror crept down his back. It was a ghastly sight, this bloodless body. The girl’s mouth was locked in the configurations of a terrified scream. She looked like a waxen image, not like a creature of flesh and blood.
Harriman’s special car was waiting for him outside the Agency building. He rode downtown in deep silence, his mind still gripped by the sight of those chalk
y young breasts, those dead white thighs. Despite himself he could picture the huge revolting form of the Nirotan huddling around her, its wings half unfolding as the gleaming teeth plunged through the soft flesh of the protesting girl’s throat—
Harriman shook his head. He was an officer of the law, he reminded himself. An impartial investigator dedicated to justice. He had to keep from letting his emotions enter into the case. Maybe the Nirotans were hideous; maybe they did look like the Devil’s own nightmares. It made no difference. His job was simply to determine guilt or innocence.
If the Nirotans were guilty, if three of their number had committed the crimes, then there would be grave interstellar repercussions. Probably the Nirotans would be asked to leave Earth permanently.
But if they were innocent—somehow—then it was his job to protect them from the wrath of the mobs, and find the real culprits.
The Nirotan consulate was a sturdy four-story building on Fifth Avenue—an old building, dating back nearly two centuries. Just now it was surrounded by a boiling, screaming mob. Eight armed men in the gray uniforms of the Security Corps held the rioters back. The door, Harriman saw, was barred. One of the Security men had a cut over his left eye; the result, probably, of a thrown missile.
The crowd melted to one side as Harriman’s official Security Corps car came to a halt outside the building. Escorted by three armed Corpsmen, Harriman made his way up the steps of the building. He waited outside the door while a scanner beam examined him. There was the sound of relays groaning as the heavy protective bars were electronically drawn back.
The door opened. A Nirotan stood in the shadows within, looming high above Harriman.
“Enter,” the alien said in its strange, hoarse, dry-sounding voice.
Harriman stepped inside and the great door clanged shut behind him, obliterating the raucous screams of the mob outside. Three Nirotans faced Harriman, the smallest of them better than half a foot taller than he. They conducted him silently through the building to the office of the Nirotan consul.
In the Beginning: Tales From the Pulp Era Page 34
