Amazing Vignettes Page 18

  “The next weeks are going to mean work,” I said. “All we can do now is to live by radio orders.”

  “I wonder if we’ve answered them,” Marie mused. “Did our bombers hit them the same way?”

  “I think,” I said grimly, “that we’ve done a much better job.” I shrugged, “Well the first atomic bombing’s over here. Let’s go up and have a cup of coffee. We might as well relax a moment.”

  And that’s how we went through the bombing—there were no heroics and no real dangers—surviving the bombing was a question of doing a job—essentially obeying radio orders—and that was just as true for those directly beneath the blasts. It was impersonal . . .

  Nothing

  Pete Boggs

  “WELL, JIM,” Professor Franklin said, “are we set:”

  Jim Blakemore, his assistant, glanced around the spherical structure tubing which encased them and took one last look at the laboratory. He grinned.

  “I’m nervous as hell, Doc,” he said a shade too casually, “but I’m ready.”

  Professor Franklin smiled encouragingly. “All right then. Here goes!”

  He reached over to the control panel of the time-machine which housed them and pressed a button. The keening whine of a generator rose rapidly. Then he turned the dial indicator, past ten-thousand, past twenty-thousand, past thirty-thousand!

  His face grew sober. “Jim,” he said, “we’ll see the millennium. We’ll go far enough ahead to get beyond Man’s petty wars and troubles. We’ll see a golden future.”

  He touched the motivator stud—and blackness surrounded them as the sphere was caught in the warped space that guided the time stream. The only illumination came from the dial lights. All else was blackness. No physical sensation of heat or cold penetrated their temporal or physical status. But the acute sense of isolation seemed almost physical in its impact. The keening of the generator was confident and sound.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by light. This was forty thousand years A.D.!

  Both Jim and Professor Franklin blinked at the sudden brightness. They looked around them. Outside the sun was shining, a sun little changed by time, unnoticeably so to the human eye. They were resting on a knoll fairly high so that they got a good view of the countryside. And a city could be seen a short distance away.

  But there wasn’t a speck of green! Nor was there a sound—not even the chirp of a cricket, though obviously it was a Spring day. The city could be seen clearly—what there was of it—a mass of broken stone and steel.

  Jim and the Professor caught all of this in a single glance. Jim’s white face suddenly riveted itself to the dial panel. The neon light of the Geiger was bright and the click of it had blurred into a solid note.

  Professor Franklin reached for the panel at the same time as Jim did—shoving the lever back to normality.

  “We picked a world, Jim,” Franklin said drearily, “a world which is dead and as burnt out as used coal. Man found and used the hydrogen bomb all right . . .”

  When the World Went Black

  Salem Lane

  AN “AMAZING” VIGNETTE

  “DO YOU want more of the soup, John?” Louise asked, her hand poised on the ladle.

  “I’ll have a little more, dear,” he answered. But he wasn’t really listening. He was thinking how well the planting had come through. Next year he hoped to put in wheat. Next year . . .

  He glanced around the crude wooden cabin, very near to a log-cabin. He asked himself a thousand times what miracle had caused him to be vacationing with Louise when the bombs fell. That had been four years ago and there were no cities and very few people like themselves, fortunate to survive, fortunate not to have been radiation-exposures. Yet he and Louise were still childless and more and more the fear struck him that somehow they’d been touched by the paralysis which had struck down the world.

  “John,” Louise broke in on his thoughts, “I’ve been wondering. Can’t we run into the city soon? The radiation must be dying down by now.”

  “No,” he answered patiently as if he’d explained this a hundred times before. “It must have been cobalt,” he said, “and I’m sure it’s not safe. We’ll wait. Jackson thinks the same way.” Jackson and his wife were two more fortunates who hadn’t been touched.

  Louise puttered around the simple wood-burning stove. John’s gaze lingered on the useless rifle standing against the wall. It would be nice to go into the city. He’d be able to get cartridges for it then. The bow standing beside it though wasn’t a bad substitute at that. He thought proudly of the animals he’d brought down with it. He shuddered slightly when he thought also of the other animal—the mutant.

  Suddenly he heard Louise shriek and be looked up. At the window a face was peering in and though he glimpsed it only momentarily he knew exactly what it was. There was a Mutie outside!

  He dove for the bow and the wall and the simple quiver of arrows beside it. Besides his knife it was his only weapon. Frightened, Louise clung to his arm. Gently John freed himself and stood waiting in front of the door. Certainly the monster outside would make an effort to enter. He hoped that there was only one.

  And of course it happened. The wooden latch lifted. The door swung open slowly and the Thing stood there facing them. It had been human once. Even under the ketoid scar tissue that covered its naked hulk from head to toe, the humaness was recognizable. The radiation sickness had not hurts its metabolism though for it stood a good six feet tall even though it was bent with its characteristic stoop. Its arms hung at its side and from the gash of a mouth, unrecognizable sounds issued.

  John fitted the nock of an arrow to the string of the bow, poised to draw and fire. “Go away,” he said desperately. “We can’t help you.” He knew the words meant nothing to the thing in front of them. He felt Louise’s trembling beside him. He was torn between pity and disgust. This thing had once been a man like himself. But the radiation had changed it completely and some subtle something in its makeup refused to allow it to die. From starvation it had turned into a cannibalistic ghoul, its mental processes non-existent.

  John took hold of himself. “Don’t look, Louise,” he said dispassionately. “I’m going to kill it.”

  It was mere coincidence that caused the creature to hurl itself toward them, crouched at the opposite wall. He could not have understood the words. The powerful arms extended, it hurled itself into the room. This was food. That was its one motivating factor.

  Even as the creature moved John’s arms flashed up and the bowstring came back. The vibratory sound of the released bowstring filled the room momentarily and the creature stopped in its tracks staring stupidly at the crudely feathered shaft buried half its length in its chest. A gurgling sound came from its mouth and it sank to the floor—dead.

  “Oh John,” Louise whispered in mingled relief and horror at the necessity of the deed. John swallowed. I am an atavar, he thought, defending my mate. The silliness of the thought struck Jim—but this is nineteen eighty. He threw back his head and laughed—but there was no humor in it. He held Louise tightly in his arms. “This is nineteen eighty,” he whispered against her hair, “we must live . . .”

  Pioneer to Venus

  Salem Lane

  GRATEFULLY, Jerry Lennon felt the clutch of acceleration taking hold. The weeks of weightless nausea were over, the sickening, soul-wrenching absence of gravity was going. The decelerating rockets of the Venusian-bound Stellar IV were operating.

  Nobody in the cramped little cabin spoke. Each was occupied with his thoughts. Jerry glanced at Fehler, the powerfully-built ex-boxer. What was going on in his mind? But he didn’t ask. Privacy was respected, even the privacy of keeping quiet and thinking to yourself.

  Jerry stretched back on the metalframed bunk. His cramped stomach muscles gradually relaxed as the acceleration increased. He knew they’d keep it at one grav until the landing. Abruptly, Olsen in the lower bunk sat up. He glanced at his wrist Watch.

  “Four hours to go,” he said t
o no one in particular.

  “I wonder what it’s like,” Jerry said, Nobody answered, so he kept quiet.

  He’d had momentary pangs of hesitancy all through the trip, from take-off that cold February morning until now. Why had he left that soft job, he asked himself, to settle in what the books called “the God-forsaken stink that is Venus?” He wasn’t really the adventurous type—but then he wasn’t an adventurer—he was a pioneer!

  The videos he’d seen of Venus had attracted him all right. There men were building a world! Jerry laughed half-aloud when he thought how dramatic the phrase sounded.

  “What’s the matter, kid?” Olsen asked suddenly.

  “Nothing,” Jerry answered, “I was just thinking.”

  “Well don’t think too hard, kid. You’re gonna work.”

  Jerry didn’t reply. He knew he was going to work. Didn’t his file state “electronician, first class?” Didn’t he know servomechanisms and remote controls like his own name? They needed mechanics of all kinds in the Colonies. Venus City was blossoming fast.

  They went through the jarring of the landing, not so different from the takeoff, and when the shock subsided, Jerry sensed the motionlessness of the rocket. He was on Venus! The communicator barked suddenly, its tinny voice filling the room with harsh sound:

  “. . . Occupants of all cabins, eight through twenty . . . attention . . . gather all personal gear . . . stow in bag and carry to landing exit port . . . you will follow assigned guards to sleeping barracks for assignments, immunization, and general orientation tomorrow. . . .”

  Jerry was as quick as his room companions, and they were all through the door into the corridor, narrow and pipe-filled, stooping and grunting, they joined other groups walking toward the exit ports, Jerry couldn’t refrain from one last glance at the little cubicle which had housed them through the trip. In a way, he thought, it was funny: they hadn’t left that space once, till now.

  Through the open port, Jerry could see a brilliant light, obviously the landing lights. Overpoweringly strong, an odor was sweeping into the ship, along the corridor. It was less an odor, than a stench, a stench compounded of fish and the sea, and fertility and decay. It was rank and malodorous, sweeping brinily and headily into your nostrils. Jerry knew that this was the “Venusian smell”—at least the old-timers called it that.

  And then he was swept in the pressing group to the debarkation ramp. He got his first glimpse of Venus. But he didn’t see much.

  Everywhere, there was confusion and noise, the shouting of orders, the clang of metal, the flicker of lights and torches. It was orderly confusion.

  As Jerry walked down the ramp toward the long low buildings which were the barracks and which would be his first home on Venus, he looked back again at the towering symbol of the rocket. The Venusian night was damp and warm and dark, the odor was everywhere and the rocket seemed to blend in with the background. Just for a minute he felt a pang of homesickness, a tiny twinge of fear—and then it was gone. Resolutely he turned his head away and marked with the group. He was a pioneer. He was a Venusian colonist. He was going to build a world . . .

  Pirates Out of Space

  E. Bruce Yaches

  An “Amazing” Vignette

  THEY’RE A welcome sight, those bulky astro-domes, as they swing across your sighter. The minute you spot them from your rocket ports, you know you’re on course and the audio chattel’s the welcome greeting seconds later, listing course and position. The astro-domes have made interplanetary travel a lot simpler and more automatic.

  It was morning, I.P. time, which doesn’t mean a lot, when I woke up and saw the massive bulk of the Sun on my quarter. I yawned and stretched, as best I could in the small hulk of the patrol craft. I went to the rear bulkhead and dragged out my rations, keeping one eye cocked on the port. Sure enough, a black dot appeared across the filtered bulk of the Sun and I knew it was the Merc-dome, number one in the chain which ran across the System. Merc-dome’s job was important and it was a busy way station, guiding and signalling the numerous freighters which took the sunward plunge to arc across to the outer planets and their satellites, storing up the potential of gravitation.

  The speaker stuttered and clucked and from a million kilometers away, the Merc-dome spoke: “Merc-dome One to Patroller . . . Signal picked up . . . check on course . . . relaying message from Mercury, quote: ‘Patroller land at once’, unquote . . . that is all. . . .”

  The speaker’s chuckle died and I stared at it, puzzled. What was the matter with Herbie and Liane? They were on duty, I knew, and they knew me and my patroller. Why so curt? That message didn’t make sense. And why should the Mercurian base want me to land? That meant a swing of twenty million kilometers back on course and I knew there were other patrollers a lot closer. Something was definitely wrong here.

  I stepped over to the control panel and cut my automatic signalling ‘mitter to “gradual die”, knowing that as my signal faded the Merc-dome would conclude it was vanishing with distance. Visually they’d never pick up the arc of my tiny craft. And at the same time I opened up for the Merc-dome.

  As I approached the Merc-dome I knew instantly something was haywire. Clustered around the lock of the hundred meter sphere were a half dozen small space-craft and a hundred kilometers to the rear, that is, sunwards, hovered the massive bulk of a freighter. This was crazy. Ships never stopped at astro-domes except for genuine emergencies. I knew what I was seeing, all right. This was out and out piracy and whoever was doing it had guts all right—but of course that one looted freighter would make it more than worthwhile. Evidently the first pigeon had been lured so easily they were tempted to try more. Well they’d made a big error this time.

  I hit the ultra-wave key and shot through an emergency call to the Mercurian base. They’d have cruisers out here in a hurry. Then I went into action.

  Playing the controls like the console-keyboard they were, I barreled in toward the cluster of small spacecraft concentrated at the entry-lock. Two micro-atomics from the nose cannon were enough! Even the lock section of the Merc-dome stove in under the blast, but the damage was relatively minor; the spacecraft wouldn’t move though!

  I did a quick arc out to the freighter which under close inspection was as riddled as a tin-can—probably half the crew dead too.

  The rest was anti-climactic; I sat around the Merc-dome and waited for the Patroller cruisers to show up. Two or three of the pirates tried a suit-dash—why, I don’t know—they could go anywhere even if they got free—and I slapped a beam on, giving them quite a ride in the process.

  After that the pirates quietly surrendered. They knew the futility of resistance.

  When I finally got Herbie and Liane on the ‘mitter I learned they hadn’t been roughed up much. . . . “Tell them next time they try to pirate from a dome, they should try being friendlier . . . that’s what aroused my suspicions. . . .” I could hear the two of them laughing . . .

  Flaherty’s Lucky Day

  E. Bruce Yaches

  An “Amazing” Vignette

  “I’LL GIVE you the whole lot for five X bucks.” The Pawnbroker scratched his balding head. “Take it or leave it. I don’t want to break up the set.”

  Flaherty studied them once more. The micrometer was a beauty, all right, but what the hell were the rest of the gadgets? They didn’t look like any tools he’d ever seen.

  “O.K.” He shrugged. “I’ll take ’em, but I don’t know what good they’ll do in the garage. The mike’s a honey, though.”

  He paid the five dollars and took the small package the pawnbroker wrapped. Good thing he’d stopped and asked about the mike. The guy seemed to be a jerk, letting go a good mike for five bucks. Of course the rest of the junk wasn’t worth a dime. Probably some kind of instrument tools—certainly no good in Flaherty’s Garage.

  When he got back to the garage Flaherty didn’t go to work right away. It was a hot afternoon and the beer in the ice bucket was mighty tempting. Let Clayton’s Buic
k wait awhile. He’d get at it in due time.

  He opened the package of tools and examined them. He put the mike on the rack. He didn’t have to check that. It was good even if there was a “Starrett” trade name marked on it. A good mechanic can tell by the feel of a tool whether or not it’s worthwhile.

  He puzzled over the rest of the stuff, though. It was just as shiny and in as good condition as the mike but none of the items bore any familiar shape. Some were short and chunky, some slim and delicate. The words “tools” didn’t even seem to apply. Certainly they weren’t intended for hands; maybe they were for machines. But Flaherty had worked in machine shops and still he didn’t understand them.

  He chucked them aside and finally went to work. He was replacing the shocks on the Buick and a stubborn nut wouldn’t give. Setting the box wrench firmly, he looked around for something to pound it with. The mallet was on the bench and he didn’t want to bother crawling from under the car. He wanted something heavy.

  That might do. He grabbed a short, chunky piece of metal from the tool kit—or whatever it was—he had discarded He began to hammer against the arm of the wrench, giving it torque-shocks bound to loosen the nut.

  He struck the wrench once, lightly—and the bolt gave.

  He was surprised. Still holding the slug of metal in his hand, he took away the wrench, intending to put a socket on it and spin away the nut. Funny, but the slug of metal felt stiff and rigid, as if it were attached to something. Then he saw the bolt move! Experimentally he turned the slug of metal in his hand and the nut, ten inches away, started to turn too! It was just as if some magnetic field linked the object from the took kit and the nut, a magnetic field that did the work and required only the slightest guidance.

  It took Flaherty a week before he found out that he possessed a set of tools unlike any ever before seen on this Earth, and he didn’t talk about them. But the tools in his already skilled hands made his work effortless. They acted as if possessed by an intelligence of their own. Nothing made of metal balked them. He nearly died of shock when he discovered that a harmless-looking sliver of metal, if properly squeezed, cut through steel like a knife through cheese!