Amazing Vignettes Page 6

  And they drifted apart . . .

  So might two cosmic beings view the new theories of the formation of the Solar System which have been advanced by reputable scientist Urey, of Nobel prize and heavy water fame, and by von Weizaeker, a cohort in the search for knowledge. Urey announced after intensive study that the Earth was formed by huge clouds of dust which coalesced together then became hot and resulted in our present planet.

  Furthermore to prove his theory, Urey maintains that the temperature of the Earth is increasing, not decreasing, and that this is due to the immense radiation of radioactive materials which made up the original dust.

  How valid these new ideas are, remains to be seen, but it wouldn’t be at all surprising if they turned out to be the truth. Sometimes in science, the oldest best-established ideas, are the very ones which are wrong.

  Von Weizaeker’s contribution is surprisingly similar to Urey’s. He believes in the vortex formation of the System, in which masses of gas contract into vortex, spiralshaped forms which eventually become what we know as solid matter.

  Since atomic thinking has upset so many of our old, well, established ideas, we simply have to adjust to the new. It isn’t hard to do—after all, these things happened a few billion years ago . . .

  Refuge!

  Sandy Miller

  IRTY RAT!” The somber gray-garbed figure clenched his blaster tighter to him. He turned to his companion, a soldier of the Securities, who similarly cradled a blaster. “We’ll hunt down every last one of the rotten Freemen.”

  Peter Lenten crouched behind the shelter of the brick wall and the hedges and shivered. Oh God, he thought, don’t let it happen here. I know they’ll find me, but let me just breathe country air again. I can’t stand anymore of this concrete jungle.

  He stiffened with resolve. He clenched and unclenched his fingers around the butt of the heavy old-fashioned automatic pistol. The Proles had turned the country into a dreary, morbid police state, in which to think was to die. Not to conform was the equivalent of a death sentence. Well, all right, he wasn’t going to conform. Maybe he’d die, but he wouldn’t become like those thoughtless automatons who were hunting him down. Give them a meal and a coat and a gun, and they’d kill their own mothers!

  Bitter and heart-sick he crouched in his makeshift shelter until their softening footsteps told him they were going. There was a little hope, just a little, that he might run on one of the Free Bands, if he could get out of the drab city. But everything was so closely patrolled that it was almost impossible.

  Peter Lenten straightened up, looked around and despite the darkness started off at a quick lope. The gaunt images of factory buildings on the city’s rim became fewer as he went. Abruptly he stumbled into a figure. The reek of the man’s breath was over-powering put Peter let no sound escape him. He dared not fire. He swung up the gun choppily. The man staggered and fell, too startled to cry out. Savagely Peter clubbed him again to make sure that he was out. Then he went on.

  It wasn’t long before there were only trees and fields and Peter Lenten knew he was free—temporarily perhaps, but he was free! Now all that remained was to hunt and somehow survive until he ran into a Free Band. They’d help him.

  Peter Lenten didn’t see the blaster come level thirty feet away. Peter Lenten didn’t feel the vital-tearing savagery of the blaster bolt that tore through his body. A golden glow exploded in his mind. Freedom, he thought, freedom . . .

  Mercurian Madness

  John Weston

  YOU THINK Hell is hot? Brother, you don’t know what heat is—not until you’ve spent a little time on Mercury. That stinking little sphere is closer to the Sun then a frying pan is to the fire. And barren? Not a soul goes near the planet, not a normal soul that is; Scientists and Patrolmen aren’t normal souls.

  Kent Frazer spent some time on Mercury, but that isn’t strange because he’s been everywhere a Patrolman can be sent—and some places where they can’t. And underneath that brilliant flaming eye, Kent did a job.

  Seeley knew Kent Frazer was after him the minute he jumped the Venusian drug-carrier and hi-jacked its cargo. He had a cool forty million credits in that little lead cylinder and he knew it. That’s why he jumped in his little rocket and blasted all jets straight for Earth, where nominally the Patrol’s jurisdiction is considerably hampered and confined by the Civil Bill. He knew he’d find sanctuary there easily—it’s easy to get lost among thirty billion people, especially when the fences will pay through the nose for di-paramorphinolate, the Devil’s gift to erring men.

  Seeley’s radar spotted the Patrol flitter on his tail. Seeley knew he’d never clear the net which Kent would throw out with pulsed radio communications, so he did the only thing left for him to do—he fled. Since he was making a trans-orbital jump across the System to Earth, his best bet was to hide. He knew eventually he’d get away—or so he thought. Anyhow, he goosed his speedy little craft towards the nearest shelter—Mercury.

  And while he pondered his navigation charts and instruments, he boned up a little on Mercurian geography which can be summarized in one phrase, “a hot, flat plain”. All the while Kent’s job kept gaining.

  Seeley made it though. Kent wasn’t quite fast enough. During the chase Seeley’s radio kept picking up Kent’s voice—

  “C’mon Seeley, surrender now. I promise you leniency. You can’t make it. You can’t get away . . .”

  The criminal flipped open his own mike once and just laughed into the phone. Then he cut it off and attended to business.

  His three hour lead was enough for him to elude Kent fairly easily and when the Patrolman made his approach he saw nothing but sand, lava, and burning eroded surfaces with the perpetual boiling mercury pools casting off their shadowy vapors into the almost-airlessness of the blistered planet.

  It wasn’t hard for Kent to track down the ship used by Seeley. A quick examination showed it to be missing the little lifeboat which meant that Seeley was able to flee when he felt like it, that is, when he thought Kent would have given up the search.

  Kent locked his own craft, keyed it with a radio pulse and left it floating in the atmosphere twenty-miles up so that Seeley couldn’t grab it. He then wrecked the controls of Seeley’s ship and started his search.

  It was a heart-breaking task. In the ghastly heat and radiation, Kent, despite his work-hardened frame, could only work a two-hour stretch. Then he’d return to his ship to rest. And all the while was the waiting tension of a possible ambushing by Seeley.

  For two weeks, Kent kept up the impossible regimen. But he found no trace of the wily criminal. His blaster poised perpetually. Kent expanded his search in an increasing spiral, venturing into caves, going into holes, literally crisping himself in the planetary hell.

  He found Seeley suddenly.

  The bottom half of Seeley and his suit, was gone. Only the upper portion remained. Seeley’s remains were jammed in a crevice, jammed securely, so that he was held in a perfect position for a tidal pulse of boiling mercury to ooze up around him. Seeley had been roasted within his suit!

  In accordance with regulations, Kent took the remains with him, including the ash of the drug; Then he applied for a six-month leave due him—and you don’t have to guess where he vacationed . . . Rocky Mountain City on the good cool green Earth suited him perfectly. Kent never visited Mercury again . . .

  Conqueror!

  Lynn Standish

  KAH, SO the supra-intelligence of the insect world designated his collective entity, was delighted, insofar as he could be delighted in his coldness, with the course of events. The frontiers were being pushed back at a rate far beyond his expectations. The biped was retreating, retreating into fortresses and shelters of every kind.

  Kali’s exultance was heightened as he thought of the gradual usurption of the world by the insect horde. In his vast ego he minimized the fact that this apparent victory soon to be his, was less the work of ants and spiders and bees and the myriad of other life-forms opposed
to the bipeds; it was in actuality, the fateful work of the bipeds themselves.

  Of his origin Kah dared not think. He knew that he seemed to come into being slowly. Once he was not—and then he was. The whole insect world came into awareness that the biped group which had held them in utter contempt, was now afraid of them. When Men, as the bipeds called themselves, began the warfare among themselves, they were effectively committing suicide. And after the destruction, they were weak.

  Kah knew that the warfare was in some subtle way connected with the collective intelligence of the insect world. Somehow the radiations—Kah wouldn’t have known the meaning of the idea—had something to do with the building up of the insect realm. Now the minute creatures ruled their world from the “Southern Pole to the Equator and men were falling before the inexhaustible hosts and hordes of ferocious, consciously directed insect marauders.

  The gigantic Queen Bee’s form in which the collective intelligence reposed, quivered with delight at each thought picture that filtered through to it.

  It saw the bipeds, with all their machines and tools, falling before the countless numbers of insects.

  Then Kah became aware of something else. Overhead came a noise, a ferocious sound which rolled against the swollen body like a huge wave. Kah, puzzled, sent a horde of winged insects skyward . . .

  Creen-Seven nodded to his companion. He pointed to the greenish terrain beneath them.

  “The director-screen says their lair lies here. Are we ready?”

  Sheel-Twenty ran a hand through his hair nervously.

  “All right,” he said, “if that’s it, we must destroy it.”

  Abruptly Creen-Seven flipped the controls and the rocket nosed earthward in a screaming dive, winging through the glittering hordes of insects which rose to greet it with destruction . . .

  The pillar of smoke and flame lanced skyward as the rocket struck and the consciousness of Kah went out like an electric light bulb. The conscious intelligence no longer existed . . .

  Going Home . . .

  Charles Recour

  “FIVE MORE minutes more . . . Think what they’ve seen! . . . I’d have sold my soul . . .”

  Brief snatches of muffled conversation interrupted the quiet of the night. The little group of men huddled about the base of the radio tower ignored the chill Arizona wind. Their eyes were fixed on the pinpoint of light which so looked like a star—but wasn’t. And it was visibly growing brighter.

  Eggleston and his assistant stood a little to the fore of the group.

  “Thank God, this gang got through!” Eggleston said fervently. His face was lined and seamed. It was the face of a man who has worried a lot. Almost as if talking to himself, he spoke in a low tone: “This is the third gang, Frank. Eighteen men lay buried on that pumice sliver. I’m sort of glad that Number Three’s radio went out. If the nervous tension would kill me, can you imagine how they must feel?” His assistant jerked a thumb in the direction of the low flat building to the right. Its lights were burning brightly.

  “I hope we don’t have to use that.”

  “We’re going to rush them to the hospital, first thing,” Eggleston said. “We can’t take any chances.”

  Almost as if in a trance, Eggleston saw the rocket come in smoothly. It wasn’t real, he thought. Man’s gotten to the Moon and back. Has it really happened?

  The rocket skillfully set itself on its jets, its tubes flaring brilliant light so that the rocket field was bathed in luminescence. Then it settled with a thump that shook the ground. The flames died.

  Even as the speedy car sped Eggleston and his assistant to the side of the landed craft, the lock was swinging open slowly. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. A half dozen trucks and ambulances roared up to the rocket, snarling around the cylinder like dogs around a bone.

  Wearily the first man climbed down the extension ladder. Eggleston was on him like a flash. The six others were slowly coming down.

  Commander Martin Selton seized Eggleston’s outstretched hand. He said nothing, but his face was a writhing mass of emotion. Finally he said simply, “I’m glad, Eggleston.”

  Then the yelling and shouting began and Eggleston found himself hard-put to bring the crewmen to the hospital. For just that reason, he had briefed the newsmen and prevented the field from overflowing with curious humanity.

  “How was it?” Eggleston asked as he accompanied the crewmen through the hospital doors while the attendants jammed them shut as soon as they’d entered.

  Selton looked at him, his lean angular face a brown mask of ultra-violet burn. “I wish I could tell you Don,” he said, “but I can’t. It’s an experience that’s incredible. Space is nowhere and everywhere. Frankly I feel a thousand years old. Everything went exactly as planned. Except for radiation burns we’re all O.K. Cranston broke a leg, but he’s all right now. We’ve got samples and specimens. We’ve brought back Moon-dust . . .” He broke off. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

  “What you need is a drink,” Eggleston said, “and then you’re going to give me the details. And after that watch out for the video and newsmen. This thing is spreading like wild-fire right now.”

  Selton stared at an ash-tray. “We’re going back of course,” he said. He saw the other about to interrupt and quickly resumed. “—don’t worry, there’s uranium—it’s worthwhile. We’re the beginning. Men are really going out into deep space. If we’d have had the fuel, we’d have taken the Martian orbit, I swear it.”

  “I believe you,” Eggleston said quietly. “I wish I could have gone. But I guess I’ll have to be like most of us ‘Earthmen’—’ I’ll have to go into space via your film. I hope it’s good.”

  Eggleston left the hospital while the men were being checked over. He saw the gleaming cylinder shining in the moonlight but it was different than before. The deep scratches, the powdery white ash, the burnt and blackened tubes—these were the things that marked a spaceship. He said the last word aloud, softly, as if it were a prayer.

  Men had gone to the Moon. More would. Then Mars . . . then into the System . . . and maybe someday . . . someday, the stars. Eggleston lifted his head proudly. He’d helped to take men off the planet. He wished he were Selton for a moment.

  He lit a cigarette and stood staring at the rocket for a long long time . . .

  The Vanishment

  Lee Owen

  I USE THE word “vanishment” instead of disappearance because it has a full and rich sound. It is reminiscent of power and nobility and since this is about the Ferenczi case, I think that is fitting.

  I’m a newspaperman with the Clayton Herald, a small paper which you may have seen. We’re more concerned with births and deaths and marriages than we are with events in the big outside world. And that’s just as true here.

  There’s nothing spectacular to tell. At least nothing that would excite the average person, but if you’ve got a touch of the romantic within you, well . . .

  Ferenczi—he was either a Count or Baron—I can never remember which—was a very quiet sort of person whom we rarely saw. He lived in a large house three miles outside of town, ordered his meager supplies over the ’phone and was rarely seen or rarely spoken to by anyone. All in all, he seemed like a good mind-your-own-business sort of citizen. People around here like that.

  It was the paper boy who reported that something was wrong. It seems that the papers he was delivering were piling up. Apparently Ferenczi was not taking them in. He knocked at the door a number of times. Finally he called me. I drove out to see what the matter was. As I remembered, Ferenczi wasn’t a young man by any means.

  I entered the drafty gloomy old house and it was for the first time. I was impressed by the full length portrait of the man, which hung over the mantel. He was painted in evening dress, rather old-fashioned it seemed to me, and across his shirt front was one of these colored ribbons which all foreign noblemen are supposed to wear.

  There was nothing else to be seen. I wandered through the hous
e. Everything was in order. But Ferenczi wasn’t around. He hadn’t gone anywhere for his clothes and effects were neatly arranged, his traveling bags in the closet and a fine layer of dust over everything.

  I went into the book-lined study, an impressive comfortable room, with deep easy-chairs and an air of brooding about it. Then it was that I noticed something unusual. On the side-table next to a chair lay a pistol. It was an ancient brass-mounted gun of the dueling pistol variety—I’m no gunsmith so I don’t know the details.

  I didn’t touch it but I examined it carefully from where it lay and I could see that it had been discharged fairly recently. Um, I thought, if the man committed suicide, where is the body? As I glanced around the walls, I saw several disturbed books. I went over to look at them. They had been struck a heavy blow and the binding of one was torn and broken. I took it out and something fell from its ripped interior. It was a bullet!

  I picked the pellet up and examined it. It was flattened and somewhat dirty but in spots it shown. Puzzled I looked closes. It was made of silver!

  The hair began to stand up on the back of my neck. I went over to the easy chair once more and looked at its seat. It was very very dusty, almost as if someone had taken a fine dust in heavy quantities and strewn it on the chair’s seat.

  I was chilled. A vague and disturbing thought ran through my mind. A man commits suicide, uses an old pistol and a silver bullet, and leaves no body behind—how do those facts add up?

  Well, there’s been no official explanation yet, and we wrote that Ferenczi had disappeared, but I know, for one that he’s never coming back. Vamp—strange people like that never do . . .

  The Deeps

  Lee Owen

  SWAIN LET the murky waters slide upwards. He couldn’t get over the grotesque view. Actually he was sinking deeper and deeper. The armor-suit kept out the terrific pressures and Swain could move easily. The joints were perfect.