A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  I hung the needle up on the air, curled myself into a ball, and, entirely unstrung, started sobbing like a fool.

  It must have been a long time before I managed to pull myself together, because before I even looked to see whether Haalvordhen was still alive, I heard the slight buzzing noise which meant it was a meal-period and that food had been sent through the chute to our cabin. I pushed the padding listlessly aside, and withdrew the heat-sealed containers—one set colorless, the. other set nonhuman fluorescent.

  Tardily conscious of what a fool I’d been making of myself, I hauled my rations over to the skyhook, and tucked them into a special slot, so that they wouldn’t float away. Then, with a glance at the figure stretched out motionless beneath me safety-strap of the other skyhook, I shrugged, pushed myself across the cabin again, and brought the fluorescent containers to Haalvordhen.

  He made a weary, courteous noise which I took for acknowledgment. By now heartily sick of the whole business, I set them before him with a bare minimum of politeness and withdrew to my own skyhook, occupying myself with the always-ticklish problem of eating in free-fall.

  At last I drew myself up to return the containers to the chute, knowing we wouldn’t leave the cabin during the entire trip. Space, on a starship, is held to a rigid minimum. There is simply no room for untrained outsiders moving around In the cramped ship perhaps getting dangerously close to critically delicate equipment, and the crew is far too busy to stop and keep an eye on rubbernecking tourists.

  In an emergency, passengers can summon a crewman by pressing a call-button. Otherwise, as far as the crew was concerned, we were in another world.

  I paused in midair to Haalvordhen’s skyhook. Its containers were untouched and I felt moved to say, “Shouldn’t you try to eat something?

  The flat voice had become even weaker and more rasping now, and the nonhuman’s careful enunciation was slurred Words of his native Samarran intermingled with queer turns of phrase which I expected were literally rendered from mental concepts.

  “Heart-kind of you, thakkava Varga Miss, but late. Haalvordhen-I deep in grateful wishing—” A long spate of Samarran, thickly blurred, followed, then as if to himself, “Theradin-we, die nowhere only on Samarra, and only a little time ago Haalvordhen-I knowing must die, and must returning to home planet. Saata. Knowing to return and die there where Theradin-we around dying—” The jumble of words blurred again, and the limp “hands” clutched spasmodically, in and out.

  Then, in a queer, careful tone, the nonhuman said, “But I am not living to return where I can stop-die. Not so long Haalvordhen-I be lasting, although Vargas-you Miss be helping most like real instead of alien. Sorry your people be most you unhelping—he stopped again, and with a queer little grunting noise, continued, “Now Haalvordhen-I be giving Vargas-you stop-gift of heritage, be needful it is.”

  The flaccid form of the nonhuman suddenly stiffened, went rigid. The drooping lids over the Theradin’s eyes seemed to unhood themselves, and in a spasm of fright I tried to fling myself backward. But I did not succeed. I remained motionless, held in a dumb fascination.

  I felt a sudden, icy cold, and the sharp physical nausea crawled over me again at the harsh and sickening touch of the alien on my mind, not in words this time, but in a rapport even closer—a hateful touch so intimate that I felt my body go limp in helpless fits and spasms of convulsive shuddering under the deep, hypnotic contact.

  Then a wave of darkness almost palpable surged up in my brain. I tried to scream, “Stop it, stop it!” And a panicky terror flitted in my last conscious thought through my head. This is why, this is the reason humans and telepaths don’t mix—

  And then a great dark door opened under my senses and I plunged again into unconsciousness.

  IT WAS not more than a few seconds, I suppose, before the blackness swayed and lifted and I found myself floating, curled helplessly in mid-air, and seeing, with a curious detachment, the Theradin’s skyhook below me. Something in the horrid limpness of that form stirred me wide awake.

  With a tight band constricting my breathing, I arrowed downward. I had never seen a dead Theradin before, but I needed no one to tell me that I saw one now. The constricting band still squeezed my throat in dry gasps, and in a frenzy of hysteria I threw myself wildly across the cabin, beating and battering on the emergency button, shrieking and sobbing and screaming . . .

  They kept me drugged all the rest of the trip. Twice I remember waking and shrieking out things I did not understand myself, before the stab of needles in my arm sent me down into comforting dreams again. Near the end of the flight, while my brain was still fuzzy, they made me sign a paper, something to do with witnessing that the crew held no responsibility for the Theradin’s death.

  It didn’t matter. There was something clear and cold and shrewd in my mind, behind the surface fuzziness, which told me I must do exactly what they wanted, or I would find myself in serious trouble with the Terran authorities. At the time I didn’t even care about that, and supposed it was the drugs. Now, of course, I know the truth.

  When the ship made planetfall at Samarra, I had to leave the Vesta and transship for Terra. The Vesta’s little captain shook me by the hand and carefully avoided my eyes, without mentioning the dead Theradin. I had the feeling—strange, how clear it was to my perceptions—that he regarded me in the same way he would regard a loaded time bomb that might explode at any moment.

  I knew he was anxious to hurry me aboard a ship for Terra. He offered me special reservations on a lino-cruiser at a nominal price, with the obvious lie that he owned a part interest in it. Detachedly I listened to his floundering lies, ignored the hand he offered again, and told a lie or two of my own. He was angry. I knew he didn’t want me to linger on Samarra.

  Even so, he was glad to be rid of me.

  Descending at last from the eternal formalities of the Terran landing zone, I struck out quickly across the port city and hailed a Theradin ground-car. The Theradin driving it looked at me curiously, and in a buzzing voice informed me that I could find a human conveyance at the opposite corner. Surprised at myself, I stopped to wonder what I was doing. And then—

  And then I identified myself in a way the Theradin could not mistake. He was nearly as surprised as I was. I clambered into the car, and he drove me to the queer, block-shaped building which my eyes had never seen before, but which I now knew as intimately as the blue sky of Terra.

  Twice, as I crossed the twisting ramp, I was challenged. Twice, with the same shock of internal surprise, I answered the challenge correctly.

  At last I came before a Theradin whose challenge crossed mine like a sure, sharp lance, and the result was startling. The Theradin Haalvamphrenan leaned backward twice in acknowledgment, and said—not in words—“Haalvordhen!”

  I answered in the same fashion. “Yes. Due to certain blunders, I could not return to our home planet, and was forced to use the body of this alien. Having made the transfer unwillingly, under necessity, I now see certain advantages. Once within this body, it does not seem at all repulsive, and the host is highly intelligent and sympathetic.

  “I regret the feeling that I am distasteful to you, dear friend. But, consider. I can now contribute my services as messenger and courier, without discrimination by these mind-blind Terrans. The law which prevents Theradin from dying on any other planet should now be changed.”

  “Yes, yes,” the other acquiesced, quickly grasping my meaning. “But now to personal matters, my dear Haalvordhen. Of course your possessions are held intact for you.”

  I became aware that I possessed five fine residences upon the planet, a private lake, a grove of Theirry-trees, and four hattel-boats. Inheritance among the Theradin, of course, is dependent upon continuity of the mental personality, regardless of the source of the young. When any Theradin died, transferring his mind into a new and younger host, the new host at once possessed all of those things which had belonged to the former personality. Two Theradin, unsatisfied with thei
r individual wealth, sometimes pooled their personalities into a single host-body, thus accumulating modest fortunes.

  Continuity of memory, of course, was perfect. As Helen Vargas, I had certain rights and privileges as a Terran citizen, certain possessions, certain family rights, certain Empire privileges. And as Haalvordhen, I was made free of Samarra as well.

  In a sense of strict justice, I “told” Haalvamphrenan how the original host had died. I gave him the captain’s name. I didn’t envy him, when the Vesta docked again at Samarra.

  “On second thought,” Haalvamphrenan said reflectively, “I shall merely commit suicide in his presence.”

  Evidently Helen-Haalvordhen-I had a very long and interesting life ahead of me.

  So did all the other Theradin.

  THIS TREASURE IS MINE!

  Paul W. Fairman

  Leonard Coffin followed the newlyweds to the asteroid with one purpose in mind. He would kill them if they resisted, for he had decided—

  HIS tired, blood shot eyes gazed with satisfaction on the strange dumbell-shape of the asteroid Eros. For three sleepless days and nights he had followed the larger spaceship as a tiny darting pip on the radar screen of his own overage one-man cruiser. And now—destination Eros. For a time it had seemed as if the universe had lost its very existence, dissolved by the magic of radar and his own savage desire to pursue into the tiny energy pip.

  With a tired triumphant smile he brought his ship down. So it was Eros. He had known it was one of the asteroids but a whole Army of men might have grown old searching out the particular one. Eros—and treasure trove.

  As his ship made touchdown three or four rock-strewn miles from the larger vessel, he was already discounting any resistance he might encounter. They were just a couple of kids, he thought. Newlyweds who wouldn’t have a chance against a seasoned spacehound.

  He had to hand it to them, though. His name was Leonard Coffin and he thought that if he ever married—which was doubtful—he too would spend his honeymoon in search of a treasure potentially worth more than all the money which had ever been minted on Earth or in the solar system.

  You had to hand it to those kids, Coffin thought again—but they didn’t have a chance.

  For the girl he felt a strange, almost morbid fondness. He was going to kill her, and that brand new husband of hers. Still, he had watched her grow up. It almost seemed as if he had spent all his adult life watching her grow up, waiting, hoping. She knows, he had thought. Her old man got a message through before he died. It’s in trust for her. When she grows up she’ll go hunting for the treasure. It’s in her blood.

  It was the treasure, so the legend went, of a hoary civilization which had died when a planet between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter had been blown asunder while the dinosaurs reigned on Earth. The girls father—Leonard Coffin’s space-buddy for five years on the grueling asteroid run of a small charter and freight company—had found the treasure and had died soon after. Cause and effect—like the curse of King Tut’s tomb? Coffin didn’t think so. Harry Burress had died in a normal enough space accident.

  Licking his lips, Coffin climbed into a spacesuit. Taking no chance, he belted both an interior and an exterior blaster, then wondered if Harry Burress’ daughter and her husband were taking similar precautions. He laughed softly because he knew it was unlikely. They did not know they had been followed. They suspected nothing.

  Having adjusted his spacesuit, Coffin regulated the air pressure to account for a lack of pressure on the airless twenty mile long slab of rock called Eros. Eros, he thought. God of love. That was a laugh. He wondered what the god of love would think if he knew his namesake world was being visited by a man ready to commit murder for the possession of an enigmatic treasure.

  For only Helen Holmes—nee Burress—knew what the treasure of Eros was. All Coffin knew was its legendary value. A value which was said to transcend money.

  Coffin let himself out of the small spaceship’s airlock and stalked across the twisted, broken terrain of Eros. One purpose held his mind now, flooding to the very core of his being. The treasure. He wanted it. He would kill for it as cheerfully as he had spent a decade and a half watching Helen Burress grow up. He would get it.

  With tireless steps Coffin approached the larger—but still small—spaceship. He saw the ridiculous name painted on its prow—Light O’ Love. He wondered if Helen and her husband had disembarked yet. He decided to wait and see.

  When he had waited the better part of an hour, he cursed himself as a fool and plodded on toward the Light o’ Love. He circled the teardrop-shaped ship twice before he found what he was looking for. Then, getting down awkwardly on hands and knees in the cumbersome spacesuit, he found their footprints in the soft pumice. Two sets of footprints, heading off in a perfectly straight line toward the low ridge on the incredibly close western horizon, toward the fangs of twin peaks which seemed to bite at the black sky from the very center of the ridge.

  Footprints in a straight line. Coffin smiled and followed them. No aimless wandering for Helen and her husband. They knew exactly where they were going.

  And now—so did Coffin.

  THE horizon was somewhat further than Coffin had imagined, a trick probably played by Eros’ dumbell-shape. And when he finally did reach the twin peaks he discovered that they were not part of the jagged ridgeline. Instead, they were several hundred yards beyond it.

  When Coffin reached the ridge, he grew suddenly alarmed. The trail disappeared in the last of the pumice at the base of the small escarpment.

  Coffin grinned a moment later and called himself a fool. You’re edgy and you don’t know it, he thought. They set out this way with utterly no hesitation. They haven’t stopped once, not according to the footprints. If they were that certain of where they were going, it would have to be a landmark you couldn’t miss. And the only landmark which qualified was the twin peak beyond the escarpment.

  Congratulating himself on the precision of his logic, Coffin sought a trail up the ridge and soon found it. He was willing to bet that Helen and her husband had taken the same trail not many minutes before.

  He scrambled up over the ridge in a surprisingly short time because he first reduced the gravity in his spacesuit. Probably, he thought, the kids were dog tired. Probably they had neglected to do that. Well, he thought, when you’ve been knocking around as long as I have, you learn to use every trick in the book.

  Nimble, almost weightless, Coffin went bouncing down the other side of the ridge. Then, carefully, he readjusted the gravity in his suit to Earth-norm. If he didn’t and it came to a fight, the kids would have been able to throw him around like a bouncing rubber ball.

  Coffin reached the twin peaks and stopped. They were no more than several hundred feet high but on Eros that was plenty. At their base they extended for perhaps a hundred yards from north to south. There were footprints in the pumice between the ridge and the peaks but at the base of the ridge they disappeared again.

  Up the peaks?

  No, Coffin thought. There was nothing up there.

  Slowly he began to circle at the base of the peaks, looking for the entrance to a cave. Traditionally, he thought with an out-of-place grin, treasure were always found in caves, weren’t they?

  What Coffin found was far more surprising than the entrance to a cave. Exactly half way around the base of the twin peaks was an enormous rectangular prism as black as the starless sky above Coffin’s head. He had not been able to see the huge block of a structure because its longer side was in a line with Helen’s spaceship and the ridge and the twin peaks. Its narrower dimension—certainly no more than fifty or sixty feet at most—was effectively hidden by the base of the twin peaks.

  Carefully, Coffin studied what he saw. Here, without doubt, was the treasure. Here—inside the blockhouse. With his eyes only (there would be time for pacing later, if necessary) Coffin estimated the dimensions of the prism. It was at least two hundred yards long eighty or a hundred feet high and per
haps fifty in width. It was black with the true lusterless blackness of deep space but was silhouetted clearly against space because even in Eros! day sky the stars gleamed.

  Coffin did not need a guidebook to know that Helen and her husband had entered the prism.

  He circled it once and then once again. On his third trip around, he began to curse himself. He should have really dogged their footsteps. He should have been right behind them. There was an entrance somewhere, all right. There had to be an entrance. It had swallowed Helen and her husband utterly—but perhaps that was because they knew what to look for.

  Coffin didn’t know. He could only wish . . .

  A rectangle of white light glowed on the long side of the prism. Gawking, Coffin ran toward it. Suddenly, vaguely, he was afraid. Surely a rectangular prism with these considerable dimensions would have been seen or at least photographed on one of the Earth government asteroid survey ships. And surely an entrance aglow with white light would have been discovered by Coffin on one of his earlier walks around the prison . . .

  A structure which could not be and a doorway which abruptly was . . .

  To hell with riddles, Coffin thought all at once. And plunged inside the prism.

  IT was empty as the space between the stars is empty, except for a single small pedestal in its very center and the two figures near the pedestal. They were not wearing their spacesuits, Coffin observed. Did the strange glow at the entranceway somehow keep air and pressure within the prism? Apparently, he decided, and deflated his own suit. A moment later he climbed out of it without a sound and approached the two figures standing mutely near the pedestal.

  When he was quite close he unsheathed his blaster. Metal squeaked against leather and the two figures whirled.

  “Mr. Coffin!” the girl cried.