A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Every summer since 1946, Giselle, Pierre and I have gone on long walking tours, in the Swiss and French Alps, in the Dolomites, the Pyrenees and, once, in the Snowdon region of North Wales. We like walking and, although not mountaineers in the accepted sense of the word, we like best to walk among mountains.

  Briefly, Giselle’s refusal to marry me is due to her belief that Pierre’s work is more important than marriage. I find this strangely inconsistent, bearing in mind that Pierre is a biologist and geneticist and Giselle is his assistant. A biologist who shirks marriage!

  Like most Swiss, Giselle and Pierre are sober-minded, down-to-earth people. That is why the tone of Giselle’s letter shook me. Here it is:

  Dear Mark: I know how busy you are and how difficult it will be for you to get away from London, but you may believe me when I say that nothing—nothing you are doing can be as important as your coming to Geneva at once. I dare not explain more in writing. Let me know very casually when and where to meet you. Do not telephone. Love,

  GISELLE

  There it was, laid on the line. Had I not been sure that she would not have written in this strain without good cause, I would have put my own affairs first. As it was, I booked on a flight two days ahead, sending Giselle a post card to say when I arrived and, casually as requested, mentioning that I was passing through Geneva and hoped to see her.

  Giselle’s appearance shattered me when she met me at the airport. She was thin, haggard and—I know no other word—hunted. She talked a lot and said nothing, using a torrent of words as a kind of safety valve.

  We took the lakeside road toward Nyon and Lausanne, after driving twice round a quiet city block to make sure that we were not being followed. I will confess to being somewhat irritated by all this; it seemed that Giselle was out of character.

  “We’ve rented a small furnished chalet in the mountains,” she explained to me, “and so far, I’m almost sure, they haven’t located us yet. But it’s only a question of time.”

  “Who is They?” I asked bluntly.

  “We don’t know, Mark; that’s what makes it all so frightening.”

  The chalet stood at one end of a vast alpine meadow at about five thousand feet above sea level. It took us three hours of hard driving to reach it. There was no other human habitation in sight. Even the cows had been taken down to lower pastures, for snow was imminent. Two huge, ferocious-looking Alsatians prowled round the chalet, creating an uproar as we approached. Then Pierre emerged to quieten them.

  He had a bad case of the jitters—worse even than Giselle. He looked as though he had not slept for a week.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said with a warm handshake, leading the way into the warmth of the chalet, where the savory smells of a stew cooking reminded me that I was hungry. When dinner was served, Giselle and Pierre picked at theirs; I wolfed two large plates of the stew. I had a fair idea that I was about to hear unpleasant things, which, I find, sit better on a full stomach.

  “Well, let’s have it,” I said at length, when we had done the washing up.

  “What would you say, Mark,” Pierre asked abruptly, “if I told you that it lies in my power now—today—to destroy every blade of grass in the world?”

  “I would say, Pierre, that you were the most dangerous human being alive and the sooner you were put behind steel bars, the better. Are you suggesting that you could do this?”

  He nodded sadly. “But I don’t expect you to believe me, Mark. I intend to prove it to you. No, I know you don’t doubt me,” he said, cutting short my protestations. “Nevertheless, it is important that you should shed all doubt. That way, don’t you see, you will be able to feel the staggering weight of responsibility that Giselle and I have been carrying about. We don’t know what to do, Mark, and we’re counting on you to help us decide.”

  “Let’s have it from the beginning,” I urged him.

  “It all dates from about four years ago, when Giselle told me something she had heard to the effect that a fortune was waiting for anyone who could produce a really effective weed killer—something far better than any at present in use. Well,” Pierre said apologetically, “I was tempted. I make very little money. I’m not awfully interested in money, really. But I thought it would be nice if Giselle could buy some pretty clothes. I could do with a couple of new suits, too, and a car that isn’t rattling to pieces. Mother left us a little money, as you know, but it went. I needed a lot of things for the laboratory and they were expensive. Then, after I had begun work on the weed killer, I sold my insurance policies to raise money for the trip to Australia.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had been to Australia,” I said in amazement.

  “I didn’t tell anyone—then.”

  “You sound as though you are ashamed of trying to make a little money, Pierre, but you don’t have to be. With your brains and ability, why shouldn’t you want to live decently? But go on,” I urged him.

  “Well, I found my weed killer,” he went on. “I won’t tell you any details about it, Mark. It’s better for your own peace of mind, and your safety, that you know nothing. Suffice to say that it was successful beyond my wildest dreams. It was”—he fumbled for words—“like looking for a box of matches and finding—a volcano.”

  “But what took you to Australia?” I asked him.

  “I had to find someplace where—it couldn’t get out of hand. I knew that inside the Great Barrier Reef, off ‘the coast of Queensland, there were uninhabited islands. By discreet inquiries, we learned of Kangaroo Island. Nobody lived there because there was no fresh water. It was about three miles along and a mile broad, large enough for my purpose. On an island, don’t you see, it was possible to keep it within bounds. Well, to cut it short, we chartered a small interisland cutter for a few days.

  “We first walked right round the island to make sure nobody was living there. Then, at six o’clock one morning, just before sunrise, we took some of It—the weed killer—to what we judged was the center of the island. We simply poured the contents of a small jar onto the grass and waited. Well, there wasn’t long to wait. Because of the hot sun, I suppose, all the processes were speeded up, just as the processes of decay are accelerated in a warm climate. All I need tell you now is that before noon the entire island, which at dawn had been clothed from end to end with coarse grass, was black—just as black as if it had been burned.”

  “You are telling me, then, that three square miles of grass were completely destroyed in a matter of six hours?” I asked. “Is that it?”

  “That’s it, Mark,” said Pierre soberly. “Think it over and in the morning we’ll show you something that will end your doubts.”

  There were three rough bunks in the chalet. Giselle’s was in a curtained alcove. We all went to bed. I hope the others slept better than I did.

  We rose early, for the autumn days were short. Without waiting for breakfast, we walked across the wide expanse of alpine meadow, Giselle carrying a small glass jar with a screw top containing what looked like a bright green sludge. Pierre carried a bamboo cane about six feet long, to one end of which was tied a piece of white rag. This he planted firmly in the soil at a spot about one mile from the chalet. Giselle handed me the jar.

  “What do I do with it?” I asked.

  “Unscrew it,” she told me, “and simply pour the contents on the grass. Then we’ll go back and have breakfast.”

  The jar, when unscrewed, gave off a foul stench. It was unbelievably horrible and unlike anything I had smelled before. I poured the contents on the ground—it had the consistency of heavy engine oil—replaced the screw cap, and that was that. We walked back to breakfast.

  Aside from attempted mayhem by the two Alsatians, the morning passed without incident. There were things I wanted to say to Giselle, but this was manifestly not the time to say them.

  At eleven o’clock by my watch, Pierre put on his heavy coat and said curtly, “Let’s go.”

  Halfway toward the white flag, the stench of corruptio
n came to meet us. Twice I was on the point of vomiting. When we arrived at the spot where I had spilled the green sludge—I can’t go on calling it It—there was a lengthening, winding ribbon of blackened grass. Had I not known otherwise, I would have said that it had been burned. Pierre kept on looking at his watch.

  Pierre and Giselle each carried, slung across the back, a small apparatus such as fruitgrowers use to spray their trees. In France, where vines are all-important, they are used to spray vineyards with sulphate of copper, I think it is.

  “What are they for?” I asked, more for the sake of hearing my own voice than anything else. I think I knew anyway.

  “Call them fire extinguishers,” replied Pierre, “and you won’t be far wrong.”

  I lost count of time then. In my throat a pulse was beating heavily and I realized that I was scared. I was in the presence of something evil—something Absolute, something which I sensed was capable of setting up a chain of causation so vast and so horrifying that already my imagination was balking.

  “Alongside this,” I heard Pierre say as though from a long way away, “the atom bomb is a child’s toy.”

  On the lips of most men such a statement would have sounded ridiculous. But uttered by this tough-and sober-minded little Swiss, it had the ring of stark truth.

  “Look!” he said a few moments later.

  I turned to the black patch of grass, which had begun to grow larger—more rapidly. It seemed to be alive at the edges, creeping in an ever-extending path, undulating as it went. Except for the fact that there were no visible flames, nor any heat being given off, the grass was being consumed by what was for all practical purposes a fire. In five minutes the blackened strip was too wide to leap.

  When the destroyed area was almost an acre in extent, Pierre asked, “Seen enough?”

  I nodded. He and Giselle, starting back to back, walked in opposite directions around the perimeter, spraying the outermost edge and, as it seemed, extinguishing the fire. Yes, I had seen enough.

  We returned to the chalet in silence. I was conjuring up ugly visions of a world in which that black, creeping, undulating horror had got out of hand, a world filled with the bellowings of starving cows, the piteous bleating of sheep. Then I thought of the thin cries of infants, tugging vainly at empty breasts; of growing children, losing their boisterous high spirits for lack of the food which stoked their fires. No grass, no meat, no milk, or cheese, or butter—not just for a few days or weeks, but forever.

  My work brings me in contact with a great many scientists, who seem to share an attitude, believing, or professing to believe, that a fidelity to what they are pleased to call “pure science” absolves them from a regard for the humanities. I am exaggerating for effect, but the attitude is there all right.

  But Giselle and Pierre were not like that, which, I am convinced, was why I liked them so. Science had made them humble, not arrogant. Nevertheless, as I turned these thoughts over in my mind, I did not understand how they could have experienced ten seconds of doubt as to what to do with Pierre’s discovery or why they needed advice from me. But then, I was being hasty in my judgments, for I did not know the whole story.

  “I wish,” I said, “that you would tell me how I fit into this picture. What do you want me to do?”

  “You’ve seen the harm Pierre’s discovery could do,” replied Giselle. “Do you believe that it could be used in any way for the good of humanity?”

  “What we mean, Mark, and we may as well say it plainly,” said Pierre, “is could we, or anyone, using it as a threat, bring about disarmament and peace? And if so, to whom should we entrust the secret?”

  “Offhand,” I replied, “I would say that the sooner your discovery is suppressed and forgotten, the better for everyone—particularly you two. But that is a hasty reply and I’d like to ask you a question in turn. Why pick on me? I’m not very wise. In your eyes, how do I seem to qualify to advise you?”

  “We know you well, Mark, and we trust you,” replied Pierre simply. “You are our friend and we are satisfied that your advice, whatever it may be, will be honest.”

  “All right, I accept that,” I told them. “Now tell me something else. You are both Swiss nationals. Your country has a long tradition of neutrality. Why didn’t you just go to Bern, put your formula, or whatever it may be, into the hands of the proper authorities, and let them do the worrying? That, to me, seems the proper thing to have done.”

  “If it had been something which could be used as a defensive weapon. Mark, we would not have hesitated. But it can’t be. It is of its essence offensive. Switzerland, therefore, would never extract any value from it—if there is any value.”

  “But Switzerland is your country, Pierre,” I said, “and I would have thought——”

  “England is your country, Mark,” interposed Giselle sharply. “We will turn over the secret to you if you ask for it, although I pray for your sake you won’t accept the offer. Would you, in turn, and as a matter of duty, hand over the secret to the British government?”

  The question hit me between the eyes. It was fair enough. It was not until several minutes had passed that I replied, “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can envisage a set of circumstances in which a British government, stampeded by some terrific emergency, might be tempted to use it as a weapon and—well, I suppose I believe that nothing—nothing at all—could justify its use. In the present ideological struggle—the undeclared war—the bone of contention is, when you get down to facts, the richness of the earth. Some peoples are alleged to have too much of it. Others too little. Your invention, discovery, or whatever you care to call it, is purely destructive. It would remove the bone of contention by destroying it and the contenders, reducing the world to the nice neat mathematical zero you scientists bandy about so freely.”

  “Giselle and I agree with you there, Mark. That, roughly, has been our conclusion. Then, do you think, any good purpose could be served by handing it over simultaneously to the Americans and the Russians?”

  “No.”

  “To either the Americans or the Russians?”

  “No,” I replied firmly. “It seems to me,” I went on, “that we have reached an impasse in our thinking. We agree that it is useless giving the secret to Switzerland because of the certainty that Switzerland would not use it, while I wouldn’t care to pass it over to any other country because of the risk that it might be used. Surely, that points the way clearly to its suppression. You’ve asked me for advice. Here it is: Destroy any of the stinking stuff still in your possession. Destroy all documents relating to it and forget the whole thing. And now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to phone the Geneva airport for a reservation and ask Giselle to drive me there.”

  “But, Mark——”

  “Listen, Pierre,” I interrupted. “We may chew this thing to death by talking about it until tomorrow, but you’ll never get any other advice from me.”

  “But you don’t know the whole story, Mark,” said Giselle unhappily. “It isn’t so simple as you seem to think it is. We came to your conclusions months ago. We have already destroyed all Pierre’s notes, together with our stock of the stuff, except the small jar which you handled this morning. The only thing left now is about fifty liters of the liquid that we use in the spray gun—the fire extinguisher.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about,” I said brightly. “I can go home now and earn my living.”

  “We both memorized Pierre’s formula, Mark,” said Giselle. “Then forget it,” I retorted.

  “Have you ever tried to wipe something off the slate of your memory?” asked Pierre. “It isn’t so easy as you make it sound.”

  “So you can’t forget the formula? The secret remains safe so long as neither of you chatters.”

  “But, Mark, the secret isn’t safe,” said Pierre glumly. “Someone knows about it or at least suspects it. Our house has been ransacked twice. Giselle and I have been followed. Letters ha
ve been intercepted. I’m not sure, but I think our phone was tapped. I don’t think we have been traced here yet, but it is only a question of time. It began with offers of huge sums of money. Giselle answered the phone one morning and a voice said, ‘I am speaking on behalf of friends who want me to tell you that you and your brother can have more money than you will ever be able to spend. They would like to meet you at a time and place of your choosing—any time, anywhere.’ In a crowd one day someone thrust a hundred-franc note into my hand. On it was written: ‘There are millions more where this one came from.’ Then the tone of the telephone messages became nasty, sinister. There were threats. That was when we destroyed everything.”

  “You’ve never had any indication as to who these mysterious people are?” I asked.

  “No. Your guess is as good as ours,” replied Pierre. “I suspect that it is either the Russians or the Americans. Neither wants the secret in order to use it, so much as to prevent the other getting hold of it.”

  “Yes, what you say sounds reasonable enough,” I was forced to agree. “But even if you are right, all you have to do is to tell them both to jump in the lake and keep your mouth shut.”

  “There are ways of making obstinate people talk,” said Pierre. “It has become one of the modern fine arts. I don’t think either Giselle or I would be able to resist.”

  Now I began to understand the fears which haunted Giselle and Pierre. Indeed, their fears had begun to communicate themselves to me. I also knew too much for my own health’s sake, and I wished fervently that I had not been dragged into the affair.