Complete Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by James H. Schmitz

  He gazed around him with a rising sense of alarm, looking first of all at his seat companion.

  The fellow was big, heavily built. He looked like a police detective, and Gloge knew that the man was his guard. The curious thing was that he was slumped back in the seat, head lolling forward, eyes closed . . . typical indications of a tranquilized stupor.

  Gloge thought: “Why is he asleep?”

  He had a strong conviction that it was he who should be unconscious. There was a clear memory of a device—an instrument totally unfamiliar to him—which the Wendell woman had used to implant a complete, compelling set of delusions in his mind. He had come willingly aboard the jet. And he had, at the suggestion of his guard, inhaled enough tranquilizing gas from the seat respirator to have kept him somnolent until the jet touched down in Paris.

  Instead, minutes later, he had come awake, the delusions of the day slipping from his mind!

  There must be an explanation for these apparently contradictory events.

  The thought ended. A feeling of blankness held him for a moment Then came a churning wave of terror.

  Somewhere a voice had said:

  “Yes, Dr. Gloge—there is an explanation for this!”

  Slowly, against his every inclination but completely unable to withstand the impulse, Dr. Gloge turned, looked back. There was someone in the seat behind him.

  For an instant, it seemed to be a complete stranger. Then the eyes opened. They fixed on him, glowing brilliant demon-blue, even in the muted light of the jet.

  The woman spoke, and it was the voice of Barbara Ellington. “We have a problem, Dr. Gloge. There seems to be a group of extra-terrestrials on this planet, and I still do not have any clear idea of what they are doing here. That’s our immediate task—to find out.”

  “You are where?” Helen Wendell said sharply.

  Her hand flicked to the right, snapped a switch. A small viewscreen on the right side of the desk lit up. She said, “John—quick!”

  In the inner office, John Hammond turned, saw the lit screen on the desk behind him. An instant later he was listening to the words tumbling hoarsely from the telephone speaker on his left. He said to Helen’s tense, pale profile in the screen to the right, “Where is he?”

  “At the Des Moines jetport! The Paris jet put down for emergency repairs. Now nobody seems to understand just what was wrong with it or what repairs are needed. But the passengers have been disembarked, are to be transferred to another jet. Arnold’s in a state of confusion and shock. Listen to him!”

  “—there was a woman with him,” the courier’s voice babbled. “At the time, I thought it was one of the passengers who had come off the jet with us. Now I’m not sure. But I simply stood there and watched the two of them walk out of the hall together. It never occurred to me to ask myself why this woman was with Gloge, or to stop them, or even to wonder where they were going . . .”

  Hammond twisted a dial, dimming the voice. He spoke to Helen Wendell. “When did the jet come down?”

  “From what Arnold said first,” Helen told him, “it must have been over half an hour ago! As he puts k, it didn’t occur to him to call us about it until now.”

  “Half an hour!” Hammond came to his feet. “Helen, drop everything you’re doing! I want an off-planet observer sitting in on this, preferably within minutes.”

  She gave him a startled look. “What are you expecting?”

  “I don’t know what to expect.” She hesitated, began: “The Wardens . . .”

  “Whatever can be done here,” Hammond said, “I can do myself. I don’t need anyone else for that. The defense screens on the northern side will go off for exactly forty seconds. Now move!” He snapped off. the screen, reached under the desk, threw over another switch.

  In the main office, Helen Wendell stared at the blank screen for a moment. Then she jumped to her feet, ran across the room to the entry door, pulled it open and slipped out into the hall. The door swung shut behind her.

  Some moments later, John Hammond entered the room behind hit private office where Vincent Strather lay enclosed by a trap screen. Hammond went to the wall, turned the trap controls there halfway to the off point.

  The screen faded into smoky near-invisibility, and he stared for a few seconds at the shape stretched out on the couch within it. He asked aloud, “There have been no further internal changes?”

  “None within the past two hours,” the MD machine’s voice said from the wall.

  “This form is viable?”

  “Yes.”

  “He would awaken if I released the screen?”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  Hammond was silent a moment, then asked, “You have calculated the effects of a fourth injection of the serum?”

  “Yes,” the machine said from the wall.

  “In general, what are they?”

  “In general,” the machine said, “there would be pronounced changes and at an again greatly accelerated rate. The evolutionary trend remains the same, but would be very much advanced. The resultant form would stabilize within twenty minutes. It would again be a viable one.” Hammond turned the trap screen controls full over to the left. The screen darkened once more into a dense, concealing shroud.

  It was too soon to make the decision to give the fourth shot. Perhaps—mercifully—it could be avoided altogether.

  XIII

  At half past ten, the long-distance signal sounded from the telephone screen. Hammond glanced around from the portable control box on the desk, simultaneously pressed the answer button and the stud which would leave him unseen if the caller’s instrument was equipped with a viewscreen, and said, “Go ahead!”

  The screen remained dark, but somebody made a gasping sound of relief. “Mr. Hammond!” It was a reedy, quavering voice, but it was distinctly the voice of Dr. Gloge.

  There were two sharp clicks from one of the instruments lying on the desk—a signal from Helen Wendell, in the observer boat standing off Earth, that she was recording the conversation.

  “Where are you, Doctor?”

  “Mr. Hammond . . . something terrible . . . that creature . . . Barbara Ellington—”

  “She took you off the jet, I know,” Hammond said. “Where are yon now?”

  “My home—in Pennsylvania.”

  “She went there with you?”

  “Yes. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Of course not,” Hammond said. “She’s gone now?”

  “I don’t know where she is. I took the chance of phoning. Mr. Hammond, there was something I didn’t know, didn’t remember. But she knew. I . . .”

  “You had some Omega serum in that farm laboratory?” Hammond asked.

  “I didn’t think of it as that,” Dr. Gloge’s voice told him. “It was an earlier experimental variant—one with impurities which produce a dangerously erratic reaction. I was under the impression I had destroyed my entire stock. But this being knew better! It brought me here, forced me to give it what was left of the serum. The quantity was small—”

  “But enough for a standard fourth shot of the series?” Hammond said.

  “Yes, yes, it was sufficient for the fourth injection.”

  “And she has now taken it as an injection?”

  Dr. Gloge hesitated, then he said, “Yes. However there is reason to hope that instead of impelling the evolutionary process in what I now regard as a monstrous creature on to its next stage, the imperfect serum will result in its prompt destruction.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hammond. “But almost since you first launched Barbara Ellington into this process, she appears to have been aware of what was possible to her. I can’t believe she’s made a mistake now.”

  “I. . .” Dr. Gloge paused again, went on: “Mr. Hammond, I realize the enormity of what I’ve done. If, in any way, I can help avert the worst consequences, I shall cooperate to the fullest extent. I—” There was a sharp click as the connection was broken, a pause, then Helen Wendell’s voice whisp
ered into Hammond’s ear, “Do you think Barbara let him make that call, then cut him off?”

  “Of course.”

  Helen made no further comment, simply waited; and presently, softly, Hammond continued: “I think she wants us to know that she’s coming here.”

  “I think she’s there now,” said Helen. “Good-by.”

  XIV

  John Hammond glanced at the control box on the desk, and saw the flickering indicators. He also saw a wholly unexpected reaction: A condition of non-energy that actually canceled energy.

  “Helen,” he said. “This woman has gone up somewhere out of our reach! What you’re seeing is energy trying to maintain itself against antienergy. I received recognition drilling on such things, but I’ve never seen it before in an actual situation.” Helen Wendell, eyes fixed on a duplicate check screen in the distant observer boat, did not reply. A shifting electronic storm was blazing through the check-screen indicators; it showed that the defensive forces enclosing Hammond’s office and living quarters were coming under a swiftly varying pattern of attack . . . presently that they were being tested almost to the limit.

  It held that way for over a minute—every reading almost impossibility high, barely shifting.

  “John Hammond!” the desk top said softly to Hammond.

  He jerked slightly away, eyes flicking down to it.

  “John Hammond!” the chair whispered beside him.

  “John Hammond!”

  “John Hammond!”

  “John Hammond!”

  “John Hammond . . .”

  His name sprang at him from every part of the office, in a swirling, encircling pattern. Because of his special supervisory position, Hammond knew the pattern and its danger. It had never been considered probable, but nevertheless they had taken the possibility into account and so he had outside power available to deal with this emergency.

  He looked hurriedly about on the desk for an instrument he had laid down among the others there. For an instant, he seemed unable to recognize it, and there was an icy touch of panic. Then he realized he already held it in his hand. He ran a knob up along its side with his thumb, locked it into place, laid the instrument back on the desk.

  A rasping came from it. Not only a sound, but a vibration, a rough, hard shuddering of the nerves. The voice-ghosts sank to a whisper, flowed from the room. Helen Wendell’s tiny, distant voice stabbed at Hammond’s ear like a needle:

  “The check screen! She’s leaving!” Hopefully.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Not really.” Alarm whipped at him through Helen’s voice. “What does your screen show?”

  “A subjective blur at the moment. It’s clearing.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think she felt above us and so she took it for granted that she could walk all over us. Accordingly, she’s just had the surprise of her brief existence as a sub-galactic super-woman. She didn’t realize we represent the Great Ones.”

  “Is she damaged?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’s learned too much. But . . . details later.” Hammond blinked at the check screen, swung around toward the door of the adjoining room, pulled it open.

  “Administer the final injection to the subject!” he said sharps into the room. “Acknowledge!”

  “The fourth and final injection of the Omega Stimulation series will be administered to the subject,” the machine replied.

  “Immediately!”

  “Immediately.”

  Helen’s voice reached Hammond again as he drew the door shut and came back to the desk. “At moments,” she said, “the anti-energies were holding the ninety-six point of overload. Within four of the theoretical limit. Did she get to you at the energy balance?”

  “Very nearly,” Hammond told her. “A very high-energy, pseudo-hypno trick that didn’t quite work. And she’ll be back. I still have something she wants!”

  On his desk, the telephone screen blurred. When he turned it on, the voice of Dr. Gloge sounded in his ears.

  “We were cut off earlier, Mr. Hammond.” The biologist’s voice was strongly even and controlled.

  “What happened?” Hammond asked warily.

  “Mr. Hammond, I have finally analyzed what evolution really is. The universe is a spectrum. It needs energies in motion at all levels. This is why those at the higher levels do not interfere directly with individual activities at the lower. But this is also why they are concerned when a race reaches the point where it can begin to manipulate large forces.” Hammond said steadily, “Barbara, if the purpose of this call is to find out if I’ll let you in, yes, I will.” A pause, then a click. Then there was a tiny, momentary flickering in one of the check screen indicators. Then, in a different section, another.

  “What’s happening?” Helen asked tautly.

  Hammond said, “She’s coming through the screens, with my permission.”

  “Do you think it’s a trick?”

  “In a way. For some reason, she hasn’t let herself reach that theoretical, final million-year point on Dr. Gloge’s evolutionary scale. That may come a little later.”

  “And you’re actually letting her in, believing that?”

  “Of course.” Helen did not answer him.

  A minute went past in silence. Hammond shifted so that he faced the door, moved a few steps away from the control box and the desk, and stood waiting.

  A small light burned red in a corner of the check screen. Something had come into the main office.

  The heavy silence continued for some seconds. Then, on the hard flooring at the far end of the corridor, Hammond heard footsteps.

  He couldn’t have said what he had been expecting . . . but certainly nothing so commonplace as the sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes coming briskly toward the inner office.

  She appeared in the doorway, stopped there, looking at him. Hammond said nothing. All outer indications were that this was the Barbara Ellington he had seen sitting in a chair in Dr. Gloge’s office the night before. Nothing had changed either in her looks or in her clothing; even the brown purse she held in one hand seemed the same. Except for the air of radiant vitality, the alertness of her stance, the keen intelligence in her face, this also was, in fact, the awkward, overanxious, lean girl who had worked in the outer office for less than two weeks.

  And therefore, Hammond thought it was a phantom! Not a delusion; he was protected now against any attempt to tamper with his mind in that manner by barriers which would break only if he died. The shape standing in the door was real. The instruments recorded it. But it was a shape created for this meeting—not that of Barbara Ellington as she was at this hour.

  He was unsure of her intention in assuming it. Perhaps it was designed to throw him off guard.

  She came into the room, smiling faintly, and glanced about. Hammond knew then that he hadn’t been mistaken. Something had come in with her . . . something oppressive, spine-tingling; a sense of heat, a sense of power.

  The curiously brilliant, blue eyes turned toward him; and the smile deepened.

  “I’m going to have to test why you’re still here,” she said carelessly. “So defend yourself!”

  There was no sound; but a cloud of white light filled the air between them, enveloping them; faded; flared silently; faded again. Both stood unmoving, each watching the other. Nothing in the office had changed.

  “Excellent!” the woman said. “The mystery behind you begins to reveal itself. I know the quality of your race now, John Hammond. Your science could never control the order of energies that are shielding you mentally and physically here!

  “There should be other indications then that in extreme necessity you are permitted to employ devices created by beings greater than yourself—devices which you do not yourself understand. And where would such devices be found at the moment? . . . Over there, I believe!”

  She turned toward the door of the adjoining room, took three steps, and halted. A rose-glowing haze had appeare
d before the door and the surrounding sections of wall and flooring.

  “Yes,” she said. “That comes from the same source! And here—”

  She turned, moved quickly toward the control box on the desk, checked again. A rose haze also enveloped the box now.

  “The three points you must consider vital here!” she said nodding. “Yourself, the being in that room and the controls of the section. You may safeguard these at the expense of revealing a secret you would otherwise least want to reveal. Now I think it is time for us to exchange information.”

  She came back to Hammond, stopped before him.

  “I discovered suddenly, John Hammond, that your kind are not native to Earth. You are superior to Earth’s humanity, but not sufficiently superior to explain why you are here. You have an organization on this world. But it is a curious organization. It does not appear to serve the purposes of conqueror or exploiter . . . But let’s leave it at that. Don’t try to explain it. It doesn’t matter. You are to release the human male who was to have received the series of serum injections with me. You and the other members of your race stationed here will then remove yourselves promptly from this planet. We have no further use for you.”

  Hammond shook his head.

  “We might be forced off the planet,” he said. “But that would make Earth an active danger spot. The Great Galactics whom I represent do have servant races who carry out military assignments for them. It would not be to your advantage if such a race were to occupy or quarantine Earth to make sure that the seedling race here continues to receive the necessary degree of supervision.”

  “John Hammond,” the woman-shape said, “whether the Great Galactics send military servants to Earth or come here themselves is a matter that does not concern me in the least. It would be very unwise of them to do either. Within hours from now, the Omega serum will be available in limitless quantities. Within days, every man, woman, and child of Earth will have gone through the full evolutionary sequence. Do you think Earth’s new humanity could still be supervised by any other race?”