The Collected Stories

by Earl

  “The ghosts of the dead!” Angus Macluff said solemnly.

  Fostar started. He was willing to dismiss the girl’s vague apprehension and the engineer’s superstitious fantasy, but he had heard a sound—a soft, pattering sound that stood out clearly in the hushed silence of the dead city. Ghosts did not make sounds.

  And it was certainly no ghost that suddenly confronted them, around the edge of a huge fallen slab of stone.

  They gasped in chorus. It was an alien creature—solid, substantial, and—by a subtle aura—intelligent!

  In a flood of amazement, the four humans took in the creature’s details.

  Four feet high, it stood upright on two stalk-like legs. Its body was flat and broad and from both sides extended four willowy arms terminating in thin tendril-like fingers. The head was round with a crown of petals that stood out stiffly in the sunlight. It had no mouth, nose or ears, and only one great gleaming eye. All its skin surface, unadorned by clothing, was a bright green.

  “Moving vegetable life!” gasped Dr. Bronzun. “A creature without lungs that synthesizes its food from the air, like plants!”

  “A walking sunflower!” snorted Angus Macluff.

  “Can it really be intelligent?” murmured Alora, wonderingly. “And does its race rule this planet?”

  At that moment, as though to give a definite sign of its intelligence, the plant-being raised a hand clutching a tubular, metallic instrument, opposing their further progress.

  Fostar whipped out his own gun, In readiness, but no hostile move came from the creature. And then, from around the stone, crowded a dozen more of the beings, all with similar tubular weapons. They lined up in a menacing array.

  “Looks like they’re telling us to go back!” Fostar grunted. “I wish we could communicate with them and find out what all this means.”

  “They have no mouths to speak with,” mused Dr. Bronzun thoughtfully. “Telepathic impulses have been detected in the highly-developed plant-forms of Rhea. I wonder if these vegetal-beings use telepathy—” He stopped as a voice seemed to interrupt him.

  “Yes, we use telepathy. We will be able to communicate with each other by that means, if you think strongly. Do you understand?” Fostar knew he hadn’t heard any spoken words, not even in his brain. His mind had simply received a telepathic message and had automatically translated it into words. It was an uncanny sensation. He saw by the faces of his companions that they too had “heard.”

  “Yes, we understand,” he returned, speaking aloud so the others would hear, and at the same time concentrating on the thought, hoping he was “projecting” it.

  Apparently he had. “Good!” came back in ghostly, silent words. “Who are you? Where have you come from—some other planet?”

  “Yes—” Fostar hesitated. Should he go on and tell of their purpose? Too late, he realized that in merely thinking of the matter, he was revealing it to the aliens. “Don’t think about our plans!” he tried to warn the others.

  But the plant-being’s psychic voice, half mockingly, said: “We have read the thought, man of Earth, in all four of your minds!”

  THE plant-beings had all stiffened, and were fingering their weapons. Their spokesman went on: “You have come from another star, and from a world similar to this one. Your world, with its sun, is plunging toward some strange catastrophe. You have been seeking a new world for your race to migrate to. This one would be much to your liking. All this we have read in your minds!”

  Fostar attempted no denial. Obviously, he could not lie very convincingly by telepathy, when his innermost thoughts contradicted him from start to finish. Trained by constant use of their psychic sense, the aliens could undoubtedly read the most sensitive thoughts. Fostar said nothing, waiting to see what they would do about the situation.

  The telepathic voice resounded in their brains again:

  “This is our world, people of Earth! You have no right to it. We will not let you take our world from us!” The voice went on searchingly. “We have had tailings of your other thoughts—how you have many ships, many weapons. You are a powerful race. Therefore, lest our world be attacked, we must kill you, so that your fellow-men will not learn of the way to come here!”

  The tubular weapons of the aliens aimed threateningly. Fostar’s muscles tensed, preparing for action. “Wait!”

  The word rang out from Dr. Bronzun, commandingly. The plant-people hesitated, as they received the word’s telepathic counterpart.

  “You are right!” continued the scientist. “We have no claim to your world! We had only planned to take it if it were uninhabited by another race. Now, since we know otherwise, our people will never attack you.” He sighed. “We will leave your world immediately. We must search for another!”

  Fostar knew the scientist was sincere, but he himself did not feel the issue was that clear-cut. To kindly Dr. Bronzun, right was right. But what if there were no other world to be found? Earth would be desperate. Only one stark law counted in the end—survival of the fittest and strongest, even in this larger sense, involving worlds.

  And then his face burned as reply came from the alien: “You who have just spoken mean what you say, but we see other thoughts in your companion’s minds. The tall man does not see the issue that plainly. The other man is thinking that your race deserves this world more than we. Thus, we surmise that if you returned, your fellowmen would also be divided in opinion. We would probably be attacked after all.”

  The psychic voice became a sibilant threat: “No, we must kill you—”

  Before the message was completed, Fostar had barked a quick warning: “Run for the nearest stone pile—hurry!”

  The four Earth people, as one, leaped to the side. Foster heard the sharp clatter of the aliens’ weapons, but the shots went wild. Fostar whirled and pumped a half-dozen gun-blasts backward. Several of the plant-beings crumpled to the ground, half-torn to pieces. Thick sap, pale green in color, spurted from the bodies.

  The swiftness of the move had taken the aliens unawares. Not one of their shots was close, and in seconds the four humans were behind a heap of fallen masonry, safe for the time being. Peering cautiously around an edge, Fostar saw the aliens scampering for safety. He picked off two before the rest had scrambled behind something. But then he saw, with a worried frown that more of the green beings were running up from a distance.

  He turned to the others, reloading his gun while talking. “We’ve got to get back to the ship as quickly as possible,” he panted. “Come on. We’ll work our way back down the avenue, keeping undercover wherever we can.”

  Crouching low, they crept behind their bulwark. Shots from the aliens spanged over their heads, chipping bits of stone from above.

  “Bullets!” muttered Dr. Bronzun. “Their weapons must be the primitive explosive-propellant type, such as we had on Earth five centuries ago.”

  “Not very effective,” grunted Fostar. “At least we have that advantage.” He had read about the bullet-weapons. A vital spot had to be struck for death. With their atomic-blast guns, every hit was a death.

  Running from one rock-pile to the next, they worked their way down the avenue. At each cleared space, Fostar and Angus Macluff laid down a scorching barrage before they ran through. The numbers of the enemy had been reinforced. Their petaled heads bobbed behind every stone. But their combined marksmanship, probably because of their single-eyed vision without perspective, was fortunately poor. However, the humans at times heard bullets whistle past their ears.

  And then, suddenly, they were trapped!

  GREEN bodies appeared ahead, sneaking to ambush them at the next rock-pile. All four fired desperately, heaping broken green corpses over the ground, but more aliens ran up, recklessly. They were apparently determined to stop the Earth people at any cost!

  Running toward the tumbled walls at the avenue’s edge, shots suddenly came from above! Plant-beings were converging from that direction, swarming over broken stone-blocks. Fostar swept the first row with blast
ing death and looked around wildly for escape from the trap.

  “We’ll never get out of this alive, gentlemen!” predicted Angus Macluff dismally. Nevertheless, he pumped away with both hands, spreading a livid fusillade of death among the green-skinned beings that began to swarm up from three sides. Dr. Bronzun and Alora, though unused to weapons, did their part in driving the attack back.

  But it could not keep up forever. Bullets were whistling uncomfortably close and the charge-clips in their belts, for their own weapons, were limited in number.

  “Follow me!” shouted Fostar.

  He had seen the way of escape.

  Between two huge leaning slabs of stone, the path was clear, down what had once been a street at right angles. Fostar shoved the others through, firing steadily back at the aliens, keeping them at a distance. Then he slipped between the stones himself. He felt something thud against his shoulder, but took no notice.

  On the other side, they raced fleetly along the side avenue, but were brought up abruptly by an impassable mass. Blocked! Some great building had, in the past, fallen squarely across the street.

  “They’re coming again!” cried Alora, looking back.

  Feet pattering noisily, the plant-men appeared, hot in chase!

  “We can’t climb over this barrier, or go back,” panted Dr. Bronzun. He moaned a little. “We’re caught!”

  “No we aren’t!” contradicted Fostar. He pointed. “Look—that corridor leading into a building. Seems to be clear—”

  There was not much time to conjecture, and they ran toward it. Penetrating into a half-standing structure, the corridor led into dank gloom. The air was musty, confined. Dust that might have lain for centuries swirled up from their feet, choking them. A tomb-like silence hung heavy as an intangible shroud. But better this than the vengeful demons outside, thirsting for their lives.

  The passageway twisted and twined as they followed it, in accordance with some strange architectural plan of the builders. Rooms opened out at times, most of them fallen in, and from their doorways speared in shafts of diffused outer light.

  They stopped for a moment to listen for sounds of pursuit, but there were none. The enemy seemed to have given up the chase into this dim hall.

  They probably shun dark places,” surmised Dr. Bronzun. “Sunlight and open air are their life.”

  “Then they can’t very well have built this city,” mused Fostar. “What kind of race did?” He shrugged and turned to a more practical consideration. “We’ll follow this passage till it leads out somewhere and then we can get back to our ship.”

  They trudged along, coughing and shivering in the dank, musty atmosphere. The hall seemed interminable. Twice they found the way blocked, where the overhead arch had collapsed, and had to retrace their steps to cross-corridors. These wound in different directions. Confused, they hesitated and wondered if they were lost in some great catacomb.

  But at last the glow of bright sunshine ahead greeted them. They stepped out thankfully into open air. Fostar had them all peer warily in every direction before they fully exposed themselves. No plant-men were in sight.

  “They’re probably still waiting at the other end,” chuckled Fostar, “hoping we’ll come out. There’s no time to lose, though, if they scout around for us. Let’s get back to the ship.” He stepped forward with a brisk step.

  “Wait—which way are you going?” Dr. Bronzun’s voice was puzzled. “The ship is in that direction, isn’t it?” He pointed directly opposite.

  “Gentlemen, you’re both wrong—” began Angus Macluff.

  Baffled, they looked at one another.

  “I don’t think any of us knows where the ship lies!” whispered Alora. “We’re—lost!”

  CHAPTER X

  THE GREAT MIGRATION

  AROUND them was a new section of the city ruin, totally unfamiliar. The trip through the tortuous passage had completely upset their sense of direction. The sun had been at the zenith when they had left the ship, offering no clew to their position.

  Without wasting time, Fostar clambered to the highest point of a partially tumbled wall and squinted narrowly in all directions. Though the ship must be visible, if the view were unobstructed, he could not see it—only the heaped ruins, all around. Worst of all, he could not make out the avenue on which they had first been attacked. Dim lines of thoroughfares, in the ancient city, were scattered in all directions. He could not know which was theirs. They were lost!

  “See our ship, lad?” called up Angus anxiously.

  Fostar shook his head worriedly. Then he tried to duck, but too late. He had been seen by one of the plant-men, also atop a high point looking around. Fostar scrambled down.

  “They’ll be after us in a minute again!” he said. “We’ll hide in the passage—hurry!”

  Crouching within the shadows of the corridor, they watched as dozens of plant-people came pattering from several directions, searching every vantage. One alien peered directly into their retreat, and they froze into breathless statues. The creature finally shivered distastefully and left, unaware of them. The group gradually moved along, out of sight, and the hunted humans stepped out.

  “Our lives hang by a thread!” said Angus Macluff sonorously. “The moment they find us they’ll kill us, the blood-thirsty savages!”

  “We would do the same, in their place,” sighed Dr. Bronzun. “In their eyes, we’re the forerunners of a ruthless, powerful race. And in the last analysis, we have no right to this world. It is theirs, by right of birth and evolution. It would be wrong to wrest it from them, no matter how ideal this planet is for our race. A cosmic crime!”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” muttered Fostar. He reflected that this problem was by far the most important facing mankind in its exodus from Earth—to find a suitable world uninhabited by previous intelligence.

  “But,” he added, “we have our personal problem, here and now—to reach our ship.” He snapped on his belt-radio. “There’s just a chance that Marten Crodell heard the shots and is trying to contact us—”

  The little instrument hissed out as he turned up the power, but the ether was silent. Unhooking the tiny microphone he barked into it: “Fostar calling Marten Crodell!”

  He repeated the call several times before giving up, with a shake of his head.

  “Like a fool,” he said in self-reproach, “I neglected to arrange specified contact, on the hour, when we left.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” admonished Alora. “Everything looked so peaceful and quiet on this new world. None of us dreamed any of this might happen. But father will try to make contact soon, alarmed at our absence.”

  Fostar nodded. “I’ll try the radio every fifteen minutes. I can’t keep it open or the batteries will bum out too soon.” He strode forward. “In the meantime, we’ll keep moving in hopes of striking the right avenue. Keep a watchful eye out for our green friends!”

  Eyes darting about, they stepped along among the ruins of a once-magnificent city. More and more Fostar pondered about the race that had been the inhabitants—certainly not the plant-people, who were more or less children of nature, requiring open sunlight. Were the builders extinct?—or had they moved to some other part of the planet?

  Fostar stopped suddenly as something caught his eye. For a moment, he had almost imagined seeing a human figure perched on the next pile of rock debris. They approached and saw what it was—a stone statue, miraculously unbroken. Amazed, they examined its clean-cut limbs, straight body, finely-shaped head.

  “Why it’s—it’s almost human!” gasped Alora, her amber eyes widening.

  It was, though there were differences. The feet were small and had six toes, as the small hands had six delicate fingers. Its legs were long and its body lean, perhaps seven feet tall. The face was rather large and heavy-set. Yet the living form, from which the statue had been modeled, must certainly have resembled man more nearly than any of the anthropoids of Earth itself!

  “The builders of th
e city!” breathed Fostar. He pointed to a sort of frieze lying next to the statue. In miniature, dozens of the semi-human figures were represented, doing various tasks.

  They went on. Every fifteen minutes Fostar tried the radio, hoping for contact with Marten Crodell. At times he climbed fallen blocks and walls for a chance view of the ship, but could see no more than ruins. Yet his thoughts, strangely, were occupied mainly with the mystery of the vanished city-builders. He felt, somehow, that there was some significant relationship between them and the green plant-people.

  Turning a comer, Alora’s sharp gasp warned Fostar. His finger was already pressing the trigger of his gun, when he spied the alien they had come upon. He was alone, rooted in surprise. Fostar suddenly eased up on his trigger.

  “Don’t shoot!” he warned the others. Then he spoke to the alien, concentrating on the thought. “Throw away your weapon, don’t call your fellows—and we won’t kill you! I want to speak with you!”

  THE plant-man stared for a moment with his great single eye, as though digesting the strange offer. Then he tossed his weapon away, as any reasoning creature might, under the circumstances.

  “I will talk with you,” he agreed. Fostar led the creature into a shadowed nook among heaped stone blocks. They were not likely to be seen, save in one direction, and Fostar told Angus to keep sharp watch for other aliens.

  “This is going to be in the nature of a cross-examination,” Fostar informed the others.

  He faced the captive. “What is the story of the race who built this city?” he asked, wondering if he would get coherent information.

  “Our race destroyed them!” replied the green being, quite readily, his telepathic voice reverberating clearly in the Earth people’s minds. “They were Eaters, much like you in appearance. They had many cities. They ruled this planet, at one time. We destroyed them all. They are extinct today. We rule their world now!”

  “Their world!” echoed Fostar, catching his breath. “Did you come from another world?”