The Third Murray Leinster

by Murray Leinster

  A ruined city is dramatic. An abandoned city is pathetic. This was neither. It was something new. It felt as if everybody had walked away, out of sight, within the past few minutes.

  Calhoun headed for the spaceport building with Murgatroyd ambling puzzledly at his side. Murgatroyd was disturbed. There should be people here! They should welcome Calhoun and admire him—Murgatroyd—and he should be a social lion with all the sweets he could eat and all the coffee he could put into his expandable belly. But nothing happened! Nothing at all.

  “Chee?” he asked anxiously.

  “They’ve gone away,” growled Calhoun. “They probably left in ground-cars. There’s not one in sight.”

  There wasn’t. Calhoun could look out through the grid foundations and see long, sunlit and absolutely empty streets. He arrived at the spaceport building. There was—there had been—a green area about the base of the structure. There was not a living plant left. Leaves were wilted and limp. The remains had become almost a jelly of collapsed stems and blossoms of dark olive-green. The plants were dead; but not long enough to have dried up. They might have wilted two or three days before.

  Calhoun went in the building. The spaceport log lay open on a desk. It recorded the arrival of freight to be shipped away—undoubtedly—on the Candida now uneasily in orbit somewhere aloft. There was no sign of disorder. It was exactly as if the people here had walked out to look at something interesting, and hadn’t come back.

  Calhoun trudged out of the spaceport and to the streets and buildings of the city proper. It was incredible! Doors were opened or unlocked. Merchandise in the shops lay on display, exactly as it had been spread out to interest customers. There was no sign of confusion anywhere. Even in a restaurant there were dishes and flatware on the tables. The food in the plates was stale, as if three days old, but it hadn’t yet begun to spoil. The appearance of everything was as if people at their meals had simply, at some signal, gotten up and walked out without any panic or disturbance.

  Calhoun made a wry face. He’d remembered something. Among the tales that had been carried from Earth to the other worlds of the galaxy there was a completely unimportant mystery story which people still sometimes tried to write an ending to. It was the story of an ancient sailing ship called the Marie Celeste, which was found drifting aimlessly in the middle of the ocean. There was food on the cabin table, and the galley stove was still warm. There was no sign of any trouble, or terror, or disturbance which might cause the ship to be abandoned. But there was not a living soul on board. Nobody had ever been able to contrive a believable explanation.

  “Only,” said Calhoun to Murgatroyd, “this is on a larger scale. The people of this city walked out about three days ago, and didn’t come back. Maybe all the people on the planet did the same, since there’s not a communicator in operation anywhere. To make the understatement of the century, Murgatroyd, I don’t like this. I don’t like it a bit!”

  II

  On the way back to the Med Ship, Calhoun stopped at another place where, on a grass-growing planet, there would have been green sward. There were Earth-type trees, and some native ones, and between them there should have been a lawn. The trees were thriving, but the ground-cover plants were collapsed and rotting.

  Calhoun picked up a bit of the semi-slime and smelled it. It was faintly sour, astringent, the same smell he’d noticed when he opened the airlock door. He threw the stuff away and brushed off his hands. Something had killed the ground-cover plants which had the habit of killing Earth-type grass when planted here.

  He listened. Everywhere that humans live, there are insects and birds and other tiny creatures which are essential parts of the ecological system to which the human race is adjusted. They have to be carried to and established upon every new world that mankind hopes to occupy. But there was no sound of such living creatures here.

  It was probable that the bellowing roar of the Med Ship’s emergency rockets was the only real noise the city had heard since its people went away.

  The stillness bothered Murgatroyd. He said, “Chee!” in a subdued tone and stayed close to Calhoun. Calhoun shook his head. Then he said abruptly:

  “Come along, Murgatroyd!”

  He went back to the building housing the grid controls. He didn’t look at the spaceport log this time. He went to the instruments recording the second function of a landing-grid. In addition to lifting up and letting down ships of space, a landing-grid drew down power from the ions of the upper atmosphere and broadcast it. It provided all the energy that humans on a world could need. It was solar power, in a way, absorbed and stored by a layer of ions miles high, which then could be drawn on and distributed by the grid. During his descent Calhoun had noted that broadcast power was still available. Now he looked at what the instruments said.

  The needle on the dial showing power-drain moved slowly back and forth. It was a rhythmic movement, going from maximum to minimum power-use, and then back again. Approximately six million kilowatts was being taken out of the broadcast every two seconds for half of one second. Then the drain cut off for a second and a half, and went on again for half a second.

  Frowning, Calhoun raised his eyes to a very fine color photograph on the wall above the power dials. It was a picture of the human-occupied part of Maya, taken four thousand miles out in space. It had been enlarged to four feet by six, and Maya City could be seen as an irregular group of squares and triangles measuring a little more than half an inch by three-quarters. The detail was perfect. It was possible to see perfectly straight, infinitely thin lines moving out from the city. They were multiple-lane highways, mathematically straight from one city to another, and then mathematically straight—though at a new angle—until the next. Calhoun stared thoughtfully at them.

  “The people left the city in a hurry,” he told Murgatroyd, “and there was little confusion, if any. So they knew in advance that they might have to go. They were ready for it. If they took anything, they had it ready packed in their cars. But they hadn’t been sure they’d have to go because they were going about their businesses as usual. All the shops were open and people were eating in restaurants, and so on.”

  Murgatroyd said, “Chee!” as if in full agreement.

  “Now,” demanded Calhoun, “where did they go? The question’s really where could they go! There were about eight hundred thousand people in this city. There’d be cars for everyone, of course, and two hundred thousand cars would take everybody. But that’s a lot of ground-cars! Put ’em two hundred feet apart on a highway, and that’s twenty-six cars to the mile on each lane. Run them at a hundred miles an hour on a twelve-lane road—using all lanes one way—and that’s twenty-six hundred cars per lane per hour, and that’s thirty-one thousand…two highways make sixty-two…three highways.… With two highways they could empty the city in under three hours, and with three highways close to two. Since there’s no sign of panic, that’s what they must have done. Must have worked it out in advance, too. Maybe they’d done it before it happened…whatever it was that happened.”

  * * * *

  He searched the photograph which was so much more detailed than a map. There were mountains to the north of Maya City, but only one highway led north. There were more mountains to the west. One highway went into them, but not through. To the south there was sea, which curved around some three hundred miles from Maya City and put the human colony on Maya on a peninsula.

  “They went east,” said Calhoun presently. He traced lines with his finger. “Three highways go east; that’s the only way they could go quickly. They hadn’t been sure they’d have to go but they knew where to go when they did. So when they got their warning, they left. On three highways, to the east. And we’ll follow them and ask what the hell they ran away from. Nothing’s visible here!”

  He went back to the Med Ship, Murgatroyd skipping with him.

  As the airlock door closed behind them, he heard a cli
ck from the outside-microphone speakers. He listened. It was a doubled clicking, as of something turned on and almost at once turned off again. There was a two-second cycle, the same as that of the power drain. Something drawing six million kilowatts went on and immediately off again every two seconds. It made a sound in speakers linked to outside microphones, but it didn’t make a noise in the air. The microphone clicks were induction; pick-up; like cross-talk on defective telephone cables.

  Calhoun shrugged his shoulders almost up to his ears. He went to the communicator.

  “Calling Candida—” he began, and the answer almost leaped down his throat.

  “Candida to Med Ship. Come in! Come in! What’s happened down there?”

  “The city’s deserted without any sign of panic,” said Calhoun, “and there’s power and nothing seems to be broken down. But it’s as if somebody had said, ‘Everybody clear out’ and they did. That doesn’t happen on a whim! What’s your next port of call?”

  The Candida’s voice told him, hopefully.

  “Take a report,” commanded Calhoun. “Deliver it to the public health office immediately you land. They’ll get it to Med Service sector headquarters. I’m going to stay here and find out what’s been going on.”

  He dictated, growing irritated as he did so because he couldn’t explain what he reported. Something serious had taken place, but there was no clue as to what it was. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t certainly a public health affair. But any emergency the size of this one involved public health factors.

  “I’m remaining aground to investigate,” finished Calhoun. “I will report further when or if it is possible. Message ends.”

  “What about our passenger?”

  “To the devil with your passenger!” said Calhoun peevishly. “Do as you please!”

  He cut off the communicator and prepared for activity outside the ship. Presently he and Murgatroyd went to look for transportation. The Med Ship couldn’t be used for a search operation; it didn’t carry enough rocket fuel. They’d have to use a ground vehicle.

  It was again shocking to note that nothing had moved but sun shadows. Again it seemed that everybody had simply walked out of some door or other and failed to come back. Calhoun saw the windows of jewelers’ shops. Treasures lay unguarded in plain view. He saw a florist’s shop. Here there were Earth-type flowers apparently thriving, and some strange beautiful flowers with olive-green foliage which throve as well as the Earth-plants. There was a cage in which a plant had grown, and that plant was wilting and about to rot. But a plant that had to be grown in a cage.…

  He found a ground-car agency, perhaps for imported cars, perhaps for those built on Maya. He went in and from the cars on display he chose one, an elaborate sports car. He turned its key and it hummed. He drove it carefully out into the empty street, Murgatroyd sitting interestedly beside him.

  “This is luxury, Murgatroyd,” said Calhoun. “Also it’s grand theft. We medical characters can’t usually afford such things. Or have an excuse to steal them. But these are parlous times, so we take a chance.”

  “Chee!” said Murgatroyd.

  “We want to find a fugitive population and ask what they ran away from. As of the moment, it seems that they ran away from nothing. They may be pleased to know they can come back.”

  Murgatroyd again said, “Chee!”

  Calhoun drove through vacant ways. It was somehow nerve-racking. He felt as if someone should pop out and say “Boo!” at any instant. He discovered an elevated highway and a ramp leading up to it. At a cloverleaf he drove eastward, watching sharply for any sign of life. There was none.

  He was nearly out of the city when he felt the chest impact of a sonic boom, and then heard a trailing away growling sound which seemed to come from farther away as it died out. It was the result of something traveling faster than sound, so that the noise it made far away had to catch up with the sound it emitted nearby.

  He stared up. He saw a parachute blossom as a bare speck against the blue. Then he heard the even deeper-toned roaring of a supersonic craft climbing skyward. It could be a spaceliner’s lifeboat, descended into atmosphere and going out again.

  It was. It had left a parachute behind, and now went back to space to rendezvous with its parent ship.

  “That,” said Calhoun impatiently, “will be the Candida’s passenger. He was insistent enough.”

  He scowled. The Candida’s voice had said its passenger demanded to be landed for business reasons. And Calhoun had a prejudice against some kinds of business men who would think their own affairs more important than anything else. Two standard years before, he’d made a planetary health inspection on Texia II, in another galactic sector. It was a llano planet and a single giant business enterprise. Illimitable prairies had been sown with an Earth-type grass which destroyed the native ground-cover—the reverse of the ground-cover situation here—and the entire planet was a monstrous range for beef cattle. Dotted about were gigantic slaughterhouses, and cattle in masses of tens of thousands were shifted here and there by ground-induction fields which acted as fences. Ultimately the cattle were driven by these same induction fences to the slaughter houses and actually into the chutes where their throats were slit. Every imaginable fraction of a credit of profit was extracted from their carcasses, and Calhoun had found it appalling.

  He was not sentimental about cattle, but the complete cold-bloodedness of the entire operation sickened him. The same cold-bloodedness was practised toward the human employees who ran the place. Their living quarters were sub-marginal. The air stank of cattle murder. Men worked for the Texia Company or they did not work. If they did not work they did not eat. If they worked and ate,—Calhoun could see nothing satisfying in being alive on a world like that! His report to Med Service had been biting. He’d been prejudiced against businessmen ever since.

  But a parachute descended, blowing away from the city. It would land not too far from the highway he followed. And it didn’t occur to Calhoun not to help the unknown chutist. He saw a small figure dangling below the chute. He slowed the ground-car as he estimated where the parachute would land.

  He was off the twelve-lane highway and on a feeder road when the chute was a hundred feet high. He was racing across a field of olive-green plants that went all the way to the horizon when the parachute actually touched ground. There was a considerable wind. The man in the harness bounced. He didn’t know how to spill the air. The chute dragged him.

  * * * *

  Calhoun sped ahead, swerved and ran into the chute. He stopped the car and the chute stopped with it. He got out.

  The man lay in a hopeless tangle of cordage. He thrust unskilfully at it. When Calhoun came up he said suspiciously:

  “Have you a knife?”

  Calhoun offered a knife, politely opening its blade. The man slashed at the cords and freed himself. There was an attache case lashed to his chute harness. He cut at those cords. The attache case not only came clear, but opened. It dumped out an incredible mass of brand new, tightly packed interstellar credit certificates. Calhoun could see that the denominations were one thousand and ten thousand credits. The man from the chute reached under his armpit and drew out a blaster.

  It was not a service weapon. It was elaborate, practically a toy. With a dour glance at Calhoun he put it in a side pocket and gathered up the scattered money. It was an enormous sum, but he packed it back. He stood up.

  “My name is Allison,” he said in an authoritative voice. “Arthur Allison. I’m much obliged. Now I’ll ask you to take me to Maya City.”

  “No,” said Calhoun politely. “I just left there. It’s deserted. I’m not going back. There’s nobody there.”

  “But I’ve important bus—” The other man stared. “It’s deserted? But that’s impossible!”

  “Quite,” agreed Calhoun, “but it’s true. It’s abandoned. Uninhabited. Everybody’s left it. Th
ere’s no one there at all.”

  The man who called himself Allison blinked unbelievingly. He swore. Then he raged profanely.

  But he was not bewildered by the news. Which, upon consideration, was itself almost bewildering. But then his eyes grew shrewd. He looked about him.

  “My name is Allison,” he repeated, as if there were some sort of magic in the word. “Arthur Allison. No matter what’s happened, I’ve some business to do here. Where have the people gone? I need to find them.”

  “I need to find them too,” said Calhoun. “I’ll take you with me, if you like.”

  “You’ve heard of me.” It was a statement, confidently made.

  “Never,” said Calhoun politely. “If you’re not hurt, suppose you get in the car? I’m as anxious as you are to find out what’s happened. I’m Med Service.”

  Allison moved toward the car.

  “Med Service, eh? I don’t think much of the Med Service! You people try to meddle in things that are none of your business!”

  Calhoun did not answer. The muddy man, clutching the attache case tightly, waded through the olive-green plants to the car and climbed in. Murgatroyd said cordially, “Chee-chee!” but Allison viewed him with distaste.

  “What’s this?”

  “He’s Murgatroyd,” said Calhoun. “He’s a tormal. He’s Med service personnel.”

  “I don’t like beasts,” said Allison coldly.

  “He’s much more important to me than you are,” said Calhoun, “if the matter should come to a test.”