Fantastic Vignettes

by Jerry

  Tar-theen moved a limb, reminiscent of a psuedopod, against a heap of bones. They crumpled into dust and a gentle swirl of wind swept them away. And wherever the Martians looked the numberless piles of whitened calciferous material lay, still and quiescent, the bones lying in the whitened sepulchre of Earth.

  Slowly the two explorers moved through the city and nowhere stirred a trace of life other than vegetation. Protoplasmic matter did not exist.

  And all around stood the monstrous engineering accomplishments of Man. Gigantic bridges and vast buildings. Huge structures and vehicles. It was as if death had descended in one fell swoop wiping all living things to nothing.

  Tar-theen and Pan-theen returned to their vessel, the treasure house which they explored all but forgotten before the ghastly tragedy which confronted their eyes.

  And when the days and weeks went by, they put together their quickly acquired knowledge, for they had plenty. The works of Man were endurable, more so than He, though He had passed. And they read the hideous tragedy in a thousand writings and warnings for the script of the Earthmen was easily decipherable. “The Biological War had begun and ended,” said one brief tract,” and the world waits its death agony helplessly, for against the filterable virus, no agents or weapons exist.”

  It was with reverence that the two Martians left the planet. With reverence and understanding for the queer un-managable creatures called Humans who once, so long ago, imagined the Universe their province, only to succumb to the filterable virus, bred in their mad laboratories.

  “Could I but weep,” Tar-theen wrote in his report to the Ruling Council, “I should practice that Earthly expression of anguish to the end of my days, for it is so easy for Man to destroy himself . . .” Tar-theen did not use the word “Man” in its limited sense—he meant any thinking sentient creature. “We have been shown the Way,” he went on—” . . . it must never happen to us . . .”

  Metal Bouncer

  Lee Owen

  THE SALOON was a typical dive located on the fringe of the rocket port.

  It catered to the hard-bitten men who came out of space and demanded the most potent beverages that men could concoct, drank them, and vanished back to their ships—sometimes. At other times they tore apart any particular place that struck their fancy.

  Guu, the philosophical Venerian sized up the rolling gait of the gigantic earthman who just swung through the door. His heavily lidded eyes took in the sun-blackened hard-bitten face of the man. He sighed. He knew what was coming.

  The Earthman rolled up to the bar. He sized up the Venerian contemptuously. He banged a huge fist on the bar. “Gimme a slug of kor-kor—and leave the bottle here,” he roared. “I’m gonna do some man-sized drinkin’ !”

  Mentally Guu agreed. Anybody who could swallow the stuff much less like it, was undoubtedly a real drinker. He placed a glass and bottle before the spaceman and accepted the credit book, tearing out the right amount.

  Guu went to the end of the bar and spoke softly and sibiliantly into the phone there. Then he went back to the center of the bar and awaited the inevitable.

  The Earthman took a slug of the potent brew. He shuddered as it went down and shook his shaggy head. Immediately he poured another and wolfed it down and then a third. Guu’s eyes popped. This was going to be fast.

  The Earthman swayed a little and then downed a fourth. Suddenly and without warning he picked up the bottle, took it firmly by the neck and shot it unerringly at the bartender. But Guu was fast. Moreover he was expecting it. He ducked and the bottle shattered into a thousand pieces along with part of a huge mirror and a dozen other bottles.

  Silently Guu thanked his gods that he had the credit book. Calmly the Earthman announced in stentorian tones; “I’m gonna tear this stinking hole apart!” He walked over and seized a chair. “Hurry!” Guu prayed.

  The saloon door swung open. Standing in it was the Earthman’s equivalent . . . but its passive shining features betrayed its substance. The huge robot thundered forward, its steps shaking the floor. As a child seizes a piece of candy, it tore the chair from the drunken Earthman. Its arms flashed around the bulk of the man, seizing him in an unbreakable grip. The smiling face of Guu arose above the bar. He glanced at the credit book in his hands. “Back to Dock number Three,” he said.

  The robot lumbered out clutching the screaming infuriated Earthman. Helplessly the man thrashed around held gently but firmly. Guu watched the two disappear. He went over to the phone. “The service has been performed,” he said, “what is the fee? . . .”

  Galactic Bomb!

  Carter T. Wainwright

  “I KNEW it! I knew it! It had to come this and the detectors confirmed it!” Frantically the sinuous scaly reptilian body writhed in perturbment before Caah, the Ruler. Caah hitched a loop of scaly tail over the cross-bars which lined the room. Through the northern windows the dim cold light illuminated the grotesque scone.

  “Calm yourself, Skaan,” the reptilian Lord said. “Explain what you mean.”

  “I’m sorry, Sire,” the other apologized hissingly, “but the news is so momentous that I can’t contain myself. We’ve detected sub-radiations in the laboratory. Keenh and myself have suspected for a long time that this would happen sooner or later. Now it has. There is a planet in the Galaxy which has started atomies!” Caah shot twenty feet of length, erect. The stark eyes blazed. “Bow long have they had it?” he demanded promptly.

  Now Skaan was once more the calm scientist.

  “Not long Sire,” he said, “the radiations are feeble—maybe even the makers don’t Know about sub-radiation. Best of all, our detectors have located the planet. It’s part of a 6-type system with ten planets, about twelve light-years distant near the rim of the Galaxy.”

  The Lord let his body hang limply. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “We’re safe then,” he said feelingly. “Take four assistants and a cruiser. Don’t bother to investigate. If others are using atomics, that means ultimately war. Therefore blow their paltry system to shreds. Draw enough power from the armory.”

  A short while later a huge, slim projectile slid off the planet, five reptilian figures congregated within. And the body of their e-raft was laden with planet-shattering atomies. Swiftly the ship garnered velocity and sped toward the dim type G sun. Rapidly velocity climbed toward lightwave ratios. The reaper had set out . . .

  And on the third planet of the G-type sun, small creatures spoke of the coming “atomic war,” and went about their business of making more and bigger atomic bombs, ail unaware that the complexities of their lives would soon be solved—forever . . .

  Growth and Error

  H.R. Stanton

  CLEON HAD been selected for the job.

  He was safe and reliable. Besides all the automatic machinery a human had to be on the job. If the cells ever escaped from the Bios, well . . .

  The synthetic food plants assumed more and more importance in the advance of civilization. Practically everything nutritious came from then inert, yet living, Sentient mass.

  The City was vast and its populace had to be fed. It was the duty of the Watchers to operate the gigantic rood factories that were the Bios. That morning Cleon went on duty feeling rather gay because the night before had been well and pleasantly spent. The Interviewers had promised him a mate.

  Cleon strode to his cubicle of glass which overlooked the huge tanks and arrays of piping that constituted the food-factory. Before him was his triply protected console, a desk of an incredible array of dials and switches. Cleon performed his functions almost automatically. Nimbly his fingers moved over controls and the seething stirring mass beneath him flowed in accordance with the processes which he commanded.

  We shall never know what caused Cleon to make his fatal error. Perhaps it was musing, perhaps it was momentary inattention. Regardless of the cause, sometime during that period, Cleon let the stimulant flow for too long a time. The sluggish mass of protoplasm writhed and twisted in contorted gyratio
ns as the shock of nutriment multiplied struck it.

  In minutes the gleaming metallic-glass factory was an overflowing mass of greedy protoplasm, blind and nerveless, yet sensitive to food. Even as Cleon touched off the alarm, his body vanished beneath the welling swell of plastic-flesh.

  We destroyed the monstrous thing, the horrible bulky flesh-like dough which engulfed a good portion of the City and its inhabitants, but not before we went through the terror of the devils! What could have happened had we not destroyed it in time still leaves us gasping.

  But now there are no more Cleons to fail Men in their plants. Our machines are faking over the task and we can rely on them. Never again will we have to go through the period of flame-throwers and chemical warfare against the toughened cell-matter. Never again, we hope. . . .

  The Dream

  William Karney

  IT COULD have been the heavy dessert of apple pie a la mode. Or it could have been the shrimp cocktail. Anyway the causes weren’t important.

  He knew it was a dream. It had to be. It couldn’t be reality. The weirdness was too great.

  First it was like being in empty space, an intense and terrifying darkness. Then gradually his floating body seemed to reorient itself. From floating freely it settled down slowly—almost gingerly, until he felt as if he were standing. And he was. First it was in the center of a vast plain—still dark and gloomy.

  Then the illusion of spaciousness vanished. Pie was in a sort of room—no, it wasn’t a room—it was more like a corridor. It seemed long and endless even though he couldn’t look far down into it, and yet he was aware of its length.

  But the odd thing was the shape of the corridor. It was triangular in section—an equilateral triangle, the apex overhead, one side forming the floor.

  As if by magic, a long stick appeared in his hand, and at its end was a brush. By its own volition the brush touched the floor. There was some liquid on it, but no need existed for its renewal. It always seemed wet.

  He ran, ran violently along the triangular corridor, the brush dangling from his hand and making a dark streak along the floor.

  Fear goaded him, and he looked behind as he ran, but there was nothing to, be seen. He ran endlessly. The corridor was immense now, as if it stretched into infinity. Suddenly he stopped running. While he’d been running the brush had been trailing and making its streak on the floor. But now there was a corresponding streak on both the slant walls, as well as the floor!

  Derrick awoke with a start. He reached over and turned on the light. It was three A.M. He looked at the desk near the wall. Then he started to laugh. No wonder he’d been dreaming like a surrealist. The strip of moulded clay still lay on the desk. It was triangular in cross-section and joined at the ends into a circle.

  Derrick grinned sheepishly. I’m taking topology and Dr. Hanson’s lectures too seriously, he thought. Hanson’s words echoed through his mind—”. . . a three dimensional analogy of the Moebius Strip, gentlemen is easy to deduce. We take a strip of clay of triangular cross-section, rotate one end through one hundred and twenty degrees, and then press the ends together. Presto, we have a topological curiosity! Now I run this stylus along the center of one side—what’s this? I have to go around three times before I come back to the beginning . . .”

  Advanced mathematics, ugh! Derrick turned out the light and lay back. This time I’ll try thinking of girls, he said to himself!

  The Martian Landing

  A.T. Kedzie

  IT’S OLD stuff now, and the crack has been made by everybody who’s ever talked about it but I can’t help repeating it because it’s so true. The biggest boost to Man’s ego was the landing of the “Scythzzen”, because the Martians proved to be so much lake men in technical accomplishments. I like that remark because it’s so true. And I know. After all I was there!

  Dig out the films from the vidi—libe someday when you want to while away an interesting afternoon. I know the Martian’s ship wasn’t much by today’s standards. The uranium drive, the size and everything else have changed, but there is one thing they can’t take away.

  Then Scythzzen was the first rocket to astrogate interplanetary space.

  I was just a technician forty years ago on Goddard Field when it happened. We were still fooling with liquid-fueled rockets then. We thought we were good because we’d dropped a projectile on the Moon. Well, for that time it was good.

  But then comes the Scythzzen. The field was deserted about eight o’clock at night and I was sitting out a tour of watch-duty in a shack near the edge of the field. I was reading when I heard the roar, and I thought—I knew—some fool had triggered off an experimental job.

  I dropped the book and dashed outside. It was dusk, but I didn’t miss a thing. I couldn’t.

  Well, I didn’t believe my own eyes even though it was happening right in front of me. Here was this rocket, a liquid-fueled job from its roar, settling slowly to the ground near a gantry crane.

  I had a funny feeling. In the brilliant glare of its flames, I knew it wasn’t an Earth job. True it looked conventional—but it bad that funny, funny, look, especially those wings—they were like, well, I guess you’d say, “ears”.

  I was shaking like a leaf when I walked tip to the thing. The ground was still hot around its base. I stayed about thirty feet away. You’d say “ten meters today” but we still used feet in those days. Anyhow, the lock in the side pops open. Already around the field, the dozen or so sleeping technicians were rushing this way and I can still hear Fraud’s high-pitched voice asking me, “What’s happening? Who stole it?”

  The door opens, and the Martian steps out. Everybody’s familiar with their spongy bodies, their tentacular limbs etc., but this one wore a space suit of some fabriooid and he looked more like a sphere than anything else. Good thing too. I guess I’d have run a mile if I’d seen his true form so soon after the shock of seeing the rocket.

  The figure paused on the edge of the open door which was about twenty feet from the ground. I hollered to Leston to bring the crane and its small elevator over and he did. The figure stepped back in the doorway, then came right out. Then I saw the tentacle. It was wrapped around a cylinder. I thought the thing was a weapon.

  But nonchalantly the arm reaches to one side and starts to write on the rocket side. When it did that, I knew everything was all right. He made one straight mark, then two, then three, then four, then five. He stopped, drew a circle and a square and stepped back a little.

  The rest is history. In an hour that field was a mass of milling humanity and the governor at the time had to call out the National Guard (a military organization) to keep things under control.

  I followed through with the whole thing and I consider it the greatest experience of my life. When I saw what a risk the Martians had taken with their crate, I knew we’d make the stars someday. They knew some things we didn’t and we knew some they didn’t. Put the two together and you’ve got astrogation.

  I know it’s all history now—but I still say, take a look at the vidies, dig up the Old stuff, put yourself in my frame of mind, and you’ll knew what a real thrill is. Even the Lunar or the Martian runs can’t beat it!

  Checkmate . . .

  Sandy Miller

  FLAREN lounged comfortably at one end of the huge living-room. The fluoro-walls cast a gentle diffused light over the rich furnishing. Flaren reached for the control knob which would switch on the huge vidi-screen opposite his soft padded chair. Abruptly his hand stopped in mid-air.

  I won’t, he thought. Why should I Watch that tripe? Why listen to some moaning bellowing adolescent? Why should I want to see the activities of some quaint uncivilized villagers?

  He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a quick nervous gesture. You’re jittery, his mind said. You’ve been under too much pressure. Go back to the simple things. Then the idea struck him. Why not a game of chess.

  He got up and strode over to the game table. It was a large flat surface, a boxy structure, e
quipped with a comfortable chair also. He sat down and touched a stud. At once a chess board swung up, its pieces set in order and ready to play. Flaren pressed another stud and the clicking of a relay told him the set was primed. The machine would give him a good game. He glanced to see if the handicap control was set at “class two”—it was.

  He made the conventional Queen’s Pawn opening. Magically the other side of the board moved correspondingly. Flaren knew it was a magnetic field beneath the board, but the ghost-like precision of the movement affected him strangely. He shook off a feeling of apprehension and concentrated on the play . . .

  An hour later, he saw the trap he was in. The inexorable laws of the game had caught him and the machine made no mistakes—very few at least, for his grade of handicap. Flaren made the move. Swiftly the machine countered. A relay clicked again. The recorder went on softly. “Check King—checkmate!”

  Flaren stood up. His arm swept over the table and the little figurines scattered across the room. Calmly he opened the case of the chess-playing machine. Its tubes and relays were exposed. He picked up an ornamental statuette of bronze and with one savage gesture flung it into the array of tubes and wiring. The machine spluttered and squawked, flared up and died.

  Flaren punched the button on the vidi-screen. Light groped across its face. The voice of the announcer dulled out, “—pit your wits against the machine. Thirty credits will buy a Maelzel Number eight—set it to your handicap and have fun . . . ” The voice ran on and on. Flaren sat down and cupped his head in his hands. Very softly he began to cry. “Machines,” he whispered, “machines . . .” The words sounded strange in his apartment. “Machines . . .”

  Enemy Sighted . . .

  Walter Lathrop

  THE super-submarine, S-701, moved quietly with the icy Arctic currents. Twenty feet overhead the choppy surface of the Bering Sea parted before the knife-edge of the periscope.