Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  Evidently Bruckner had come prepared for this. He rose impressively from his throne--on which he had been carried the quarter-mile from the ship--and said, "We'll have your song now, Billy."

  Billy Watts, astrogator of the crew, pulled himself to his feet and, in a high boyish tenor, sang I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.

  Sweets felt his throat quicken as a wave of homesickness went through him like a chill. At the song's end, it needed the yip, yip, yip of the tribesmen's applause to bring him out of his memories of Earth.

  The tribesmen continued their applause until Watts rose again. Sweets wondered if they had any music of their own. The men had danced earlier without accompaniment and they had made no sound themselves.

  Billy Watts sang two more songs and it was the tribesmen's turn again.

  Suddenly a native woman ran out from behind one of the round, mud-packed village huts and into the circle of spectators. She paused on tiptoe, crouched and sprang upward, twisting and screaming as she rose. She landed with her legs in driving motion and went through a racing, energetic series of gyrations. She was almost completely unclothed.

  * * * * *

  For a stunned moment, the men sat motionless in pleased surprise. Then Sweets caught a movement from the corner of his eye and shifted his head to look at Majesky. For the first time in many days, Majesky appeared happy. He had straightened up and his eyes shone with a glow of approval. He raised his arms in a gesture of encouragement and yelled, "Swing it, baby!"

  The dancer's stride broke and her head turned sharply in Majesky's direction. Then she ignored the interruption and went on with her dance.

  But Majesky was not to be ignored. He climbed to his feet and stood with his head hunched between his shoulders, watching her. Then he lurched forward, caught the girl up in his arms and swung her around in a staggering circle.

  It had happened too suddenly for any of the Earthmen to stop him, and now they were unable to decide just what they should do. Most of them turned to Bruckner.

  To Sweets, it seemed that Bruckner had gone pale, but it was difficult to be certain in the uneven light cast by the fire. His mouth opened twice before he could speak. And when he did, Sweets almost laughed at the staginess and absurdity of what he said.

  "Unhand that woman!" Bruckner commanded.

  Bruckner's voice was loud and it penetrated through the haze of Majesky's drunken elation. He stopped his spinning and set the girl on her feet, but he kept his right arm around her waist and glared back at Bruckner.

  "Go to hell," he said.

  The natives apparently had been as surprised as the crew, for they had not moved. Now, however, one of them rose and lunged at Majesky.

  Majesky's face twisted into an expectant grin and he tossed the girl aside and stood with wide-spread legs, waiting. As the native dived in with his head lowered, Majesky brought his right fist up in a powerful uppercut and smashed it into the tribesman's mouth.

  The native continued his dive and landed face down. Natives and Earthmen were on their feet now and moving toward Majesky. Sweets reached him first.

  The grin of pleasure was still on Majesky's face as he hit Sweets on the left cheek and spun him half-around. He butted his head into the chest of the next man to reach him, but they pulled him down then and held him helpless.

  The natives had paused when they saw the Earthmen grab Majesky.

  Now Bruckner made his voice heard above the noise. "Bring him over here!" he yelled.

  Two men pinned Majesky's arms while a third held one kicking leg. They dragged him over to Bruckner.

  "You damn, dumb fool!" Bruckner cursed fervently. He raised his voice. "All of you," he ordered, "back to the ship!"

  The natives made no attempt to stop them.

  Sweets glanced back over his shoulder at Chief Faffin as they went. He was standing and intoning sadly, "Lacigule, lacigule, lacigule."

  * * * * *

  The following day, Bruckner called Sweets to his quarters.

  "That was a rotten piece of business last night," Bruckner said. "But I'm proud of the way you acted. You did some mighty quick thinking there."

  Sweets grunted. He knew the flattery was leading to something.

  "I've been giving the matter some deep thought since," Bruckner continued, "and I don't think it's too late yet to patch things up. But I need a man with guts." He laughed. "How brave do you feel this morning?"

  Sweets shrugged and regarded the other levelly.

  "You can speak their language," Bruckner said. "And I don't believe they're sure enough of themselves to risk bloodshed. How would you like to bring another present to the chief? I'll see that you're--"

  "I don't feel like being a hero this morning," Sweets interrupted. "Why don't you go yourself?"

  Bruckner's eyebrows raised. "My job is vital to the success of this expedition to risk my life unnecessarily. I'd go myself except--"

  "Except that it's too dangerous," Sweets finished for him.

  Bruckner straightened and his lips grew narrower. "That will be enough of that. We'll find some way to get along without your help."

  The party Bruckner organized to visit the native village pointedly did not include Sweets.

  Each man carried a rifle and sidearms. Bruckner walked this time--at their head. But Sweets made a small bet with himself that Bruckner would stay close to the protection of his men. He was willing enough to send another man out alone, but when he had to go himself, he made sure that he was well protected.

  Bruckner and his men had been gone almost an hour when Sweets heard the sound of Big Stupe's hoarse squawking from outside the ship. There seemed to be anger in the tones. Before Sweets reached the open portal of the ship, he heard more excited squawks. They were similar to Big Stupe's, but they weren't being made by him.

  Outside, Sweets found Big Stupe facing three others of his breed, exchanging loud angry squawks. Soon they began to walk rapidly in their pseudo-dignified spraddles, each in a small circle.

  Abruptly they were locked together and it was soon apparent that this was no game. Big Stupe pulled with both flippers at the head of one of his visitors, while another systematically raked his long claws down the sides of Big Stupe's neck. Before Sweets could reach him, the neck was streaming with blood.

  Sweets remembered how Big Stupe had always been afraid of loud noises and he raised his voice in a shout. The other stupes turned their backs, but Big Stupe brought one flipper around and hit Sweets squarely between the eyes.

  * * * * *

  As Sweets stood stunned, he felt Big Stupe's body crash against his shoulders and this time, when he yelled, it was in alarm and fear.

  Then he was free and his eyes swam back into focus. He saw Big Stupe standing with his back turned. The three visitors were shambling off awkwardly.

  Sweets left Big Stupe and stumbled back to the ship.

  Bruckner returned well pleased with his trip.

  "I'd say we handled that exactly right," he said. "I don't know if the other expeditions contacted this particular tribe or not, but at least stories must have reached them of the potency of the Earthmen's weapons. When we showed them that we preferred peace, but were ready to fight if necessary, that was the end of the affair. And the presents we had for Faffin, and for the native that Majesky hit, didn't hurt any. The one thing to keep in mind is that we've got to make them respect us. And those lads have plenty of respect for Lacigule right now."

  It seemed that Bruckner was right. There was no further difficulty with the tribesmen as the engineers completed their mining and separating operations and finished filling the hold of the ship.

  * * * * *

  Two days later, they were ready to leave.

  "Can we take Big Stupe along with us when we go?" one of the crewmen asked Bruckner. Most of them were standing outside the ship, taking a last look around at Waterfields Planet. The ship had been made space-ready and all preparations for departure had been completed.

  "I see n
o reason why not," Bruckner answered. "He certainly helps keep our morale up. I wonder," he went on in an expansive mood, "if you men realize why you get such a kick out of Big Stupe. You ought to read Hobbs' essay on the basis of humor sometime.

  "Hobbs does a fine job of showing that we enjoy humor because it caters to our need for self-approval. When a monkey falls out of a tree, all the other monkeys laugh, because it makes them feel so clever and wise for not having fallen out of their tree. Whenever Big Stupe pulls one of his outlandish stunts, we are all reminded of how much smarter we are. It makes us feel good and so we like Big Stupe. We like anybody or anything that makes us feel superior."

  A few of the natives who had been watching the preparations for departure from a distance walked closer.

  Bruckner turned and waved cheerfully to them. "Farewell, friends. Perhaps we'll see you again in a few years." He paused. "I've been wondering," he said, pointing at Big Stupe, "what's your name for this bird here?"

  "Lacigule," the native answered.

  They left Big Stupe behind.

  * * *

  Contents

  DELAYED ACTION

  By Charles V. De Vet

  It was just a hunch. Johnson knew that, but his hunches had often paid off in the past, and now he waited with a big man's patience. For five hours he sat in the wooden stands, under the rumpled canvas the concessionaires had put up to protect the tourists from Marlock's yellow sun.

  The sun was hot and soon Johnson's clothing was marked with large soiled patches of sweat. Now and then a light breeze blew across the stands from the native section and at each breath his nostrils crinkled in protest at the acrid smell.

  Marlock wasn't much of a planet. Its one claim to fame was its widely advertised Nature's Moebius Strip. For eighteen months of the year--nine months of sub-zero cold, and nine months of sultry, sand-driven summer--the only outsiders to visit the planet came to buy its one export, the fur of the desert ox. But during the two months of fall and two months of spring the tourists poured in to gape at the Strip.

  Idly, for the hundredth time, Johnson let his gaze run over the tourists lining up for their "thrill" journey out onto the Strip. Most of them wouldn't go far; they only wanted to be able to say they'd been on it. They would build up some pretty exciting stories about it by the time they returned home.

  There was no sign of Johnson's man.

  * * * * *

  The party started out onto the Strip. At the first sensation of giddiness women squealed and most of them turned back. Their men came with them, secretly relieved at the excuse.

  Johnson watched disinterestedly until only two remained: the young couple he had designated in his mind as honeymooners. The girl had grit. Perhaps more than the young fellow with her. He was affecting bored bravado, laughing loudly as the girl hesitated, but white streaks had appeared along his jawline and across his temples as he waited his turn.

  The young couple had gone far enough out now so that they were in the first bend of the Strip's twisting dip. Already their bodies were leaning sharply, as the mysterious gravity of the Strip held them perpendicular with their pathway. From where he sat Johnson could read nausea on their faces.

  When they had followed the Strip around until they were leaning at a 35-degree angle, the girl seemed to lose her nerve. She stopped and stood gripping the guide rope with both hands. The boy said something to her, but she shook her head. He'd have to show his superiority now by going on, but it wouldn't be for much farther, Johnson was willing to wager.

  The boy took three more steps and paused. Then his body bent in the middle and he was sick. He'd had enough.

  Both turned and hurried back. The crowd of tourists, watching or waiting their turn, cheered. In a few minutes, Johnson knew, the kid would be thinking of himself as a hero.

  Suddenly Johnson straightened up, having spotted a new arrival, who gripped a tan brief-case tightly under one arm, buying a ticket. He had bulky shoulders and a black beard. Johnson's man had come.

  When he saw the bearded man go out with the next bunch to brave the Strip, Johnson rose and walked rapidly to the entrance. Elbowing his way through, with a murmured apology, he joined the waiting group.

  A thin-faced odd-job man opened the rope gate and they shuffled through. The group must have walked fifty paces, with the bearded man well up in front and Johnson somewhere in the middle, before Johnson's stomach sent him its first warning of unrest. Most of those ahead had stopped and Johnson threaded his way carefully past them.

  Another twenty-five steps and he left the others behind. All except the bearded man. He neither paused nor looked back.

  Johnson's stomach had drawn up into a tight knot now, and his head was beginning to feel light. There was a faint ringing in his ears.

  By the time he reached the end of the guide rope, nausea was creeping up from his stomach and into his throat. This was as far as it was supposed to be safe to go; the advertising literature had it that here was the point of no return. Up ahead his quarry was walking half doubled over, weaving back and forth, as though he were intoxicated. But he did not pause.

  Johnson turned to look back, and felt his breakfast fighting to come up. From his perspective, the ground and the spectators watching him had swung to a position almost perpendicular to him. He felt that he was about to slide off into space. A wave of vertigo swept over him, his legs folded and he fell to the ground--sicker than he had ever been before in his life. Now he knew why the man ahead never looked back.

  For a moment Johnson wondered whether he should give up. But, even as he debated, tenacity pulled him to his feet and forced him on.

  And now something new was added to his vast discomfort. Tiny twinges of pain, like small electric shocks, began shooting up his legs, increasing in intensity with each step he took. The pain built up until the rusty taste of blood in his mouth told him that he had bitten into the flesh of his lower lip.

  Johnson's only consolation now was the thought that the man ahead of him must be suffering worse than he. At each step the pain increased its tempo, and the sound within his head grew to a battering roar. Although he felt himself at the last frayed ends of his vitality, he managed to stagger on.

  Abruptly he realized that he had very nearly overtaken the man ahead. Through eyes glazed with pain, he saw the other, still standing, but swaying with agony and sickness. The man seemed to be gathering his resources for some supreme effort.

  He tottered ahead two more steps, threw himself forward--and disappeared!

  If he paused now, Johnson knew he would never be able to move again. Only will power and momentum carried him on. He stumbled and pitched forward. A searing pain traced a path through his head and he felt himself falling.

  * * * * *

  He was certain that he had never lost consciousness. The ground came up to meet him, and, with a last effort, he twisted his right shoulder inward. His cheek slid along the dirt and he lay on his side without strength. His legs pushed forward in a steady jerking movement as he fought to quiet his quivering muscles.

  Gradually a soothing lethargy bathed Johnson's body. His pains vanished, and the sickness left his stomach.

  But something was wrong--terribly wrong!

  Slowly he climbed to his feet and stood looking about him. He was still on the narrow arm of the Strip. On either side of him banks of white clouds, with the consistency of thick smoke, billowed and curled about the Strip--but somehow they left its pathway clear.

  Johnson shook his head. The wrongness, he guessed, was in his own mind. But he was unable to determine what it was. Desperately he marshalled his scattered thoughts. Nothing. He took one groping step in the direction from which he had come--and staggered back from a wall of pain as tangible as a concrete structure.

  He had no choice except to go forward. There was something he must do, he realized, but what was it? With the question came the answer to what was troubling him.

  His memory was gone!

  Or, at
least, a great gap had been torn through it as though carved out by a giant blade. Briefly, despair threatened to overwhelm him.

  "Hold it!" Johnson spoke aloud, and the words sobered him.

  All fears became worse when not looked at. He had to bring this disaster out into the open where he could face it; where he could assay the damage. He had always taken pride in having a logical mind, with thought processes as clear and orderly as a bookkeeper's ledger. Closing his eyes, he went swiftly over his recollections, placing each in its appropriate column.

  When he finished he found the balance extremely unfavorable, but not hopeless. On the asset side he remembered: His name. Donald Johnson. Right now he was on Nature's Moebius Strip, on the planet, Marlock. There was some man he had been following.... The rest was on the liability side of his balance sheet.

  * * * * *

  His name remained: All other memory of his own identity was gone. There was no recollection of his reason for being on Marlock, or whom he had been following or why. That left him little with which to work.

  On the other hand, he mused, he might never be able to get off the Strip, so that didn't matter much. He doubted his ability to stand the stress of penetrating that electric curtain again. His body had been able to take the punishment the first time because the force had built up gradually. Going back would be something else again.

  Still he planned his next actions methodically--only in that way could he retain his sanity. He would go forward for one hour, he decided--he checked his wrist watch and discovered it had run down--and, if he found nothing, he would return and take his chances on getting through the curtain.

  At the end of ten minutes he sighted land ahead of him. When he stepped off the Strip, he stopped in amazement!

  Somehow the Strip had doubled back on itself, and he had returned to his starting place!

  To his right was the rough wooden viewing platform, with its green umbrella gone. The stands were empty, and not a person--tourist or concessionaire--was in sight.

  As Johnson stood, perplexed, he became aware of numbness spreading over his body. He brought up his hands and watched them slowly turn blue with cold. He realized then, in a burst of wonder, that winter had come to Marlock. Yet it had been spring when he had gone out on the Strip!