Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  He had seen also a fear striker, many times as long as Lok was tall, coiled in hunger beside a trail for a whole day or night until the proper sized victim passed. Then a flashing strike, whipping coils, a crushing of bones, and the fear striker held the limp body of one he could not possibly have caught by speed alone.

  Yet the lying-in-wait alone was not the answer to the problem of his conquering the tribe, Lok felt. It was not his way to crouch near a rotten log until the Old One, for example, came to tear it apart for grubs and then fling himself on the hungry one. No, not that, but still the essence of what he sought was there.

  Each denizen of the world in his own fashion delivered a death blow to his prey. With the long snout’s tail. Lok cried out in the night as he found the answer. “I am master!” he shouted. “I am Lok!”

  Ignoring the sleepy protest of a bird in the neighboring tree, he slipped to the ground and coursed through the brush seeking his weapon, a short, stout limb.

  When he found it, he stood in the darkness swinging it in vicious arcs, filled with an inner excitement. Pictures formed again in his mind.

  When two males of his tribe fought, they shouted preliminary insults until rage was at a sufficient pitch for loose-armed, bare-fanged combat. How devastating, Lok thought, to step in during the insult stage and surprise his opponent with a death blow.

  As soon as vivid dawn brought raucous, screaming wakefulness to the jungle, Lok continued toward the land of his tribe. He found sustained travel in the trees impossible while hampered with his weapon, and dropped to the jungle floor, slashing vines aside with the club when the going was thick.

  Once he climbed a tree for long fruit to satisfy his hunger, and once he drank from a stream, searching somewhat eagerly for a long snout on whom he might try his new weapon.

  He came at midday to the edge of a wide, treeless plain covered with waist-high yellow grass. Lok hesitated to cross it on foot, for out there, lurking near the herds of the striped feeders, one sometimes saw big heads.

  These were yellow, catlike killers, more powerful than the jungle cats, more feared than any. They were not only powerful, they were agile and ruthless when in bad temper.

  Yet if he did not cross the plain he would be forced into the trees for a long circuit, and must abandon his weapon.

  That decided him. He was fond of this heavy, knobbed length of wood. It seemed to give him an additional arm, and it doubled his courage. He set out through the yellow grass, circling a grazing tribe of striped feeders in the hope that he might pass unchallenged.

  Presently he struck a path wriggling in his general direction, and it was on this path, in the center of the plain where there was no shelter, that he met a huge, golden-eyed big head.

  It came upon him face to face, trotting as noiselessly as Lok, a heavy-maned, full-grown male. The two froze in their tracks, and the big head gave a roar of surprise. Lok drew back his weapon, holding it near one end with both hands.

  “I will kill you,” Lok said, a slight quaver in his voice, “if you do not go away.”

  “What?” the big head roared in disbelief.

  Lok repeated his threat in a more steady voice.

  The big head crouched, swishing his tufted tail.

  “You have a strange smell,” he said.

  Lok detected a note of uneasiness and his courage rose to reckless heights.

  “You are a coward!” he cried, and jumped up and down on the sun-baked trail. “Weakling! Fish food!”

  The big head hesitated a second. Then with a roar of unintelligible rage he launched himself at Lok, jaws wide and red, claws unsheathed.

  Lok darted to one side and swung his club. All his strength was in the blow which caught the big head in his yellow ribs while in midair. The tawny beast twisted, was deflected out of the path and fell heavily in the dry grass. He was on his feet instantly and in the air again, coming at Lok almost faster than his eye could follow.

  Lok felt a hopeless surprise when his blow did not kill the big head, and confidence in his weapon deflated. But he swung again, and the club thudded home on the big head’s neck. The powerful body jerked again in the air and sprawled away from the path.

  The big head was not so quick in resuming attack. He crouched in the grass which his fall had flattened, and roared gibberish at Lok, who held his club at ready.

  A little of Lok’s confidence returned as he looked steadily into the blazing eyes which had taken on a tinge of reddish green. Yet he was afraid, for he well knew the power of those fanged, dripping jaws, and the death in each front paw.

  Entirely aside from his thoughts of self-preservation, Lok was exhilarated by the scene: the sleek tan body rippling with taut muscles, the wide grassy theater of action, and the excited yaps of an approaching troupe of dead eaters gathering at a distance to dispose of the loser.

  Flecks of dark sweat spotted the smooth body of the big head, and Lok felt his own body growing moist and then cool as a light breeze brushed past.

  Without warning, the big head leaped a third time. Lok, caught slightly unaware, swung his club without definite aim and without the full power which he had put into his previous blows. He caught the cat just below one ear.

  As the blow struck, Lok had the impression of a drinking nut being broken by striking it against a stone. It was a satisfying sensation as it ran up the club into his arms, but he attached no importance to it until he saw its result.

  For the big head twisted again in the air and tumbled into the grass, dead with a crushed skull, lips skinned back from long, yellow fangs. Lok stood well away from the still body for a few moments, eyeing it with a dull sense of wonder.

  His other blows had been mightier than this which terminated the battle, yet they had wrought no apparent damage. After a short time, he prodded the motionless body from a distance with his club. “Coward!” he snarled softly. “Arise!”

  When further abuse brought no reaction, Lok shouldered his club and went on his way, and the slinking dead eaters swarmed upon the corpse behind him.

  He examined the plain in all directions for evidence of other big heads but saw nothing except the upraised heads and pointed ears of a herd of striped feeders who had heard the roars of battle. Lok continued cautiously toward the far jungle wall, thinking of the strange effect of a light blow on the head as compared to, a heavy blow on the body of the big head. He felt no sense of accomplishment, although he was perhaps the first of his tribe to vanquish their most feared enemy. He was puzzled.

  He soon dismissed the matter, however, for the more pressing problem of locating the tribe. When he reached his home country, a land of fruit and grubs near the foothills of a tall mountain range, he roamed in a wide circle. As he searched, an uneasiness grew within him, a sense of need for action.

  Something was wrong, something completely dissociated from his finding the tribe. Other denizens of the forest felt it, too: birds reflected it in sharp, nervous cries, and the jungle reverberated now and then with baffled roars of big cats.

  On the second night, while Lok was drowsing in the crotch of a thick, white tree, a distant growing murmur brought him awake. The murmur grew in volume to a sullen rushing roar as a wall of wind moved through the night.

  On all sides was the crash of falling trees: first an ear-splitting crack as wind-strain shattered the trunk, a groaning sw-i-i-sh and finally an earth-shaking boom!

  Lok shivered with discomfort in the sleeping crotch. He understood his uneasiness of the past two days‌—‌the rainy season was about to begin. Although he was fairly safe in this stout tree, he longed for the dry protection of the cave he now remembered.

  A far-off mutter of rain deepened as it rushed across the treetops with the sound of a great herd of stampeded striped feeders. Lok felt a certain terror, which increased as brilliant twisting tongues lashed out of a roaring sky.

  He shrank close to the tree which now leaned at a steady angle from the push of the wind, and grew wetter and more uncomfortable
as the night wore on. During the lull when the quiet center of the storm moved past he shivered in dread of the wind which would now blow, even more fiercely, perhaps in the opposite direction.

  When a leaden but dry dawn broke, Lok resumed his search for the tribe, torn between the desire for leadership and the desire for shelter.

  Fallen trees were everywhere and though the rotten cores of many housed fat grubs, Lok took to the forest roof where his passage was unhindered by wet, tangled vines or a myriad of tiny, poisonous many legs and whip tails that scurried about.

  The sun came out later in the morning, and Lok found the tribe near midday in a steaming clearing.

  Perhaps fifty in number, from huge gray-tufted males to babies clinging to their mothers, they eyed Lok with sullen suspicion as he dropped from a tree and advanced to the center of the clearing, swing-his club in one hand.

  “I am Lok,” he said. “I have returned to rule the tribe.”

  The females scuttled behind the males, who formed a wide half circle of beetle-browed suspicion.

  “This hairless one has a sickening smell,” one said.

  “Kill him!” cried another. Lok moved a pace nearer. “Wait!” he commanded.

  They were quiet.

  “I have slain a big head,” Lok said, swinging the club. “I am master.”

  The Old One stepped out of the half circle and advanced to within ten paces.

  “Fish food!” the Old One yelled. “Coward! Go before I tear out your throat!”

  He bounced up and down, as was the custom of fighters, on his squat legs and made his face as frightening as possible with wide, slavering jaws. Behind him the others emulated his example, howling and hurling threats. The clearing was in instant bedlam as the females augmented the cries and their babies clung to them in loud terror.

  Into the midst of the insult and confusion, Lok stepped forward and swung his club.

  Its sharp crack against the skull of the Old One cut all sound. The Old One brushed at his head with a hand as though driving away an annoying insect, and then fell like a shattered tree, his jaws and eyes still wide with anger.

  Into the silence, Lok said, “I have slain the Old One. I am master.” They had not yet grasped the event and were quiet, save for the babies who whimpered softly.

  “I have gone,” Lok continued, gesturing, “far out there. There is a dry place safe from the rain and wind. It is good. I will lead you. There is food.”

  They stared at him with dull, uncomprehending eyes. For a long time there was no sound except for the babies and the far-off cries of birds while Lok stood in the center of the clearing with the dead Old One at his feet. Then one of the young males spoke.

  “He has a smell I hate, this hairless scum.”

  The hate filled them instantly, and the entire tribe once more shrieked insults and threats of death. Some of the more foolhardy males rushed forward a few steps, and Lok’s club slashed out the second life.

  This brought another moment of quiet, and a big, gray female moved out of the ruck.

  “Go!” she growled from foam-flecked jaws. “I, myself, will kill you!”

  “Mother!” Lok cried. “I am Lok!”

  “Mother?” she snarled. “Pink filth!”

  “Kill him!” bawled half a dozen throats, and the males closed in.

  Confusion and lust for death filled the air again as Lok backed away, swinging his club on the hairy beasts that crowded him with foaming mouths and screaming lungs. Each swing took its toll, and Lok remembered the lesson he had learned on the grassy plain. He struck each blow at a head, and the crushing skulls brought a tingling excitement into his arms and a wild exhilaration to his brain.

  One of the larger males caught Lok by an arm and, as he bent to sink teeth home in the wrist, Lok took careful aim and shattered his head like a ripe fruit. The sound of its cracking cut sharply into the incoherent roars of the attackers.

  “I am master!” Lok screamed, thinking of the split skulls. “I am Lok!”

  And he swung again, and again.

  When he was near the jungle edge, Lok’s arms were tiring. The last three males he hit rose shakily to elbows and knees. Lok turned and fled. There were too many.

  None followed. They returned to the still forms which marked the trail of battle, and Lok watched them try to shake life back into the dead for a time. Presently they tired of this, and the largest male called them into the forest. They trooped away, chattering lightly of drinking nuts, leaving the wounded to follow as best they might.

  Lok’s brooding eyes followed until they were hidden from sight and the sound of their chatter had faded. He looked at his club, spattered with blood, and at the dozen dead which littered the clearing floor. A greater sense of power and superiority than he had felt before now flooded his being, but this was also tempered with a feeling of desolation.

  For he was alone again. He who had returned to his own was driven forth once more.

  When the first dead eater slunk cautiously into the clearing, Lok turned to go.

  He had gone but a short distance from the clearing toward the far country of the caves when he heard a moaning off to one side.

  He sprang aloft and sat quietly for a time, listening. The moans were repeated, and Lok moved nearer.

  A female of his tribe was pinned lightly under a tree. Lok dropped to the ground and approached. She was unconscious, but after he had prodded her a few times with his club she opened her eyes and cried out with terror.

  “I am Lok,” he said. She groaned again and tried to push the tree off her body.

  Lok squatted on his haunches to watch. She strained at the tree in an agony of effort, trying to free her legs, but it was beyond her strength. Presently Lok tired of watching and turned away. “Help me!” she cried after him.

  He looked back with puzzled eyes.

  “Help me!” she cried again in the words and voice of a baby to its mother.

  Lok stood over her again and poked her with his club, shaking his head in bewilderment. She looked up at him with wide, dark, pain-ridden eyes which took in his smooth, hairless body.

  “I am hurt,” she whimpered.

  Lok crouched again as she renewed her efforts to push away the tree. His brows wrinkled in concentration as he tried to focus his thought. He poked his club at her.

  “You are alone, too,” he said.

  She grasped the club with both hands and pulled. Lok, in surprise, turned it loose, and she cried out in anger and pain.

  The picture of her desire burst into his mind and he leaped to his feet, dancing with excitement.

  “I am Lok,” he chattered. “I slew the Old One.”

  He grasped his end of the club, leaned back on his heels and tugged. She clung to it desperately, and presently she slid out from under the tree.

  Lok stood over her as she rolled and kicked her skinned legs, crying aloud in anguish. Now and then he poked her experimentally. Presently she tried to rise.

  Lok sat on his heels and looked at her for a long time. She returned his gaze steadily.

  “I am Lok,” he said finally. “I am master.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes.”

  Without understanding the deep calm which had taken possession of him, Lok slung her over his shoulder and began the long journey to the place of caves. As he trotted along the twisting trail, he swung his club now and then against a thick vine, feeling keen satisfaction at the sharp crack of the blows.

  “I have killed a big head,” he said proudly to the female, who clung to him tenderly. “I have killed a big head and‌—‌” he hesitated, searching his brain for a term to describe the dead he had strewn over the clearing “‌—‌and other animals,” he concluded.

  MECHANICAL MICE

  Maurice A. Hugi

  We are on the threshold of the robot age. Automatic pilots are true robots. They are machines that perform set duties faithfully and well without the personal supervision of their masters, man. Increase th
e functions and capabilities of such machines; elaborate, develop, modify their design and‌—‌you have robots. But what happens if (and when) a robot develops the power to think? Who wins the ensuing struggle, man or machine? Pessimistic author Hugi thinks the machine will be the victor and tells a spine-tingling tale of the triumphant Robot Mother and her murderous brood.

  * * *

  It’s asking for trouble to fool around with the unknown. Burman did it! Now there are quite a lot of people who hate like the very devil anything that clicks, ticks, emits whirring sounds, or generally behaves like an asthmatic alarm clock. They’ve got mechanophobia. Dan Burman gave it to them.

  Who hasn’t heard of the Burman Bullfrog Battery? The same chap! He puzzled it out from first to last and topped it with his now world-famous slogan: “Power in Your Pocket.” It was no mean feat to concoct a thing the size of a cigarette packet that would pour out a hundred times as much energy as its most efficient competitor. Burman differed from everyone else in thinking it a mean feat.

  Burman looked me over very carefully, then said, “When that technical journal sent you around to see me twelve years ago, you listened sympathetically. You didn’t treat me as if I were an idle dreamer or a congenital idiot. You gave me a decent write-up and started all the publicity that eventually made me much money.”

  “Not because I loved you,” I assured him, “but because I was honestly convinced that your battery was good.”

  “Maybe.” He studied me in a way that conveyed he was anxious to get something off his chest. “We’ve been pretty pally since that time. We’ve filled in some idle hours together, and I feel that you’re the one of my few friends to whom I can make a seemingly silly confession.”

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged. We had been pretty pally, as he’d said. It was merely that we liked each other, found each other congenial. He was a clever chap, Burman, but there was nothing of the pedantic professor about him. Fortyish, normal, neat, he might have been a fashionable dentist to judge by appearances.