The Ardath Mayhar MEGAPACK®

by John Maclay

  There was rejoicing in the village. Even now, the preser­vers were filling the last storehouse with meat. All the warriors had returned, unhurt, from the hunt. And, best of all, there was a captive to torture to death. Young and old were filled with a spirit of frolic, and the village re­sounded with Blgat equivalent of laughter and song.

  To their captive, the sounds denoted utter ferocity, but she sat, erect and disapproving, in the dingy hut into which she had been cast. A stalwart beldame removed a part of her bonds and offered her a portion of rather high-smelling stew. This she tried to eat, observing to herself that, come what might, she would need all her strength to face it.

  The three warriors who had been detailed to watch her were struck with admiration at her composure. The Cago­dot, those high-strung beings, though brave as lions at hunting and war, were usually demoralized when faced with imprisonment and torture. But this creature sat there, eating deliberately, and never once tore the somewhat scraggly plumage atop her head, and never once flung herself upon the floor in despair.

  One of the warriors approached her and, grinning at the others, fetched her a medium-hard blow across the face. She stood up, in a flash, and flung the contents of the bowl into his eyes, then cracked the bowl across his orange-haired head. He stumbled back, grunting, and his companions, con­vulsed, pantomimed his misfortune.

  At this moment, the chief entered the door-flap, and the warriors instantly ceased their horse-play. The old female cringed into a comer, trying to efface herself completely. Only the out-worlder was undaunted.

  Samantha stood erect, her nostrils pinched, her eyes snapping. Old Grkh regarded her cautiously. Her character, her speech, even her sex were mysteries to him. Her man­ner of appearance seemed to indicate some sort of super­natural origin, but Grkh was a profound skeptic. Besides which, he remembered having seen the strange “bugs” flit­ting about the sky several times.

  Advancing halfway across the room, he raised his hand and, in the intricate sign language which was the invention of the Cagodot, he informed her that her fate had been decided. She must suffer the torture immediately.

  “You can just stop waving your hands about,” Samantha said coldly. “I’ve nothing to say to a lot of murderers like you.”

  Neither, of course, understood anything that the other was trying to communicate, but the chief was beginning to admire his captive’s lack of fear. However, he gestured to the warriors, who seized her by the arms and marched her out of the hut into the glare of firelight.

  The shaman looked almost like a shaft of fire, himself, as he stood waiting for his victim. Four stakes had been set in a rough square. To these they hustled their captive and tied her, hand and foot, at a slant like the pitch of a rather steep roof, hands high above her head. As the thongs tight­ened about her wrists and ankles, a look of discomposure crossed her disapproving face, but she quickly replaced it with one of disdain.

  The flame of six great fires lit the village, throwing the shaggy forms of the Blgat into bright relief against the twilit foliage and the gray bark huts. They were gathered in a wide semicircle behind the victim, the warriors and women stand­ing quietly and their young chattering, darting, and scratch­ing behind and between the parents. Their orange coats re­flected darting gleams of gold, but their flat, hairy faces showed neither exultation nor pity, as they waited for the evening’s entertainment.

  Taking up a short-hafted spear, the shaman passed it five times before the nearest of the fires. The Blgat stirred and began to intone a deep-throated chant, “Ca-Goom, Ca-Goom!” which went booming away over the low hills and across the savannah.

  * * * *

  Far out on the grasslands, a faint echo of the chant vi­brated in the ears of Gambel, who, with Rolf Burke, was pushing the ground-car much faster than it should have been pushed across unfamiliar territory.

  “What does that sound like?” grunted Gambel, slowing to a crawl, then switching off.

  Burke opened the door and stepped out onto the camera platform at the front. The distant rumbling chant went on. He listened for a moment, then got back in and closed the door.

  “That sounds like something my Cagodot friends have tried to describe,” he said. “And, if it is, we’d better hurry, for that is the song the Blgat sing when they torture a Cag­odot to death.”

  The ground-car spurted forward, tearing a swath through the tall tan grasses.

  “I don’t know what they’ll do to our fanatical friend, but whatever it is won’t be pleasant,” Burke gasped, between jolts, as the car bucked over the uneven terrain.

  The chanting grew in intensity, quickening with excite­ment, with each step of the ritual torture. Each practiced motion of the shaman brought an increase in the tempo, a surge of excitement, yet there was a difference. As the cli­max neared, the chant died away and an expectant hush descended. At this point, the whimpering wreck of a Cag­odot always succumbed, killed by loss of blood, as well as intense mental and physical anguish. This strange being, however, showed no dismay. Not one scream had been forced from its tight lips, during even the most agonizing parts of the ritual. The shaman finished his work and stood, bowed and shaken, in the firelight.

  Old Grkh raised his broad hands above the victim. His deep voice boomed out, “Creature, go back to the gnat that bore you! Strange as you are, you have the gift of awful courage, and it fills our bellies with a strange feeling. Go back, out of our hills, and come to us no more!”

  Samantha Pirtle-Smith stood rubbing her wrists, from which the cut thongs still dangled. Though she understood nothing of what the old chief had said, she realized that she was free to go. One thing she still had to say, however. “I understand now,” she snapped. “You are only animals yourselves. If that fool Gambel had told me that, things would have been different.” Then she strode, snorting delicately, through the village and down the trail that led to the savannahs.

  The ground-car met her, just as she reached the grasslands. By the light of the triple moons they saw her, and their shouts of greeting died in their throats.

  “Turn your back and get me the spare coveralls!” she said. “Those animals ripped my clothes to pieces, bit by bit, then burnt the edges off and wound up by taking them en­tirely off me. They must have thought the clothes were part of me, like the Cagodots’ feathers. What can you expect of a bunch of dumb brutes, though?”

  Shaking with a reaction composed of equal parts of re­lief and mirth, the men found the clothing and tossed it to her, keeping their backs carefully turned to her angular and unlovely nudity.

  “Gambel,” she said severely, clambering into the ground car, “you are a fool.”

  The Observer dared a quick glance at his passenger, avoid­ing Rolf’s eye. “In many ways, Miss Pirtle-Smith,” he said. “Which particular one did you have in mind?”

  “You interfere too much with the beasts of this world,” she snapped. “I am certain that it must disturb them when you hover so closely above their hunting grounds, while they are engaged in their normal pursuits. The Blgat and the Cagodot are most unusual animals—I shall write to the SPAF immediately concerning them. They must be listed in the Master-Roll and then studied carefully. VERY care­fully,” she emphasized, fixing him with a stem eye. “And you must NOT upset them unduly.”

  Gambel set his gaze upon the invisible horizon. Oh, God, he thought.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  FUNGI

  For a student’s guidance, I wrote an example of a way to get into an alien world. Then, of course, I had to go ahead and write the story to find out what happened.

  Jonathan drew a deep breath, tainted, as usual, by the smell of recycled air. His space suit was awkward and it still rubbed his left knee, though the techs had worked on it again. He hated the suit, the domed station, and the world on which it sat. Almost airless, barren, holding only fungi and rock, the place was a disaster f
rom the viewpoint of an ecologist.

  He was thinking about that when the purple fungus spoke to him.

  Damn! Contaminants in the air supply again, he thought, heading back for the airlock. He’d always had a sensitivity—the mold spores that often invaded the interiors of the breather units gave him hallucinations.

  “You! Silver fungus! Have you no manners? I spoke to you!”

  It wasn’t a voice in his ear, but one inside his head. He’d never had anything quite like that before. Jonathan stopped and popped the top of his helmet with his gloved fist. Sometimes that put things back into place.

  Not this time. A stream of images entered his mind, along with words. Real human words, not spoken but thought with great vigor. He stopped in his tracks and turned slowly, staring back at the clump of purple fuzz on top of a grim gray stone.

  He increased magnification in his eye-plate, staring closely at the fungus. Each of the filaments that formed it was tipped with a speck of black so shiny it glittered in the unfiltered sunlight. As he stared, the entire group curved with synchronized choreography to point straight toward him—and stared back.

  Eyes?

  “Was that you?” he asked aloud, though he knew the helmet swallowed sound almost entirely.

  There was no audible reply, but he knew the answer anyway. “Of course. I have been perceiving you and the other silver fungi for several black-times now. I have learned how you communicate, though the vibrations you make are painful. Where did your spores originate? You appeared so quickly—no other intruder fungus has ever grown so large in such a short span.”

  Jonathan backed up a step and found himself against another stony shelf, this one almost as high as his shoulders. Another silent voice said, “Watch it! Do you want to crush me?”

  When he turned to look, a gray-green clump was staring back at him. He felt the hairs rise on his neck beneath the helmet, and sweat popped out on his chest inside the air conditioned suit.

  “You must understand,” the purple fungus continued, “that this world does not contain sustenance for more life forms than it now contains. No stone here can support more than a single organism, and all are occupied. You will have to encapsulate and send your spores elsewhere.”

  “But...but we are not fungi. We travel in other ways, and we don’t live on rocks. I assure you....”—he caught himself and stopped in mid-sentence. Apologize and explain to a clump of fuzz? Ridiculous!

  Something very like a sigh, though soundless, wisped through his head. “Very large specimens always feel they are above the laws of survival. We have noted that in the past, on other worlds. We have, however, invented techniques with which to defend our habitats, over the millennia of our travels between worlds. Be warned, silver fungus. Leave our planet or suffer the consequences.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth, but he could find no words. He knew he had gone mad. He had to get inside the dome, clear himself of the mold spores, and get the medication Dr. Tait kept for such situations.

  He hated to think what Commander Robb was going to say when he made his report. Robb was a military man of the old school. His reply to any challenge to human authority was a blast of laser fire, and he had no use for “slackers,” as he called those who developed psychological problems on alien worlds.

  Although Jonathan was a civilian, Robb had a way of making him feel lower than the fungi back there among the rocks. Flinching at the thought, the ecologist made his way carefully toward the dome, avoiding the boulders with great care as he went. Only when the lock cycled shut behind him did he relax.

  At last he stepped out into the dome, finding himself face to face with the Commander. “Eckles! What are you doing back so quickly? You were to examine Sector 16 of the North Quadrant. Surely you cannot be done with that already!”

  “Medication,” Jonathan gasped. “Spores in breather hallucinations.”

  Robb frowned ferociously, but he stepped aside. “When you finish with Dr. Tait,” he said in a warning tone, “come directly to my quarters. I want a complete report from you, Eckles. I will not tolerate slackers!”

  The doctor was interested in Jonathan’s description of his aberration while outside the dome. “Not your usual reaction,” he mused as he shot the medication into Jonathan’s skin. “I would like to examine your breathing equipment before the techs clean it up. Have them bring it to my laboratory with your recording computer.”

  On his way to Robb’s quarters, Jonathan left word for that to be done, but he was so worried about the coming interview that he didn’t think much about it. His push on the Commander’s may-I-enter button was timid, but the port popped open at once.

  Robb sat at his desk, looking stern. “Sit down,” he snapped. “Now give me a complete report of your very brief activities while outside the dome.”

  Feeling both foolish and terrified, Jonathan obeyed. When he was done, Robb’s coarse white eyebrows were meeting above his craggy nose, and his thin lips had disappeared into a straight line.

  “You expect me to believe that a fungus spoke to you?” His tone was dangerous.

  “No, no. Not at all. That is only what seemed to happen. I am sensitive to the mold that sometimes grows in the breathers. The stuff makes me hallucinate. This was simply the strangest hallucination I have ever had. Dr. Tait is examining the equipment now to find what sort of mold it might be.”

  The Commander pressed his com button. “Tait! Have you completed your examination of Eckles’s equipment?”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the smooth reply.

  “Report to my quarters at once. I want this cleared up without delay.” He glared at Jonathan as they waited for the doctor.

  When Tait arrived, he was not nervous, not breathless, not terrified. Jonathan envied him his lack of fear around the Commander. No, Tait seemed amused, if anything. He trundled behind him a wheeled table on which lay the breather and Jonathan’s recording computer.

  Robb stared at the table, then at Dr. Tait. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “Proof,” said Tait, his tone crisp. “You will find the result of my scan on the mini-comp.”

  Robb took the memo-pad in hand and said, “Report on Eckles’s breathing equipment.”

  The sexy voice, that of every computer sent into space, said, “No trace of mold spores was found in either oxygen tank or breather. No trace of hallucinogen of any kind, either on interior or exterior surfaces.”

  “Aha!” Robb stared at Jonathan. “So what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Jonathan found no words, but Tait interrupted smoothly, “You need to hear the report on the material contained in the recording equipment. Before you make accusations, Commander, I recommend that you listen to the next report.”

  “Report on Eckles’s record of mission begun at 21:35:10 this date.” He sounded dubious, Jonathan thought.

  “Overhead screen on, link to office com complete,” the mini-com began. “If you will watch the progress of subject, you will see that he was on course and taking notes to point A-6.” The overhead showed the boring terrain through which Jonathan was moving, and an overlay showed the mapped grid of his assigned sector.

  “At that point, subject’s verbal report is interrupted. Unusual auditory effects are recorded.” A buzz, almost subsonic, sounded as the com replayed the record. “Subject turns, surveys terrain, focuses on fungus located on boulder. Note magnification.” There the picture enlarged as Jonathan magnified his eye-plate, and the clump of purple fuzz came into sharp focus.

  “Note behavior of fungus. Entire clump swings toward subject as if examining him visually.”

  Now the com replayed both visual and auditory recordings, only Jonathan’s side of the conversation being comprehensible. As the report proceeded, Robb became very still, and his face reddened.

  When the com clicked off, the Commander turned to Jonathan. “This...t
his thing dared to threaten us? A fungus wants us to leave this world we are assigned to survey and has the gall to suggest we might suffer consequences?” He looked as if he might explode at the slightest provocation.

  He rose, and the other two jumped to their feet. “We will go back out there now. I want to...talk to this upstart mushroom. Prepare for external mission.”

  * * * *

  It was with considerable trepidation that Jonathan followed the Commander out of the airlock. Dr. Tait seemed excited, but he hadn’t communicated with the fungus directly. There was something terribly self assured about that clump of fuzz, and references to millennia of travel between worlds hinted at knowledge that even a fungus might have acquired.

  They reached the area more quickly than before. After all, he had been making verbal notes into his computer, pausing to examine anything the least bit unusual. Now they stood before the big gray rock, looking at the purple fuzz, which seemed to be dozing in the sunlight.

  Even as he watched, Jonathan saw the fuzzy tendrils stiffen, curve toward the three men, those shiny black eyes focusing upon them. He felt a shiver down his back, and he hoped the Commander did, too.

  “You return? After our warning? Silver fungi, you have no manners!”

  The Commander clapped both hands to his helmet, and Dr. Tait shook his head as if trying to locate the source of the communication.

  Jonathan said, “No, it’s not a voice you hear, but it gets inside your head anyway. Listen to what it says. I think we maybe should consider....”

  “You cowardly slacker! Be silent!”

  Jonathan could see the fungus quiver as the Commander’s roar penetrated the helmet. It focused upon him now, and Jonathan could not hear what it said, but whatever it was the Commander was clearly becoming more and more agitated.

  Hopping mad, he would have put it, concerning anyone else.

  Then Jonathan remembered that other one, the gray-green clump behind them. He turned cautiously to see what it was doing, and he found it, too, directing its attention toward Commander Robb. Something about the glint of those distant beads of black made him feel suddenly cold.