(4/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IV: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  "We can't just ignore this!" barked Spencer. He stiffened, glared at Orne.

  "We can and we will," said Orne. "No choice."

  Polly looked up, studied Orne's face. Diana looked confused.

  "Once a Nathian, always a Nathian, eh?" snarled Spencer.

  "There's no such thing," said Orne. "Five hundred years' cross-breeding with other races saw to that. There's merely a secret society of astute political scientists." He smiled wryly at Polly, glanced back at Spencer. "Think of your own wife, sir. In all honesty, would you be ComGO today if she hadn't guided your career?"

  Spencer's face darkened. He drew in his chin, tried to stare Orne down, failed. Presently, he chuckled wryly.

  "Sobie is beginning to come to his senses," said Polly. "You're about through, son."

  "Don't underestimate your future son-in-law," said Orne.

  "Hah!" barked Diana. "I hate you, Lewis Orne!"

  "You'll get over that," said Orne mildly.

  "Ohhhhhh!" Diana quivered with fury.

  "My major point is this," said Orne. "Government is a dubious glory. You pay for your power and wealth by balancing on the sharp edge of the blade. That great amorphous thing out there--the people--has turned and swallowed many governments. The only way you can stay in power is by giving good government. Otherwise--sooner on later--your turn comes. I can remember my mother making that point. It's one of the things that stuck with me." He frowned. "My objection to politics is the compromises you have to make to get elected!"

  Stetson moved out from the wall. "It's pretty clear," he said. Heads turned toward him. "To stay in power, the Nathians had to give us a fairly good government. On the other hand, if we expose them, we give a bunch of political amateurs--every fanatic and power-hungry demagogue in the galaxy--just the weapon they need to sweep them into office."

  "After that: chaos," said Orne. "So we let the Nathians continue ... with two minor alterations."

  "We alter nothing," said Polly. "It occurs to me, Lewis, that you don't have a leg to stand on. You have me, but you'll get nothing out of me. The rest of the organization can go on without me. You don't dare expose us. We hold the whip hand!"

  * * * * *

  "The I-A could have ninety per cent of your organization in custody inside of ten days," said Orne.

  "You couldn't find them!" snapped Polly.

  "How?" asked Stetson.

  "Nomads," said Orne. "This house is a glorified tent. Men on the outside, women on the inside. Look for inner courtyard construction. It's instinctive with Nathian blood. Add to that, an inclination for odd musical instruments--the kaithra, the tambour, the oboe--all nomad instruments. Add to that, female dominance of the family--an odd twist on the nomad heritage, but not completely unique. Check for predominance of female offspring. Dig into political background. We'll miss damn few!"

  Polly just stared at him, mouth open.

  Spencer said: "Things are moving too fast for me. I know just one thing: I'm dedicated to preventing another Rim War. If I have to jail every last one of--"

  "An hour after this conspiracy became known, you wouldn't be in a position to jail anyone," said Orne. "The husband of a Nathian! You'd be in jail yourself or more likely dead at the hands of a mob!"

  Spencer paled.

  "What's your suggestion for compromise?" asked Polly.

  "Number one: the I-A gets veto power on any candidate you put up," said Orne. "Number two: you can never hold more than two thirds of the top offices."

  "Who in the I-A vetoes our candidates?" asked Polly.

  "Admiral Spencer, Stet, myself ... anyone else we deem trustworthy," said Orne.

  "You think you're a god or something?" demanded Polly.

  "No more than you do," said Orne. "This is what's known as a check and balance system. You cut the pie. We get first choice on which pieces to take."

  There was a protracted silence; then Spencer said: "It doesn't seem right just to--"

  "No political compromise is ever totally right," said Polly. "You keep patching up things that always have flaws in them. That's how government is." She chuckled, looked up at Orne. "All right, Lewis. We accept." She glanced at Spencer, who shrugged, nodded glumly. Polly looked back at Orne. "Just answer me one question: How'd you know I was boss lady?"

  "Easy," said Orne. "The records we found said the ... Nathian (he'd almost said 'traitor') family on Marak was coded as 'The Head.' Your name, Polly, contains the ancient word 'Poll' which means head."

  Polly looked at Stetson. "Is he always that sharp?"

  "Every time," said Stetson.

  "If you want to go into politics, Lewis," said Polly, "I'd be delighted to--"

  "I'm already in politics as far as I want to be," growled Orne. "What I really want is to settle down with Di, catch up on some of the living I've missed."

  Diana stiffened. "I never want to see, hear from or hear of Mr. Lewis Orne ever again!" she said. "That is final, emphatically final!"

  Orne's shoulders drooped. He turned away, stumbled, and abruptly collapsed full length on the thick carpets. There was a collective gasp behind him.

  Stetson barked: "Call a doctor! They warned me at the hospital he was still hanging on a thin thread!"

  There was the sound of Polly's heavy footsteps running toward the hall.

  "Lew!" It was Diana's voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, soft hands fumbling at his neck, his head.

  "Turn him over and loosen his collar!" snapped Spencer. "Give him air!"

  Gently, they turned Orne onto his back. He looked pale, Diana loosed his collar, buried her face against his neck. "Oh, Lew, I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I didn't mean it! Please, Lew ... please don't die! Please!"

  Orne opened his eyes, looked up at Spencer and Stetson. There was the sound of Polly's voice talking rapidly on the phone in the hall. He could feel Diana's cheek warm against his neck, the dampness of her tears. Slowly, deliberately, Orne winked at the two men.

  THE END

  * * *

  Contents

  I'LL KILL YOU TOMORROW

  By Helen Huber

  It was not a sinister silence. No silence is sinister until it acquires a background of understandable menace. Here there was only the night quiet of Maternity, the silence of noiseless rubber heels on the hospital corridor floor, the faint brush of starched white skirts brushing through doorways into darkened and semi-darkened rooms.

  But there was something wrong with the silence in the "basket room" of Maternity, the glass-walled room containing row on row, the tiny hopes of tomorrow. The curtain was drawn across the window through which, during visiting hours, peered the proud fathers who did the hoping. The night-light was dim.

  The silence should not have been there.

  Lorry Kane, standing in the doorway, looked out over the rows of silent baskets and felt her blonde hair tighten at the roots. The tightening came from instinct, even before her brain had a chance to function, from the instincts and training of a registered nurse.

  Thirty-odd babies grouped in one room and--complete silence.

  Not a single whimper. Not one tiny cry of protest against the annoying phenomenon of birth.

  Thirty babies--dead? That was the thought that flashed, unbidden, into Lorry's pretty head. The absurdity of it followed swiftly, and Lorry moved on rubber soles between a line of baskets. She bent down and explored with practiced fingers.

  A warm, living bundle in a white basket.

  The feeling of relief was genuine. Relief, even from an absurdity, is a welcome thing. Lorry smiled and bent closer.

  Staring up at Lorry from the basket were two clear blue eyes. Two eyes, steady and fixed in a round baby face. An immobile, pink baby face housing two blue eyes that stared up into Lorry's with a quiet concentration that was chilling.

  Lorry said, "What's the matter with you?" She spoke in a whisper and was addressing herself. She'd gone short on sleep lately--the only way, really, to get a few hours with Pete. Pete was an intern
e at General Hospital, and the kind of a homely grinning carrot-top a girl like Lorry could put into dreams as the center of a satisfactory future.

  But all this didn't justify a case of jitters in the "basket room."

  Lorry said. "Hi, short stuff," and lifted Baby Newcomb--Male, out of his crib for a cuddling.

  Baby Newcomb didn't object. The blue eyes came closer. The week-old eyes with the hundred-year-old look. Lorry laid the bundle over her shoulder and smiled into the dimness.

  "You want to be president, Shorty?" Lorry felt the warmth of a new life, felt the little body wriggle in snug contentment. "I wouldn't advise it. Tough job." Baby Newcomb twisted in his blanket. Lorry stiffened.

  Snug contentment?

  Lorry felt two tiny hands clutch and dig into her throat. Not just pawing baby hands. Little fingers that reached and explored for the windpipe.

  She uncuddled the soft bundle, held it out. There were the eyes. She chilled. No imagination here. No spectre from lack of sleep.

  Ancient murder-hatred glowing in new-born eyes.

  * * * * *

  "Careful, you fool! You'll drop this body." A thin piping voice. A shrill symphony in malevolence.

  Fear weakened Lorry. She found a chair and sat down. She held the boy baby in her hands. Training would not allow her to drop Baby Newcomb. Even if she had fainted, she would not have let go.

  * * * * *

  The shrill voice: "It was stupid of me. Very stupid."

  Lorry was cold, sick, mute.

  "Very stupid. These hands are too fragile. There are no muscles in the arms. I couldn't have killed you."

  "Please--I ..."

  "Dreaming? No. I'm surprised at--well, at your surprise. You have a trained mind. You should have learned, long ago, to trust your senses."

  "I don't understand."

  "Don't look at the doorway. Nobody's coming in. Look at me. Give me a little attention and I'll explain."

  "Explain?" Lorry pulled her eyes down to the cherubic little face as she parroted dully.

  "I'll begin by reminding you that there are more things in existence than your obscene medical books tell you about."

  "Who are you? What are you?"

  "One of those things."

  "You're not a baby!"

  "Of course not. I'm ..." The beastly, brittle voice drifted into silence as though halted by an intruding thought. Then the thought voiced--voiced with a yearning at once pathetic and terrible: "It would be nice to kill you. Someday I will. Someday I'll kill you if I can find you."

  "Why? Why?" Insane words in an insane world. But life had not stopped even though madness had taken over. "Why?"

  The voice was matter-of-fact again. No more time for pleasant daydreams. "I'm something your books didn't tell you about. Naturally you're bewildered. Did you ever hear of a bodyless entity?"

  Lorry shuddered in silence.

  "You've heard of bodyless entities, of course--but you denied their existence in your smug world of precise tidy detail. I'm a bodyless entity. I'm one of a swarm. We come from a dimension your mind wouldn't accept even if I explained it, so I'll save words. We of the swarm seek unfoldment--fulfillment--even as you in your stupid, blind world. Do you want to hear more?"

  "I ..."

  "You're a fool, but I enjoy practicing with these new vocal chords, just as I enjoyed flexing the fingers and muscles. That's why I revealed myself. We are, basically of course, parasites. In the dimension where we exist in profusion, evolution has provided for us. There, we seek out and move into a dimensional entity far more intelligent than yourself. We destroy it in a way you wouldn't understand, and it is not important that you should. In fact, I can't see what importance there is in your existing at all."

  "You plan to--kill all these babies?"

  "Let me congratulate you. You've finally managed to voice an intelligent question. The answer is, no. We aren't strong enough to kill them. We dwelt in a far more delicate dimension than this one and all was in proportion. That was our difficulty when we came here. We could find no entities weak enough to take possession of until we came upon this roomful of infants."

  "Then, if you're helpless ..."

  "What do we plan to do? That's quite simple. These material entities will grow. We will remain attached--ingrained, so to speak. When the bodies enlarge sufficiently ..."

  "Thirty potential assassins...." Lorry spoke again to herself, then hurled the words back into her own mind as her sickness deepened.

  The shrill chirping: "What do you mean, potential? The word expresses a doubt. Here there is none." The entity's chuckle sounded like a baby, content over a full bottle. "Thirty certain assassins."

  "But why must you kill?"

  Lorry was sure the tiny shoulders shrugged. "Why? I don't know. I never thought to wonder. Why must you join with a man and propagate some day? Why do you feel sorry for what you term an unfortunate? Explain your instincts and I'll explain mine."

  Lorry felt herself rising. Stiffly, she put Baby Newcomb back into his basket. As she did so, a ripple of shrill, jerky laughter crackled through the room. Lorry put her hands to her ears. "You know I can't say anything. You'd keep quiet. They'd call me mad."

  "Precisely."

  Malicious laughter, like driven sleet, cut into her ears as she fled from the room.

  * * * * *

  Peter Larchmont, M.D., was smoking a quick cigarette by an open fire-escape door on the third floor. He turned as Lorry came down the corridor, flipped his cigarette down into the alley and grinned. "Women shouldn't float on rubber heels," he said. "A man should have warning."

  Lorry came close. "Kiss me. Kiss me--hard."

  Pete kissed her, then held her away. "You're trembling. Anticipation, pet?" He looked into her face and the grin faded. "Lorry, what is it?"

  "Pete--Pete. I'm crazy. I've gone mad. Hold me."

  He could have laughed, but he had looked closely into her eyes and he was a doctor. He didn't laugh. "Tell me. Just stand here. I'll hang onto you and you tell me."

  "The babies--they've gone mad." She clung to him. "Not exactly that. Something's taken them over. Something terrible. Oh, Pete! Nobody would believe me."

  "I believe the end result," he said, quietly. "That's what I'm for, angel. When you shake like this I'll always believe. But I'll have to know more. And I'll hunt for an answer."

  "There isn't any answer, Pete. I know."

  "We'll still look. Tell me more, first."

  "There isn't any more." Her eyes widened as she stared into his with the shock of a new thought. "Oh, Lord! One of them talked to me, but maybe he--or it--won't talk to you. Then you'll never know for sure! You'll think I'm ..."

  "Stop it. Quit predicting what I'll do. Let's go to the nursery."

  They went to the nursery and stayed there for three-quarters of an hour. They left with the tinny laughter filling their minds--and the last words of the monstrous entity.

  "We'll say no more, of course. Perhaps even this incident has been indiscreet. But it's in the form of a celebration. Never before has a whole swarm gotten through. Only a single entity on rare occasions."

  Pete leaned against the corridor wall and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "We're the only ones who know," he said.

  "Or ever will know." Lorry pushed back a lock of his curly hair. She wanted to kiss him, but this didn't seem to be the place or the time.

  "We can never tell anyone."

  "We'd look foolish."

  "We've got a horror on our hands and we can't pass it on."

  "What are we going to do?" Lorry asked.

  "I don't know. Let's recap a little. Got a cigarette?"

  They went to the fire door and dragged long and deep on two from Lorry's pack. "They'll be quiet from now on. No more talking--just baby squalls."

  "And thirty little assassins will go into thirty homes," Lorry said. "All dressed in soft pink and blue, all filled with hatred. Waiting, biding their time, growing more clever." She shud
dered.

  "The electric chair will get them all, eventually."

  "But how many will they get in the meantime?"

  Pete put his arms around her and drew her close and whispered into her ear. "There's nothing we can do--nothing."

  "We've got to do something." Lorry heard again the thin, brittle laughter following her, taunting her.

  "It was a bad dream. It didn't happen. We'll just have to sleep it off."

  She put her cheek against his. The rising stubble of his beard scratched her face. She was grateful for the rough touch of solid reality.

  Pete said, "The shock will wear out of our minds. Time will pass. After a while, we won't believe it ourselves."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  "It's got to be that way."

  "We've got to do something."

  Pete lowered his arm wearily. "Yeah--we've got to do something. Where there's nothing that can be done. What are we--miracle workers?"

  "We've got to do something."

  "Sure--finish out the watch and then get some sleep."

  * * * * *

  Lorry awoke with the lowering sun in her window. It was a blood red sun. She picked up the phone by her bedside. "Room 307 Resident's extension."

  Pete answered drowsily. Lorry said, "Tell me--did I dream, or did it really happen."

  "I was going to ask you the same thing. I guess it happened. What are you doing?"

  "Lying in bed."

  "So am I. But two different beds. Things are done all wrong."

  "Want to take a chance and sneak over? I've got an illegal coffee pot."

  "Leave the door unlocked."

  Lorry put on the coffee. She showered and got into her slip. She was brushing her hair when Pete came in. He looked at her and extended beckoning, clutching fingers. "The hell with phantoms. Come here."

  After a couple of minutes, Lorry pulled away and poured the coffee. She reached for her uniform. Pete said, "Don't put it on yet."