The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

by Robert Bloch

  "Correct."

  I gazed at the sketch again. Penner had an eye for detail. I was particularly impressed with the way the creatures were dressed.

  "These look like ancient Earth-garments," I said. "They're wearing little armored breastplates, and helmets. And they carry spears."

  "That's exactly how they looked," Levy corroborated. "Some of them had those — what were they called? —bows and arrows."

  Penner eyed me. "You've got a theory, Dale?"

  "No, but I'm getting one. These little things never built the city. They don't live in the ruins, now. They couldn't possibly wear Earth-garments like these. They appeared suddenly, you say, and disappeared just as suddenly."

  "Sounds silly, the way you sum it up," Penner admitted. "Yes. Unless you accept one overall theory."

  "And that is?"

  "That they don't exist! They never existed at all, except in your imagination."

  "But we all saw them. Saw them, and heard them!"

  "We all went through a blackout together, a few hours ago," I reminded him. "And I'm beginning to think that ties in, somehow. Suppose 68/5 isn't uninhabited. Suppose it does contain life."

  "That's out of the question!" Swanson interrupted. "The roboship tapes are infallible. Any signs of existence would have been detected and recorded. You know that."

  "Yet suppose there were no signs," I answered. "Suppose we're dealing with an intangible intelligence — "

  "Absurd!" This from Penner.

  "No more absurd than the story you've told me. Suppose the intelligence can control our minds. It blacked us out and planted hypnotic suggestion. A little while later you saw little men—"

  "No. It doesn't add up," Levy insisted. "There's a flaw." He pointed at the second sketch. "How would your intelligence know about Earth-garments such as these? I'm sure none of us were aware of such things. You're the bookworm around here — "

  "Bookworm!" I paused. "Wait a minute. You say these creatures talked to you?"

  "That's right," Penner answered. "Do you remember any of the words?"

  "I think so. They had little shrill voices and they were shouting to each other. Sounded something like Hekinah degul and Langro dehul san"

  "One of them pointed at you and said Hurgo over and over," Swanson reminded him.

  "Hurgo," I repeated. "Wait a minute." I walked over to my shelf and pulled down one of my books. "Look at this," I said. "No pictures in this edition, of course, but read this page."

  Penner read slowly as the others crowded around. He raised his head, scowled. "Sounds like our creatures," he said. "What is this?"

  I turned to the frontispiece and read: "GULLIVER'S TRAVELS, by Jonathan Swift. Published, 1727."

  "No!" said Penner.

  I shrugged. "It's all in the book," I told him. "Descriptions, words, phrases. Some intelligent force out there tried to read our minds and—I think — failed. So it read the book, instead, and reproduced a part of it."

  "But what possible force could exist? And how could it read the book? And why did it reproduce the — " Penner halted, groping for the word which I supplied.

  "Lilliputians."

  "All right, why did it reproduce Lilliputians?"

  I didn't know the answers. I couldn't even guess. All I had was a feeling, which I expressed in one short sentence. "Let's get out of here."

  Penner shook his head. "We can't. You know that. We've stumbled across something without precedent, and it's our job to investigate it fully. Who knows what we might learn? I say we get some rest and go back tomorrow."

  There was a mumble of agreement. I had nothing more to say, so I kept quiet. Swanson and Morse and Levy sought their bunks. I started across to mine, when Penner tapped me on the shoulder.

  "By the way, Dale, would you mind letting me have that book of yours? I want to read up on those creatures — might come in handy tomorrow."

  I gave him the book and he went forward. Then I lay down and prepared to sleep. Before closing my eyes I took a last look out of the nearest Sighter. The planet was dark and dead. There was nothing out there — nothing but sand and ruins and loneliness. And something that made up Lilliputians, something that read in order to learn, and learned in order to plan, and planned in order to act —

  I didn't get much sleep that night.

  The sun was lemon-colored the next morning when Swanson roused us. "Come on," he said. "Penner says we're going out again. Two of us will stay on ship, but we'll take turns. Morse, you and Dale can get ready."

  "Orders?" I asked.

  "No. I don't think so. It's just that it's really your turn to see the ruins."

  I faced him. "I don't want to see the ruins. And my advice is that we all stay on ship and blast off, right now."

  "What's the trouble?" Penner loomed up behind Swanson.

  "He doesn't want to go out," Swanson said. "Thinks we ought to leave." He smiled at Penner, and said, "Coward."

  Penner grinned at me and his grin said, "Psycho."

  I didn't let my face talk for me. This was serious. "Look, now," I began. "I've been awake most of the night, thinking. And I've got a hunch."

  "Let's hear it." Penner was courteous enough, but over his shoulder he said, "Meanwhile, why don't you men get into your suits?"

  "This intelligence we talked about last night — we all agreed it must exist. But it can't be measured or located."

  "That's what we're going to try to do this morning," Penner said.

  "I advise against it."

  "Go on."

  "Let's think about intelligence for a moment. Ever try to define it? Pretty difficult thing to do. We all know there are hundreds of worlds that don't contain intelligence but do contain life. New worlds and old worlds alike have a complete existence and cycle independent of conscious intelligence."

  "What's this, a book lecture?" asked Morse.

  "No, just my own ideas. And one of my ideas is that what we call intelligence is a random element, arising spontaneously under certain conditions just as life itself does. It isn't necessary for the existence of a world — it's extraneous, it's a parasite, an alien growth. Usually it uses brain cells as a host. But suppose it could evolve to the point where it isn't limited to brain cells?"

  "All right, then what?" Penner snapped.

  "Suppose, when life dies on a planet, intelligence finds a means of survival? Suppose it adapts itself to something other than the tissue of the cortex? Suppose the highest point of evolution is reached — in which the planet itself, as host, becomes the seat of intelligence?"

  "Mean to say that 68/5 can think?"

  "It's worth considering. Remember, when intelligence enters brain cells it identifies itself with its host, and tries in every way to help its host survive. Suppose it enters, finally, into the planet — when life dies out — and tries to help the planet survive?"

  "Thinking planets! Now I've heard everything!" This from Swanson. "Dale, you read too many books."

  "Perhaps. But consider what's happened! We can't locate any life form here. Nevertheless, we black out. And something creates, out of reading and imagination, a duplicate of GULLIVER'S TRAVELS. Think in terms of a combined number of intelligences, fused into a single unit housed in the body of this world itself. Think of its potential power, and then think of its motives. We're outsiders, we may be hostile, we must be controlled or destroyed. And that's what the planet is trying to do. It can't read our minds, but it can read my books. And its combined force is enough to materialize imaginative concepts in an effort to destroy us. First came little Lilliputians with bows and arrows and tiny spears. The intelligence realized these wouldn't be effective, so it may try something else. Something like — "

  Penner cut me off with a gesture. "All right, Dale. You don't have to come with us if you don't want to." It was like a slap in the face. I stared around the circle. The men had their suits on. Nobody looked at me.

  Then, surprisingly enough, Levy spoke up. "Maybe he's right," he said. "S
omebody else has to stay behind, too. Think I'll keep Dale company here."

  I smiled at him. He came over, unfastening his suit. The others didn't say anything. They filed over to the stairs.

  "We'll watch you through the Sighters," Levy said. Penner nodded, disappeared with the others.

  Minutes later we caught sight of them toiling up the sunbaked slope of the ridge leading toward the ruins. In the clear light now the ruins were partially visible. Even though only rooftops were clear of sand, they looked gigantic and imposing. An ancient race had dwelt here. And now a new race had come. That was the way life went. Or death —

  "What are you worrying about?" Levy asked. "Stop squirming."

  "I don't like it," I said. "Something s going to happen. You believed me too or you wouldn't have stayed."

  "Penner s a fool," Levy said. "You know, I used to read a few books myself, once upon a time."

  "Once upon a time!" I stood up. "I forgot!"

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm looking for my other two books," I said. "I should have thought of that."

  "Thought of what?" Levy talked to me, but he was watching the others, outside, through the Sighter.

  "If it can read one book, it can read the others," I told him. "Better get rid of them right away, play it safe."

  "What are the other two books?" Levy asked the question, but I never answered him. Because his voice changed, cracked, and he said, "Dale, come here, hurry!"

  I stared through the Sighter. I adjusted the control and it was like a close-up. I could see Penner and Swanson and Morse as if they were standing beside me. They had just reached the top of the ridge, and the ruined stones of the cyclopean city rose before them. Cyclopean.

  The word came, the concept came, and then the reality. The first giant towered up from behind the rocks. He was thirty feet tall and his single eye was a burning beacon.

  They saw him and turned to flee. Penner tugged at his waist, trying to draw his tube and fire. But there wasn't time now, for the giants were all around them—the bearded, one-eyed monsters out of myth.

  The giants laughed, and their laughter shook the earth, and they scooped up great rocks from the ruins and hurled them at the men, crushing them. And then they lumbered over to the crushed forms and began to feast, their talons rending and tearing the bodies as I now tore the pages from the book I was holding.

  "Cyclops," Levy whispered. "THE ODYSSEY, isn't it?" The torn fragments of the second book fell from my fingers as I turned away.

  Levy was already working at the panels. "Only two of us," he said. "But we can make it. Takeoff's automatic once we blast. I'm pretty sure we can make it, aren't you, Dale?"

  "Yes," I said, but I didn't really care.

  The floor was beginning to vibrate. In just a minute, now, we'd blast. "Come on, Dale, strap up! I'll handle the board. You know what to do." I knew what to do.

  Levy's face twitched. "What's the matter now? Is it the third book? Are you going to get rid of the third book?"

  "No need to. The third one's harmless," I said. "Here, I'll show you."

  "What is the third book?" he asked.

  I stepped over to the Sighter for the last time and he followed me. I adjusted for close-up very carefully.

  "Look," I said.

  We stared out across the barren plain, the plain which no longer held life because it had become life for this planet.

  The Cyclops had disappeared, and what was left of Penner, and Swanson and Morse lay undisturbed in the dreaming ruins under an orange sun.

  Somewhere, somehow, the reader turned a page —

  "The third book," I whispered. "Watch."

  It scampered out from behind one of the stones, moving swiftly on tiny legs. The Sighter brought it so close that I could see the very hairs of its whiskers, note the design of its checkered waistcoat, read the numerals on the watch it took out of the waistcoat pocket. Before I turned away, I almost fancied I could read its lips.

  That wasn't necessary, of course, because I knew what it was saying.

  "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" it murmured.

  Mincing daintily on thin legs, the White Rabbit scampered among the bodies as we blasted off.

  The Pin

  SOMEHOW, SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE would find out.

  It was inevitable.

  In this case the someone was named Barton Stone. The somewhere was an old loft over a condemned office building on Bleecker Street. And the somehow . . .

  Barton Stone came there early one Monday morning as the sun shone yellow and cold over the huddled rooftops. He noted the mass of the surrounding buildings, rearranged them into a more pleasing series of linear units, gauged his perspective, evaluated the tones and shadings of sunlight and shadow with his artist's eye. There was a picture here, he told himself, if only he could find it.

  Unfortunately he wasn't looking for a picture. He had plenty of subjects in mind. Right now he was looking for a place in which to paint. He wanted a studio, wanted it quickly. And it must be cheap. Running water and north light were luxuries beyond his present consideration. As for other aesthetic elements, such as cleanliness — Stone shrugged as he mounted the stairs, his long fingers trailing dust from the rickety railing.

  There was dust everywhere, for this was the domain of dust, of darkness and desertion. He stumbled upward into the silence.

  The first two floors of the building were entirely empty, just as Freed had told him. And the stairs to the loft were at the end of the hall on the second floor.

  "You'll have it all to yourself," the rental agent had promised. "But remember to stay in the loft. Nobody'd ever bother looking up there. Damned inspectors come around — they keep telling us to raze the building. But the floor's safe enough. All you got to do is keep out of sight — why, you could hide out there for years without being caught. It's no palace, but take a look and see what you think. For twenty bucks a month you can't go wrong."

  Stone nodded now as he walked down the debris-littered hall toward the loft stairs. He couldn't go wrong. He sensed, suddenly and with utter certainty, that this was the place he'd been searching for during all of these frustrating futile weeks. He moved up the stairs with inevitable —

  Then he heard the sound.

  Call it a thud; call it a thump; call it a muffled crash. The important thing was that it sounded from above, from the deserted loft.

  Stone paused on the second step from the top. There was someone in the loft. For twenty bucks a month you cant go wrong —but you could hide out there for years without being caught.

  Barton Stone was not a brave man. He was only a poor artist, looking for a cheap loft or attic to use as a studio. But his need was great, great enough to impel him upward, carry him to the top of the loft stairs and down the short corridor leading to the entry.

  He moved quietly now, although there was thunder in his chest. He tiptoed delicately toward the final door, noted the overhead transom, noted, too, the small crate in the corner against the wall.

  There was silence beyond the door and silence in the hall now as he carefully lifted the crate and placed it so that he could mount the flat top and peer over the open transom.

  No sense in being melodramatic, he told himself. On the other hand, there was no sense rushing in — Barton Stone was not a fool and he didn't want to become an angel.

  He looked over the transom.

  The loft was huge. A dusty skylight dominated the ceiling, and enough light filtered through to bathe the room in sickly luminance. Stone could see everything, everything.

  He saw the books, stacked man-high, row after row of thick books. He saw the sheaves bulked between the books, pile after pile of sheaves. He saw the papers rising in solid walls from the floor. He saw the table in the center of the loft — the table, bulwarked on three sides by books and sheaves and papers all tossed together in toppling towers.

  And he saw the man.

  The man sat behind the table, back to the wa
ll, surrounded on three sides by the incredible array of printed matter. He sat there, head down, and peered at the pages of an opened book. He never looked up, never made a sound, just sat there and stared.

  Stone stared back. He understood the source of the noise now; one of the books had fallen from its stack. But nothing else made sense to him. His eyes sought clues; his mind sought meaning.

  The man was short, fat, middle-aged. His hair was graying into white, his face lining into wrinkles. He wore a dirty khaki shirt and trousers and he might have been an ex-GI, a tramp, a fugitive from justice, an indigent bookdealer, an eccentric millionaire.

  Stone moved from the realm of might-have-been to a consideration of what he actually saw. The little fat man was riffling through the pages of a fat, paperbound book which could easily be mistaken for a telephone directory. He turned the pages, apparently at random, with his left hand. Very well, then; he was left-handed.

  Or was he? His right hand moved across the table, raised and poised so that the sunlight glittered in a thin line of silver against the object he held.

  It was a pin, a long, silver pin. Stone stared at it. The man was staring at it too. Stone's gaze held curiosity. The little fat man's gaze held utter loathing and, more than that, a sort of horrified fascination.

  Another sound broke the stillness. The little man sighed. It was a deep sight that became, with abrupt and hideous clarity, a groan.

  Eyes still intent on the pin, the little man brought it down suddenly upon the opened pages of his book. He stabbed at random, driving the point home. Then he hurled the book to the floor, sat back, buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook with silent sobbing.

  A second sped. Stone blinked. And beyond the door, in the loft, the little man straightened up, reaching for a long sheet of paper that might have been a polling list, and scanned its surface. The pin poised itself over the center of the sheet. Again the sigh, the stab, the sob.

  Now the little man rose, and for a frantic moment Stone wondered if he'd been detected. But no, the pin wielder merely wandered down the row of books and pulled out another thick volume. He carried it back to the table and sat down, picking up the pin with his right hand as his left turned page after page. He scanned, scrutinized, then sighed, stabbed, sobbed.