by E. C. Tubb
Driven forward by the weird compulsion in his mind, Kalam went through the gates with Mara at his side. He felt utterly dwarfed by the sheer immensity of the cave. Soundlessly, the multitude followed.
Then a voice reached them from some hidden source. It was not unduly loud but it could be heard by everyone there.
“Welcome, people of Ronan. Now is the time for you to fulfill your destiny. More than twenty thousand years ago your motherworld became uninhabitable due to the total destruction of the protective ozone layer in its upper atmosphere. It was then that the decision was taken to send chosen groups to all of the inhabitable planets within a radius of one thousand light years, to colonize those worlds and, when the ozone layer had replenished itself, to enable you to return to your homeworld.
“Those whom you know as the Xordi are not newcomers, they are the indigenous inhabitants of Ronan. You are the interlopers but all knowledge of that was erased from the minds of the first colonists. Only the myths surrounding the Temple and the Great God were allowed to remain.
“We knew of Kalder, the dark star in this system. Only when it returned after twenty thousand years in its eccentric orbit would its shadow open these doors to allow you to enter. Now go forward and be not afraid.”
The message ended. In the silence that followed, Kalam turned to face Mara. Without a word being spoken, she took his hand and led him forward. Others followed in a long, winding column, not knowing where they were going or what would happen next.
Then, when they were only a little distance from the far end of the chamber, the entire wall slid aside. Kalam gaped at what he saw. It was a long, gleaming shape, tapered slightly at one end. He could see no windows but there was a rectangular aperture in the side with steps leading up to it. A faint bluish light gleamed from inside.
There was also something near the bottom of the steps, twin metal poles, each surmounted by a glittering crystal, these forming some kind of barrier. Cautiously, he passed through with Mara on his heels. Halfway up the steps, he glanced back. Many of those attempting to pass between the poles were unable to do so. It was as if something invisible prevented them, forcing them back to one side.
Mounting the steps, they passed inside the machine. Here, there were long rows of padded seats along each side. Awed by the sheer size of everything, Kalam sat down and waited tensely. To Mara, he said, “It would seem that only a small number of us have been allowed to enter the Temple. For some reason, the Great God did not allow most of the others to follow.” He frowned, looking about him. “And only we younger people seem to have been chosen.”
Outside, once those who had been selected had passed through, the portal vanished and the wide aperture in the side of the gleaming shape closed soundlessly.
The voice came again, loud and urgent. “All those remaining in the chamber must leave the area immediately. You are in danger if you remain. Leave at once!”
Kalam and Mara heard nothing of this. All of the seats around them were now occupied and a different voice spoke. “You are the chosen ones. There is no need to be afraid. This ship is fully automatic. The Dejener engines enable it to travel far faster than light, otherwise the journey would take many more years than any of you have left.”
Kalam stiffened abruptly in his seat. A low, muted humming had begun, just at the limit of audibility. It rose swiftly until it was an ear-piercing shriek, then faded almost instantly as it passed into a range where his ears no longer registered it.
There was a faint lurch, a transition too swift to be taken in. Although he had no visual awareness of it, Ronan was gone, lost in the void. A curious twisting sensation gripped him briefly as if every molecule of his being had been turned inside out. He was aware only of Mara’s hand gripping his own as the starship, which had waited with an infinite patience for twenty thousand years, headed into the blackness, to return their race to the planet of their birth—a world waiting to be reborn.
THE DRAINPIPE, by Philip E. High
The Ilurine had been through a rough time and needed replenishment. She needed an area with the correct level of solar radiation as partially screened by atmosphere, and the nearest was a planet its inhabitants called Earth. She did not know it as Earth and a quick sense survey did nothing to endear her to it. She judged on emotional values and the general standards of the inhabitants were pathetically primitive. There were, however, exceptions. This youth approaching through the quiet woods was one of them. She lifted his age from his mind—twelve local cycles. Would he make twenty? She doubted it very much.
She realized suddenly that if he continued on his present route he would see her. In a normal state she could have rendered herself invisible but, at the moment, she lacked the strength.
His reaction, when he saw her, was a pleasant surprise. Shock, yes, nervousness, yes, but very little actual fear. The predominant reaction was care; he thought she was ill or injured. Again, when she was absorbing she shivered and he thought she was cold.
He frowned down at her. “You poor little thing,” he said, and, “I won’t hurt you, no need to be afraid, I won’t hurt you, honest.”
Then, very slowly, he took off his jacket, and laid it gently across her body. “Warm you up a bit, eh?”
Compassion! It lifted him far above the majority of his race and was the standard by which she judged all intelligence.… It made him vulnerable, his chances of reaching maturity very doubtful. Compassion generated compassion; she must move him to a word like his own with the same type of intelligences. However, it would take time and in the meantime something must be devised to protect him.…
* * * *
The city utility services, generally known as the Clerk Of Works, dealt with every possible need of the city. Blocked drains, holes in pavements, maintaining highways, mending walls and countless other things which a community requires.
The organization’s offices are scattered round the city and, for reasons unknown, look very much the same. All are not quite sure if they are offices or workshops. Benches are often used as desks or desks as benches, most of them have nails driven into the walls from which hang clips holding written orders or printed instructions. Some are visibly yellowing with age but no one bothers to remove them.
The desks are not much better and Quentin had to push maps and instructions to the very edge of his desk to find the phone.
“Yeah?” He listened, his face darkening. “You having me on? Right, take it easy. Yes—yes—I know you wouldn’t—just run that past me again.”
He listened again, his face becoming puzzled rather than disbelieving. “Right, I’ll come out, but it had better be genuine. I’m very busy and I’m not happy about this business, not happy at all.”
Here placed the receiver and shook his head. “I’ll have to go out for a short while,”
Limerton, crouched behind a corner desk, said, “What was all that about?”
“To be honest, damned if I know exactly! That was Jim Page at the old sports ground.”
“Not drunk is he? He’s only classified as a laborer.”
Quentin, loyal by nature, slapped him down. “Page has been with the department for twenty five years. He may not be a great brain but he’s utterly reliable and completely honest.”
“Sorry, only reading from the Works List here. I’ve never met the man. What is the problem anyway?”
“I have to go because I can’t tell you. It’s a weird sort of story about a drainpipe if you can make sense of that.”
Quentin arrived at the old sports center twenty minutes later. The complex had become too small for the expanding city and a larger, more modem set-up was being erected elsewhere.
Page lifted the barrier for Quentin’s car to enter then stood unmoving while he got out. The man’s face, usually ruddy, seemed oddly streaked and inclined to twitch.
“What’s the trouble?” Quentin thought that Page looked frightened out of his wits.
“It’s one of them pipes, Mr. Quentin, you know, one
them old fashioned metal ones what used to lead up to the changing rooms. There were four when I left at five o’clock, lying together near the West entrance. When I come in this morning there were only three. I found the other one later, right in the middle of the old sports field.”
Quentin was about to say ‘kids’ and changed his mind. The pipes were twenty-five metres in length; it would take a lot of very hefty kids to carry one that far.
“I think you said that the pipe was queer too.”
“Yes, Mr. Quentin but it’s something you’ll have to see, I can’t explain it properly.”
As they reached the edge of the sports field, Quentin frowned at the ravaged surface. “What the hell made all this mess? Think the pipe was dragged across by a tractor?”
“If it was, Mr. Quentin, they must have brought their own. Our two packed up within a day of each other, not expected back until the middle of the week.”
Quentin frowned and strode on. The whole damn business was turning into— Reasoning thought was cut suddenly and a huge no seemed to fill his mind.
He remembered the pipe was twenty-five metres long but he had forgotten the other measurements. He knew the pipe would not quite admit the normal clenched fist and he thought the outer casing was as thick as his—but there his memory stopped because there was a bulge in the middle of the pipe.
The bulge—or should it be a huge bubble?—was about five metres in length and measured at its widest point, around two to two and half metres both in thickness and diameter.
“You can’t do that, Mr. Quentin,” said Page, “you can’t put pressure inside that stuff to make it expand, it would simply splinter. It won’t swell outwards like heated glass, ’cause it ain’t proper metal like.”
“Someone seems to have found an answer.” Quentin went closer, took a coin from his pocket and tapped the metal cautiously. “Doesn’t sound like metal,” he said. “No echo at all.”
“I think.…” Page paused to clear his throat and started again. “I think there’s something stuck in there, Mr. Quentin., stuck in the bulge like. Look. sir, I’ve got to say this—if you sniff at either end of that pipe, there’s a right nasty smell.”
“The hell there is!” Quentin took a cautious sniff himself and almost retched, the picture of a slit trench clear in his mind. Whatever was in that pipe might not be human but the smell of decay was unmistakable.
There seemed to be only one answer: he called Landring at the police station. It was a good choice. Inspector Landring was a political policeman who had his eye on a position in the Mayor’s office.
“You were quite right to call me, Quentin. As you say, there might be a dead dog or a badger in there but the situation raises questions. Something a bit weird about the whole business and the very last thing we want is the press and the media getting wind of it.”
He frowned, ruddy faced, thumbs stuck into his belt. “I’ll go back and change into civvies, come in an unmarked car; no need to advertise a police presence in the area. The Mayor wants to present a picture of an open, safe, seaside city, suitable for families, you know what I mean.”
He turned towards his car. “I’ll bring someone back to open up this pipe for, for all I know, it could be full of dead rats.”
He was back in twenty minutes with a little bald man and a bag of tools. He didn’t look like a police employee but he knew his job.
Within minutes he said, in a frightened voice: “There’s a man’s shoe here, Superintendent, and his foot’s still in it.”
It took a full two hours to reveal the complete body The face looked blotchy but the features were recognizable.
Landring said: “Well, well! ‘Basher’ Cole, full name Silas Manton Cole. No mistake, half his left eyebrow missing, anchor tattoo on left wrist. He’s an ex-pug, spent most of his life in prison, came out a couple of months ago. Just done a ten year stretch for robbery with violence.”
He paused and looked thoughtfully at Quentin. “No one is going to miss him, are they? No relatives of any kind. Point is, this could be swept away with the minimum of fuss. He could have been found dead, exposure, heart attack.”
Quentin shook his head. “Fine until you get to the medical examiner.”
“Yes, yes, you have a point there.” Landring nodded slowly and thoughtfully but his face was untroubled. Doctor Pierce LeGraton would be the examiner: married, highly respectable with a large influential family background. Surely the doctor would like his assignations with a certain lady at ninety two Lake Street to remain a secret?
Landring smiled. “I know I can rely on you, old son.”
Quentin said: “Of course,” fully conscious that it was the wrong answer, but hell, he only had eight weeks to go before retirement. He didn’t want some upset threatening his pension. Again, no one was going to lose anything by a little blindness on his part.
Landring interrupted his thoughts. “What about him?” he said and jerked his head in the direction of Page.
“Oh, I’ll have a word with him later,” said Quentin. “He’ll keep quiet.”
He thought, when Landring had gone, what did he mean by a word? He meant, of course, a deliberate lie. He had told Page, who trusted him, that he must keep his mouth shut because certain aspects of National Security were involved.
His thoughts turned back to the incident itself. He could well see reasons for hushing the matter up and sweeping the whole affair under the carpet but the man’s indifference defeated him. A man’s body had been found in the middle of a drainpipe, the ends of which would not have admitted his clenched fist. Apparently Landring wasn’t even interested, his only concern was to get everything out of sight as soon as possible.
Quentin shrugged mentally, he supposed that attitude was called single mindedness but it didn’t apply to him. In point of fact it did but he was unable to see it at the time. The vow of silence he had imposed upon Page was about to be broken by himself,
That evening he called in on his lifelong friend Ben Hoathe, and told him the whole story He had a certain justification; Hoathe had been with the police department for thirty years and had only recently retired as Detective Inspector.
Hoathe pushed the lank, graying hair away from his forehead and smiled.
“I believe you, man, of course, but run it through again and give me the chance to ask questions.”
Forty minutes later he thrust a short, black pipe into his mouth and began to chew it, frowning. He never lit it but it always helped him to think. “Give me a couple of days to scout around, meet you in Harry’s Bar around seven on Friday.”
Hoathe arrived on time two days later and gulped at his beer before he spoke. “I’ll be honest got quite a bit, but some of it I’m holding back because there’s more I need to know. I have to fit the parts together in my own mind first. However, I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that ‘Basher’ Cole died of a heart attack due to an excess of alcohol. The body was found by a workman taking a short cut to Clarges Street via the old sports complex.”
“What about the Medical Examiner’s report?”
“That is the report.”
“Dear God!”
“Exactly my own reaction but there’s more, old son, due to some mismanagement of the lists, the body has already been cremated.”
Quentin frowned. “I don’t like the sound of this, could be repercussions.”
“Not for you, old friend, I’ll just keep you in the picture, you’re not involved.”
He paused and changed the subject. “They had to go through the motions of course, looking for witnesses, those who might have been in the area before or around the time.”
“Did they find any?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not thought to be important. A young lad, Tommy Beal, was seen leaving the sports area just before dusk on the night in question. They’ll send a man round tomorrow just to ask a few questions. They don’t expect much—the boy is only twelve.”
* * * *
Emotionally, T
ommy Beal was an old twelve. His introduction to school and much of his experience since had been a living hell.
He was different, children can sense that sort of thing. He was frail, quietly spoken and well mannered. As such he became an almost instant target for bullies. Worse, although in his early days he was often reduced to tears, he never fought back. On the other hand he never ran telling tales to the teachers. It seemed to make no difference, he was subjected to every humiliation and minor cruelty that his classmates could conceive. Glue or bright paint were squeezed onto his chair just before he sat down. Notices were frequently stuck to his back bearing the words KICK ME or a similar unpleasant invitation.
The real reason, yet again, was the fact that he was different. He didn’t join school sports and the only exercise at which he excelled was swimming. Here, too, he placed himself beyond the pail—he refused to compete.
“You could out-swim young Nolan by a length, lad, beat him hollow.”
“I don’t want to beat anyone, sir, I just like swimming.”
His tastes, also, were considered outlandish. He was not interested in the things which concerned normal boys, he was much more concerned with nature. He spent a lot of his spare time in the country studying plants, birds and insects.
His foster-father virtually disowned him in public. “Studying bloody birds and flowers, it’s not natural, is it? Sissy pastime in my opinion, okay for girls, but for a boy, well, I ask you!”
Not everyone disapproved of him, there were a large number of women who secretly wished they had sons like him. He was so quiet and well-mannered, he held doors open for ladies and things like that.
The elderly were more forthcoming. “You want an errand done or some small thing like that, just ask young Tommy Beal and you can’t go wrong.”
This, of course, increased the opposition even more; ‘he was sucking up to the old people’ and ‘he took money for it, of course’.
To the majority, however, it was just a blind unthinking cruelty that would eventually die but with one lad it had turned to hatred.