The Science-Fantasy Megapack

by E. C. Tubb

  He was trapped somewhere and, at the moment there was nothing he could do to escape.

  He tried to speak but could make no sound.

  He tried to direct a thought message: “Can you hear me?” but there was no response.

  His head itched. He could feel fingers scratch the itch and feel the fingers scratching but not by him.

  He could feel every inch of his body, every twitch and breath but he had no control over it.

  He thought: “That Mex is real fast, I’ll have trouble there.”

  They were not his thoughts, they had not come from him, yet he understood what the thoughts implied. The dark skinned man from over the border had come in for a fight, a challenge.

  Adam Wenstone was an intelligent man and already had an outline of his situation. Somehow—be it illusion or something else—he was occupying, and sharing, the body and mind of another man.

  The other man was the host occupant while he, Adam, was the passenger.

  The host was in absolute control. When he wanted to move, he moved

  He, Adam, could feel and experience what was happening but that was all.

  He knew every thought of the host knew everything the host knew but again, could do nothing about it.

  On the other hand, the host had no idea that he had taken another intelligence on board, who was sharing his life with him.

  The host opened his eyes and Adam saw that he was in a crude wooden shed. Two tethered horses shifted and stamped at the far end and he the host, was lying on a sort of crude shelf on the opposite side.

  Adam knew, because his host knew, that this was Jake’s place.

  The wide door swung open with a creaking sound and a man came in.

  “I got you something to eat, bacon, beans and that. I’ll try and get you some coffee later when Mom’s place gets open.

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You always do, Limpy, but I’m worried about this Mex, he’s Godawful fast. Buxton is offering four to one against you.”

  Adam, at the time, was only half listening. His host was fully awake and conscious and awake, his mind was open.

  There was no need to see outside the shed, the whole picture was there, now part of Adam’s knowledge and memories.

  Mentally Adam’s mind almost revolted. What was this, besides everything else—time travel?

  This was a sleepy, one-horse town, settled in the curve of a wide rive yet close to the railroad.

  It had a wide dirt street lined by wooden shacks with only a few rising to two stories.

  Adam had seen a large number of such streets in Westerns but there the picture had stopped. The film could not convey the smell of horses, wood smoke and most certainly not the flies. Dear God, the flies! On some days they swirled so thickly they blurred the vision. They covered the face, explored the corners of the eyes and probed the mouth and nostrils.

  It caused his host no great irritation, It was part of life, like the fleas, the lice and, at night, of course, the skeeters. One slapped a few and squashed them flat but, always, a fair number got through and sucked their fill of blood.

  Adam realized suddenly that he was being biased. If this was, somehow, time travel, then the great cities of the world were very little different.

  The majority of the inhabitants were also lousy. Most of the bedrooms were filled with cockroaches and excreted the sour and sickly smell of bed bugs. Many of the streets held open sewers and rats ran openly across the road.

  Beyond this town, however, was the open country with the soft river smells, grasses, wild flowers and the scent of pine.

  Adam’s host climbed to his feet and took a few uncertain steps. Limpy had broken his leg at the age of thirteen and had limped ever since. ‘Doc’ Munsen had fixed it as best he knew how but it was not one of his specialities. The broken bone had knit O.K. but somehow the leg had got shorter. Again the foot would not go flat to the ground properly.

  Munsen, however, was still known as Doc because he had a half-breed woman who made concoctions out of herbs and suchlike. The stuff was very good for saddle sores, rope burns and things like that. Quite often—although his host had no knowledge of them—they stopped dangerous infections dead in their tracks.

  His host ate then limped out into the street. Cotter, the local storeowner, had kindly taken his horse when he had been too drunk to find it, let alone mount the damn thing.

  A short way up the street, a tall man in a striped apron shouted a greeting, and added: “Goin’ to take that Mex tonight Limpy.”

  “I reckon.”

  Adam was a little taken aback by his host’s answer. It implied a subtlety which he had not suspected in the man. It was not a boast yet suggested confidence. It was, on the face of it, a wholly neutral observation that could be taken either way.

  Adam had thought, at first, that his host was little more than an oaf with a horse and a gun, but nothing could be further from the truth.

  Limpy had principles. He believed that women and children should be protected at any cost. His given word was an oath he would never break and he was unshakably loyal to his friends.

  Then, of course, there were horses. After a minute or so, Adam became convinced that this man knew more about horses than the greatest race trainers and breeders of his own age.

  He not only knew about horses, he felt, loved and understood then. He was often employed to break one in. Sometimes he got thrown a few times but he always won through by love and persistence, never by violence.

  “If Limpy breaks one in, it’s broke, you can take my word for it.”

  Somehow all this failed to fit in with the portrait of a gunslinger but Adam could see the complete picture.

  Limpy had not gone out looking for a fight. He carried six-guns from habit and necessity as most of them did but he had never fired them in anger.

  Limpy had killed ten men and the first had been a traveling gambler with a green eyeshade and a greasy pack of marked cards

  The gambler moved from township to township, staying only a night but cleaning up before moving on.

  Limpy was only eighteen then and it was his first killing.

  It was in the saloon and one of the painted girls from the house down the road was powdering her facer near the stable.

  Perhaps she caught a reflection in her mirror or just saw something from the corner of her eyes but she said; “his bastard is switching cards!”

  The gambler reacted, this was not the first time he had been caught out and had been forced to shoot his way out of a situation.

  The set-up looked easy enough, not many in the saloon as yet. A group with their backs to him playing cards by themselves in the corner. Four elderly men at the bar and three girls, including the one near him, was al he had to contend with.

  There was, of course, the fresh faced kid on the opposite side of the table. He’d already taken him for three dollars anyway.

  The gambler swung back his jacket and reached for his guns. He’d kill the girl first, experience had taught him that killing a woman, no matter what she was, always caused diversion and delay.

  The gambler had only just got his guns clear of their holsters when he got his.

  Limpy, holding cards in his left hand, had been scratching his upper thigh when the gambler reached.

  The single shot punched the gambler and his chair over backwards and tumbled them to the floor.

  Limpy looked down at the dead man and tried not to be sick. There was a hole in the man’s chest, blood trickled from his open mouth and his eyes were still open. Somehow the eyeshade had come down his face and lay across his nose creating a grotesque effect.

  Limpy felt no triumph, only a sort of gut-shock, he was shivering and shaking. It seemed to him that even his bad leg had begun to hurt a little.

  “He was going to kill me,” said the girl. “I sort of sensed it inside me like.”

  She turned to Limpy. “I owe you, boy, really owe you. You can come and see me any time, any time
. Won’t cost you nothing.”

  Again, Adam was amazed. His host might have been forgiven for a feeling of triumph, but he felt only regret. It was kill or be killed, himself and the girl but he didn’t like killing and never learned to like it.

  Four weeks later a man burst into the saloon one Sunday evening but this was no gun duel, this was revenge.

  “Where’s the murdering bastard what killed my brother?” He carried a heavy shotgun, pointed. “I’m looking for a guy what limps. You lot at the bar there, stand clear of him or you’ll get it too.”

  Only one reaction was possible. Limpy dropped flat and fired from the floor.

  The man with shotgun dropped it before he could pull the trigger. He staggered, his face registering mild surprise, then he coughed blood and fell sideways.

  Number three was a youth from a nearby township who fancied himself as a gun slinger. With a little more practice he’d go bounty killing.

  He provoked and provoked. “What’s the matter, you yeller livered bastard—draw!”

  He made the mistake of reaching for his guns himself but was too slow to clear his holsters.

  The memories and experiences of his host’s life were now completely Adams’, as if he had lived two lives. He was, however, still fumbling for an explanation. This life he was living now was real although he could take no active part in it. Was he telepathically or hypnotically attuned to the man?

  If so, why the past? He could make no sense of it.

  He had ceased to be afraid aside from a few vague apprehensions. He had almost convinced himself that he was the victim of some curious circumstance that would right itself in time. In all probability he was the victim of some accident which had mentally induced the whole business.

  He was almost happy in it and grateful that he had acquired such a vast range of additional knowledge almost without effort.

  He could survive in the wilderness out there, if forced, without weapons. He could make fire, strike out for a certain destination without a compass, and read terrain by a mere glance.

  Each day he was learning more both about his host and the customs of the day. Tonight, for example, he would observe—

  It was then, on that one word, that the implications hit him.

  * * * *

  On another level of existence, in another age, Martin was trying to stop himself reaching for the whisky bottle for the third time. The trouble with this was that it relied too much on speculation.

  It was fine for Argyle to be cock-a-hoop and say it was bound to be a success. Right, it had worked with twelve cases but, like the wonder drugs that had appeared in the last decade, cures might be limited to the few.

  Argyle came in as he was reaching for a drink, as usual bouncing with confidence.

  “Got a lot of news for you, old son, managed to make some important contacts. First of all, I’ve managed to get details in respect of the stuff. In the first place, the recipient goes to bed and sleeps in an outwardly normal way. He oversleeps slightly in the morning but begins to symptoms as soon as he comes down.”

  “What kind of symptoms?” Martin was filling his glass,

  “Well, first he seems withdrawn, absent-mined, does not what is said to him. He shows no interest in his own but exhibits activity in other matters. This symptom lasts around four d. change is announced, or becomes apparent on the fifth day.”

  “The fifth day.” Martin glanced at the office calendar. “That Day.”

  “Eh—what?” Argyle looked blank.

  “Oh don’t be so bloody obtuse man, our Carnival for the couples only. The old man started the tradition forty years ago, Wenstone just carried it on. They hold it every year.”

  Argyle’s face brightened. “Of course, I had forgotten. The day the bonuses and merit awards are presented. Everyone arrives in fano there’s a grand party, a dance, all that sort of thing.”

  He paused and grinned. “Fits in perfectly. I have no doubt the boss will use the occasion to announce his retirement.”

  “I wish I felt as damn confident as you.” Martin drained his glass.

  “Aren’t you listening to me, man? I was trying to tell you, he’s shown all the symptoms. Like the others, he’s ringing around all over the pi obviously making plans. He’s acting out of character and, for reasons unknown, he limps occasionally. Another thing, he keeps fingering the of his right ear and then inspecting his fingertips. I tell you, man, he’s his way out.”

  “Where the hell are you getting all this information?”

  “I’ve come to an arrangement with one of his household servants.”

  “More money!”

  “Well, of course, I’ve got to pay the bloody man, Martin, but, in the long run, it will get us out from under. We only need one hit and you know the opportunities which are passed up here.”

  “You’ve still got this hit-man laid on?”

  “Naturally, I’d be a fool if I didn’t prepare for every contingency however remote.”

  Adam Wenstone had a sick feeling of horror inside him. Why had he not failed to see, realized sooner? He was not going to stand aside and watch a gun fight. He was going to be a participant, he and his host, were going to be the target when the shooting started. A man called Mex—reputedly

  Godawful fast—going to make him his target.

  His host was not happy either. He had a weary resignation concerning the future. If he came out of this alive, he was away. He’d join a wagon train to far away or just ride out— He’d go so far that no one had ever heard of Limpy and come in to challenge him with a gun. It was not from choice, he had been born here. His folks had died here when some sickness had swept the town some nine years ago.

  Adam knew that his host meant it, once the man made a decision, he stuck to it although it hurt to leave his home.

  Sundown, opposite the saloon, the setting sun throwing long black shadows across the road but giving advantage to neither man.

  Adam admitted to himself that he was terrified. There was nothing he could do. He was like a fish in a bowl, swirling round and round in a desperate effort to escape and there was no escape. He accused himself also. He had been quite happy to lean back and observe before the implications hit him.

  The bullets, if they came first and accurately, would hit their body, a body belonging to himself and his host.

  There were no obvious spectators on the street, they were there but too experienced to show themselves. Men could miss, or agonizingly hit, let fly in a fury Then there was the death shot—Adam would call it a reflex. Old Ma Spinney had died like that years ago, a shot from a dying man as he fell.

  The Mex, when he came to meet them, was tall and sallow ^te was a man who liked killing and took some pride in his appearance so that people would always recognize him and give him respect.

  Adam never knew who shouted “Draw!” but he felt his host go for it with bewildering speed.

  The Mex was faster.

  Faster but less accurate.

  It felt as if a red-hot poker had been slapped against Limpy’s head but his own guns had already jerked in his hands.

  The Mex jerked as if he had been heavily punched.

  He took three uncertain steps, then he crumpled into an untidy heap. There were two large holes, almost side by side, in the center of his chest.

  * * * *

  The conspirators had not taken the four-day wait easily. Martin needed constant resort to the bottle to keep his nerves under control.

  Argyle, on the other hand, was outwardly more assured than ever. “I repeat, man, there is no mistaking the pointers, they fit in like the others all along the line.”

  Martin nodded almost from habit. Why couldn’t he dismiss the uneasy feeling that Argyle was talking just to convince himself and that he, too, was harboring inner doubts.

  He handed Martin a spare pair of binoculars. “Get a good view from up here on the balcony, see the parade as it crosses the sports fields reaches the main hall. Hello, there’s the b
oss’s car—ah, it looks as if he’s dumped that Pilgrim Father costume he usually wears. Good God! Look at that! Didn’t I say, didn’t I tell you!”

  There was some confusion at the main gate also and the security man was becoming aggressive. “You can’t bring that in here.”

  “Why not? I’ve an authority here signed by Mr. Wenstone himself.”

  “Not for a damn great truck. What’s in it, anyway?”

  “Well printed on the side is the word HORSES—you can read I assume?”

  The security man went through his list and colored slightly. “I’m sorry, friend, I really am, but a horse—for the boss—good God!”

  “So strange?”

  “Hell, yes. If you handed Mr. Wenstone a horse, he’d look for a starter button. I’ve worked for him for years and my old man before me.”

  “Perhaps he just wants to lead it.”

  “Ah. You’re probably right, he might just manage that to head the parade to the conference area.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Up on the balcony Argyle said: “There, there, I told you! Complete change, can you imagine the old Wenstone going through a charade like that? There’s even a bloody horse carrier thing there, but the Boss doesn’t know one end of a horse from the other.”

  There was trouble in the horsebox, too. Bulmer the chief groom—mainly an executive position—was having personal troubles.

  “What’s the trouble with that damn mare, Selby?”

  “Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, I did mention it at the time. We should have brought, Mabel, nothing troubles her.”

  “Are you questioning my judgment, Selby? Who the hell do you think you are? If she won’t move, give her a touch of the whip to help her along.”

  “Some trouble here?” A man walked up the ramp and into the transit.

  “Get out of here, you.” Bulmer loved throwing his weight around and lost his temper easily.

  “I’ve enough trouble on my hands without some idiot prancing in here dressed up as a stage cowboy You’d like me to call security, perhaps?””

  The other nodded expressionlessly. “Yes—yes, I’d rather like that. I pay his wages.”