The Science-Fantasy Megapack

by E. C. Tubb

  “You’re kidding.” said Herman. “You made it all up just to pass the time, didn’t you?” He was a big man and irritated.

  Onslow stared at him, then picked up the newspaper. “Sure” he said. “I just made it up.”

  “Take a walk down the street and vanish!” Herman shook his head. “Crazy! But you made it all up, didn’t you?”

  “That’s what I said.” Onslow glanced at his watch. It’s getting near dawn. How about coffee?”

  Going down the road to the restaurant was a privilege Herman insisted on. Someone had to stand by the phone and pumps, so they couldn’t both go. Normally he was eager for the errand. This time, though, he didn’t move.

  “You go,” he said.

  SEA CHANGE, by Peter Oldale

  It was not a pleasant catch. They hauled up on the tangled lines, bracing themselves against the surge of waves beating against the fishing boat’s bows. Once again, as they heaved, they saw it in the swirling waters, its dead fingers twisted, the torn ligaments bloody where the arm had once been attached to a body.

  Big Norman gave a short of contemptuous disgust.

  “Well, come on, man!” He grinned callously at the reluctant boy, wide-eyed beside him. “Heave the thing aboard—haven’t you ever seen a dead ’un yet?”

  Using the long hook, he reached across with practiced skill and flipped the arm on board. It flopped wetly on the slimy deck and slithered to a halt. The boy shrank back, fingers flying to his mouth, but the big man stopped, wrinkling his nose, his coarse, handsome features coldly curious.

  “Fresh as a bit of lamb,” he remarked. “Not been in long.” The boy gulped and Big Norman looked up with a sarcastic grin.

  “Don’t just stand there. Shove it in the locker.”

  “But—but I can’t—”

  Norman laughed then, and took the thing up gingerly by one of its fingers. He hefted it, swinging it closer to the boy, who gave a cry of fear and shrank away. Then, satisfied, Norman lifted a hatch and slid the arm into a broad, empty locker.

  They had no radio on board, or perhaps Big Norman might have reported the find, but then again, he might not. Whoever it was could never have survived the slashing that had torn an arm clean off. He had an idea what had happened. Some fool had slipped over the side of a biggish ship and been sucked into the propellers. There was no hurry.

  As usual, his boat was solitary, miles from the main group of small craft from his village with their cheerful, obscene chatter and jovial, roughly generous comradeship. Urging the anxious, gaping lad, he rearranged the lines and nets, motoring gently along over the choppy swell. The weather was hot and sultry, the waves oily. The sky had a faint tinge of yellow and the sun peered through, a gathering halo.

  Twenty minutes later, they found a torn human chest, the rib cage ripped asunder as if with a mighty ax, the swollen lungs within, bulbous and raw. The lines drew it inexorably to the boat. Big Norman swore angrily and reached out once again with the hook. He gave the human wreckage a shove with the steel tip, pushing it away this time bat the spike passed through the ribs and jammed. He cursed, wrestled a moment, then with a disgusted grunt, swung the load inboard.

  “Open the locker, you stupid bastard!”

  The boy, stumbling, flung himself across the boat and lifted the hatch. The mangled arm waited in the darkness. Norman dropped the hook and its burden with a smack against the hatch edge. The bloody mess dropped off and the boy, his anxious, ignorant face white, slammed the hatch shut.

  Big Norman himself stood panting, the hook in his hand. A red jelly stain moved slowly down its tip. He gave a sudden shudder and swung the hook over the side, swishing it in the sea to clean off the sticky mess.

  “Get the lines cleared,” he snarled, then hurried across the deck and into the tiny forward cabin. He fumbled open a box and drew out a bottle. He drank quickly and noisily, belched, shrugged, then returned to the lines.

  It was an hour before they found the legs. These came together, still joined by a jagged twist of flesh, palely flickering under the water as if vainly trying to swim alongside. Big Norman couldn’t disentangle them from the mesh, though he beat and thrust, viciously stabbing at the gently waving limbs. He took his knife and sawed at the twisted ropes but the feet floated aside and as he slashed the cut rope ends they snaked round and caught again on an ankle.

  Leaning over the boat side, struggling desperately, Norman at last turned a pale, enraged face up to the terrified boy.

  “For God’s sake—heave the bloody things aboard!”

  But the lad shook his head, eyes bulging with horror. He merely backed, and to placate Big Norman’s rage, lifted the hatch, ready.…

  With a frenzied struggle, Big Norman wrenched at the load and lugged the dripping, shattered legs over the side. They slapped loudly on the slimy planks. He heaved again and bundled the legs over the hatch opening, forcing them inside. Within, the pale mess of chest and arm slithered aside under his thrust.

  He slammed the hatch shut and stood up, swaying slightly, the bright yellow sun beating on his bare head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then stumbled forward to the cabin and the bottle. For a few delicious minutes, he sat down on the narrow bunk there. His head was hot. The sickly white legs had reminded him—there was even a blue-red oval bruise on the thigh, as if a boot had kicked it—but it was impossible! Helga was gone these two months, with her whining and her thin arms and her bulging belly. He drank again. A vision of Helga came—cowering—as she so often had; pleading, terrified.

  Big Norman opened his eyes and drew a stronger breath as the neat spirit warmed him. It was a coincidence, of course. The bruise on the leg would have happened when she—whoever it was—fell overboard.

  Stumbling out on deck, he cried oat to the idiot boy who stood clutching the wheel.

  “Get the gear in, we’re going back.” He raised a brutal fist, eager to vent his angry fear. The lad jumped to obey, clumsily blundering with terrified anxiety to please. He began to unhitch and draw in the lines as Big Norman had taught him, with so many blows. The man ignored him, breathing heavily.

  The nets came aboard. There were few fish, for the disturbance to the lines had spoiled their set. Big Norman spilled them out again, the cowering boy staring in amazement. Instead of carefully folding the tackle as usual, coiling down each line, the big man simply dragged it all aboard in a tangle. As the last lot floated up, Big Norman turned away and stooped over the engine hatch to start the small diesel. It clattered and roared, sending out a cloud of gray smoke. The boy gave a cry, and Norman turned to see him heaving on the last lines, straining. And then another arm, with almost the whole side of a body, down to a crushed and horribly torn abdomen came aboard, writhing as if alive.

  Norman gave a great cry and rushed to stop the boy, but it was too late. The thing slopped to the deck and slid slowly and deliberately towards him. On the dead, twisted hand gleamed a dull gold ring. One finger of that hand was gone, but this wound was long healed. Norman’s face went gray with sudden horror, his eyes staring wildly at that familiar hand. He backed away, low animal sounds coming from his throat.

  The boy was staring at him, desperately anxious to do the right thing, his dim brain moving slowly. Trembling, he stooped and lifted the hatch. With crazy haste then, he incontinently dragged at the dead flesh, and began to stuff the thing down into the locker.

  Norman turned and blundered towards the wheel, jamming the boat into gear, shoving the throttle lever to full power. The boat quivered and thrust ahead. A rush of water gathered under her bows. Within the locker, as the boat surged and rolled, the human remains squelched and jostled each other, a rich smell of salt and blood filling the wet darkness.

  As the seas became rougher with a rise in wind, that hatch cover unfastened, clicked and stirred, opening an inch as the bows lifted to a wave, then closing with a snap as they fell into the following trough.

  Big Norman steered without a backward glance, his gray face running
with sweat, his legs braced apart on the heaving deck, powerful hands clamped on the wheel. The clouds were thicker now, hurrying across a brazen sky. A gray squall of rain was approaching, white capping the tumbling seas ahead. The high-pitched whine of wind grew louder.

  Suddenly the boy grasped his arm, shaking it, pointing astern. Big Norman snarled at him, cuffing the hand away, then turned to look. The hatch had pounded open, and an arm had again flopped over the side, swinging crazily with every movement, its pale fingers writhing.

  With a mad roar, Norman rushed past the cowering lad. He grabbed the flailing arm and snatched open the hatch, ready to thrust the thing down again into the pale shifting mass of flesh within. The boy saw him press down, striving to close the hatch again, but then stiffening, head hunched, eyes bulging with sudden, stark terror. The big man gave a piercing shriek and beat savagely downwards into the locker, thudding his fist at the dead flesh beneath, struggling as if with a live thing, then crashing the hatch shut with demented strength and heaving his mighty weight on to it. He lay shuddering, his great hands shutting the steel catch tight. For an instant, he remained, quivering uncontrollably, face deathly white, eyes staring, the wide mouth slobbering fear. Then, in a shambling rush he came forward to the wheel, blindly slowing the boy from it just as the bows slewed before a mighty wave, white capped and roaring.

  The wave broke just as the boat swung and a thunderous torrent of solid water smashed on deck, ripping at the forward cabin, crashing with torrential force around their legs, heeling the boat further, further, till the lee-gunwale foamed white water and the boat wallowed drunkenly. Seconds later the wave was past, but they were broadside on and a second breaker towered over them, rushing them to doom. With a yell, the man grabbed at a rail and clung fiercely. The boy was knocked flat and crushed against the bulwarks as tons of water thundered over. The boat backed in the surge, her stern rising high, higher yet, till the hatch cover broke open and the dead arm again flailed out.

  Big Norman saw, and screamed, and let go his hold, frenziedly fighting his way back to that madly flapping arm. The boy saw him fall on the hatch, seeming to struggle with the dead flesh, shrieking, the body rising from the dark locker in a fierce embrace.

  And then a final, giant wave bore them off, the man howling sobs into the sea and the corpse dancing beside him in the roaring waters.

  The boy clung on, gibbering.

  He was still there when they found him, and towed the boat to port.

  * * * *

  “Suicide then?” said the inspector.

  “Yes sir, several witnesses saw her jump, but the skipper had no chance. Propeller caught her.”

  “Well at least it was quick. Took the head clean off.”

  “That’s right. The shock must have thrust the body down because it couldn’t be found. They searched for a bit but of course in the—er—circumstances there was no question of her still being alive.”

  The inspector nodded abruptly. He had not much liked his inspection of that head in the mortuary. Her eyes had been open, her lips drawn back in a final, desperate agony. And he had to see it again, today.

  “Well we’ve got the rest now. Funny coincidence her husband fishing her out. No wonder he lost control. He must have dropped overboard getting her in and then the tide brought them to shore together. Rather touching really.”

  The sergeant pursed his lips. He was a local man.

  “Maybe, sir, though I gather they weren’t exactly well suited. He knocked her about. She’d gone off a bit ago, pregnant. She probably did it because of him.”

  The inspector shrugged, getting his papers together and then reaching for his hat.

  “Well, if there had been anybody aboard but that retarded lad we might have got a clearer tale.”

  Then he rose, collected big Norman’s cousin from the waiting room and went down again to the mortuary to identify formally the two bodies. The man was worst, after being smashed on the reef. He was bloated horribly, his coarse bulging face blue. The vicious rocks had ripped his flesh in awful, jagged rents, splitting his chest wide open and almost severing one arm. His belly was shattered.

  But the woman looked much better. She was thin and pale, but her body, though bruised, was miraculously whole and unharmed. The mortuary attendants had done a good job. They had stitched the head back in place. Her staring eyes had been squeezed nearly shut.

  And it was surely only in the inspector’s imagination that those ghastly, dead slit eyes were looking up at him and that those pallid lips were twisting slowly into a faint and satisfied smile.

  BRIDES FOR MARS, by Eric C. Williams

  3D photographs and talking medical certificates tell you next to nothing about the person with whom you have contracted marriage.

  Miriam Chokewater, aged nineteen, burdened with an ugly name but moderately pretty to the eye, thin, just emerging from boneyness and pressing towards svelte; blonde, blue eyes, good teeth, in-growing toenail on left foot, vaccinated against Martian pelagia, bubonic and Styx pollen, blood group Al, twisted the photograph of Franco Parzetti, aged twenty-three, Martian pioneer farmer, etc. etc. She watched him take his two 3D paces for the hundredth time and wondered what he was really like, you know, deep in his soul. Was he gentle? Would he love her?

  Franco had her colored image pinned to the curtain of his sleeping dome where the light wind caused Miriam to twist her torso first this way and then that, and he imagined for the hundredth time what it would be like to hold her under the thermosheet, and what they would talk about after (and in his less heated moments, whether she could cook Martian cactus).

  The photograph told him fifty percent of what he wanted to know—she looked even-tempered, placid, but not partic­ularly strong (though very often these thin girls were resilient). She looked as if she had a good pair of lungs which she would find a help in Mars’ still thin air—the terra-forming process begun in the previous century was still in its early stages and ongoing. She had a kissable mouth. What he couldn’t tell was whether she knew much about farming in sand; how she would stand up to being sealed in a dome for two or three weeks when the storms came; whether she scratched herself (he couldn’t stand people who scratched); whether she had BO (God! he hoped not); whether she could cook Italian-style; oh, and whether she would love him.

  These two mortals were, at the moment, separated by a gulf of 63 million miles, but this gap was being reduced at the rate of ten miles per second. They were due to unite in contracted marriage in about 140 days if the voyage to Mars went well and if traveling conditions on Marr allowed passage to the great depression of Hellas when Miriam arrived.

  Miriam, still in torment as to whether she had done the right thing in pledging herself to a photograph of someone sixty-three million miles away, sat on her bunk in the SS (Settler Ship) Mayburg along with 499 other Martian brides and spoke to her cabin mate Laura Krankovsky about the anguished reaction when her mother had learned of her loved daughter’s registration in the Pioneer Brigade.

  “She cried for days. I felt awful. I’ve never hurt my mother in all my life and I thought she would be glad to see me married off, me being nineteen, but no! She said I’d done it just to get away from her and she cried and cried ’til I thought my heart would break.”

  Laura Krakovski stared at Miriam without much sympathy or understanding. Her English was the rudimentary sort taught in the outlying districts of New Russia and she was due to be wedded to Ivan Zarkow, a Russian-speaking farmer in Coprates.

  “Cry? Why cry?” she asked, her heavy brow beetling in puzzlement.

  Miriam did not note the lack of comprehension. She sighed and went on with a voice quivering on the edge of tears.

  “We loved one another so much; we never had secrets from each other. Ever since I was a little girl I used to tell her everything, and even after that when I grew up. And she used to tell me all her thoughts, just like a sister, really. We’d talk for hours together and laugh. Of course, I never knew my father,
so we only had each other, you know, and that’s why she cried. She’d got nobody else. She said she’d die. I tried to get out of the Brigade—I pleaded with them but they wouldn’t let me.” Tears at last ran down her cheeks.

  Laura watched them in puzzlement. “You no want go?” she asked tentatively. “You have bad man?”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” sobbed Miriam. “Mother, mother…,” and could not proceed. Laura placed a thick arm across Miriam’s bowed shoulders, gathered her vocabulary and offered the following consolation “All mothers bitches. You happy now. Great big man, huh?”

  Miriam shook her blonde head wildly, tore herself free from the restraining hawser and flung herself prone on the bunk. The photograph of Franco Parzetti fluttered to the floor carrying out quick two steps as he went. On the floor he stared up at Laura Krankovski’s baffled face. She shrugged, picked up the piece of plastic and put it in Miriam’s clenching hand. It crumpled (France Parzetti limped thereafter) and Miriam’s wailing became louder. Laura stood watching her with stolid thought­fulness, then turned and pushed her way past the collection of women who had gathered outside the open cabin door. At the end of the corridor was the surgery and into this Laura went.

  A moment later she came out behind Mary Elizabeth McPrince, chief medical officer, who was on duty at the time. McPrince shooed off all the onlookers, dismissed Krankovski to the common room, and shut herself in with Miriam. She pricked Miriam’s quivering bottom with a very sharp needle, and then asked her what ailed her.

  Miriam turned and looked into McPrince’s matronly face, and in her emotional state and with a subtle drug seeping into her brain, immediately imprinted the McPrince face on her soul and henceforth the word ‘mother’ conjured to her the consoling face of Mary Elizabeth McPrince.

  “Mother,” she choked, and buried her face in the soft bosom.