The experiment still went on. Men learned to make weapons. Presently they discovered metal. The spears and arrowheads became bronze, and then iron, and presently gunpowder replaced bowstrings to hurl metal missiles. Later still, there was the atom bomb. In the art line, there were Praxiteles and Rodin and Michelangelo and Picasso. . . . And the consequences of the experiment continued to develop. . . .
A good thirty thousand years after the time of Tork, the Antareans decided that they needed the oceans of Earth for the excess population of several already colonized planets. They prepared a colonizing fleet. The original survey was not complete, but it was good enough to justify a full-scale expedition for settlement.
More than two million Antareans swam in the vessels which launched themselves into space to occupy Earth. It was purely by accident that members of a society of learned Antareans, going over the original survey reports, came upon the record of the experiment. The learned society requested, without much hope, that an effort be made to trace the ancient meddling with the laws of nature and see if any results could be detected.
The Antarean fleet came out of overdrive beyond Jupiter and drove in toward Earth with placid confidence. There was blank amazement on board when small spacecraft hailed the newcomers with some belligerence. The Antareans were almost bewildered. There was no intelligent race here. . . . But they sent out a paralyzing beam to seize one ship and hold it for examination. Unfortunately, the beam was applied too abruptly and tore the Earthship to pieces.
So the many-times-removed great-great-grandchildren of Tork and Berry and the others of the cave-folk tribe—they blasted the Antarean fleet in seconds, and then very carefully examined the wreckage. They got an interstellar drive out of their examination, which well paid for the one lost Earthship. But the Antarean learned society never did learn the results of that experiment in ecological imbalance, started thirty thousand years before.
In fact, the results aren’t all in yet.
<
~ * ~
PART ONE
THE IMMEDIATE PAST:
It Could Have Happened Already
NINETY-NINE per cent of all earth-invasion stories in science fiction are located in a narrow segment of time which flows from a few years in the past, through now, up to a few years in the future. The tales in this section—different though they all are in story line—have one thing in common: they could have happened or may actually be happening now, as you read this. There is nothing impossible about them. They violate no probabilities and involve no changes in the direction of history that we know about—or that are yet obvious. (What suddenly may turn up tomorrow, or a minute from now, as a result of certain doings in these tales is something else again.)
This type of story has the same sort of hypnotic fascination that many people find in the works of Charles Fort, the Man Who Believed What He Reads in the Papers, or are able to extract from the Great Flying Saucers Mystery. Is they is, or is they ain’t? That is the question. All we can say is—make up your own mind. We ourselves don’t know.
<
~ * ~
Robert Moore Williams
CASTAWAY
Our first story of the Immediate Past gently but firmly leads you into the strange position where something you think you know has not happened is, quite obviously, happening. Indeed, it might well be this way, you say: for would not the Outsiders, if they knew of our curiously direct method of dealing with oddities, try to avoid direct contact with us? Such a contact, they will realize if they have studied our reactions with any assiduity, could result in anything from a lynching to an offer of a movie contract. Which fate would seem worse to a sensitive alien we have no way of knowing.
In any event, they must know that the human reaction to something as incredible as galactic visitors would not be likely to be either rational or pleasant. Therefore, all contacts from space have undoubtedly been, whenever possible, secretive, disguised, concealed. As, for instance . . .
~ * ~
“BUT look here,” Parker protested into the phone. “You must be mixed up about your dates. I came out of that God-forsaken corner of hell—excuse the profanity, but the description is accurate—only six days ago. I’m not due to relieve Johnson for eight more days, so don’t be calling and telling me to report for duty. Huh? What’s that?”
It was Hanson’s secretary who had called him. Hanson was chief of the Gulf division of the lighthouse service. The girl had made a mistake, he thought.
The phone clicked and the girl’s voice was gone. Hanson himself came on the wire, slightly apologetic but with the “duty-is-duty” tone in his voice.
“Parker? Report to the dock immediately. The plane will be ready to take you back to your station by the time you arrive.”
“The devil. I mean, sir—”
“I quite appreciate that you are off duty,” Hanson said, “but this is an emergency.” Parker waited for an explanation. It didn’t come.
“What kind of an emergency?” he questioned. “Has something happened to Johnson?”
“Yes. You are to report at once.”
“All right, sir. But what happened to Johnson?”
“He fell down the lighthouse steps and broke an arm. We ... ah … had a radio report from him last night. The plane went out for him this morning. I’m sorry to have to ask you to take your turn before your time is up, but we don’t have a replacement, and the Navy prefers that we have an observer constantly on duty at your post, as you know. You’ll have to finish Johnson’s turn and then do your own. By that time, I’ll have a new man to take Johnson’s place.”
“That means I’ll spend three weeks out there,” Parker grumbled. Then he pointed out: “And if you send a new man, I’ll have to stay and break him in. In that time, Johnson should have recovered from his broken arm and be able to take his own turn again. I’m willing to take over his turn, since it’s an emergency, but what do you want to send a new man for?”
“Parker, I don’t have time to sit here and argue with you about this,” Hanson snapped. “I know you’re entitled to two full weeks off duty and I also know you’ve earned every second of it, but I’ve got to send somebody out to that lighthouse and the only person I can send is you. So cut out this arguing and get down here.”
“All right, I’ll be down right away,” Parker answered.
The old man could be tough at times. This was apparently one of those times. But it seemed to Parker that Hanson was being tougher than circumstances warranted.
Damn Johnson, he thought. Why did the long drink of water have to fall down the stairs and break his arm? And why had he, Parker, ever been big enough fool to enter the lighthouse service ? Once it had seemed a rather romantic occupation, taking care of the big lamp, seeing that the lens was clean and the reflectors bright, flashing warnings to ships out in the Gulf. But now Parker had been in the service six years and a lot of the romance had vanished. Now he knew that nothing ever happened in a lighthouse.
That was what was wrong with the damned job. Nothing ever happened! You took care of the light, and fished, and made radio reports, and hunted for something to kill the time so the loneliness didn’t get you. Two weeks on duty and two weeks off. For two weeks you didn’t see another human being.
Hanson was waiting at the landing when Parker arrived. At the end of the wharf a big seaplane was floating, her motors turning over slowly.
“Sorry, Parker,” Hanson said, apologizing again, “but the Navy insists that we have trustworthy men at your station, especially with the war in Europe going blue blazes. A sub or two might slip into the Gulf and raise hell with shipping before she could be tracked down, especially if there should be a secret base somewhere around. The patrol boats can’t cover everything, you know, and the Navy wants all the eyes it can get on the lookout.”
“That’s all right,” Parker answered rather stiffly. “How’s Johnson?”
“Johnson!” Hanson seemed startled. “Oh, I gues
s he’ll be all right. Don’t know yet. He’s at the hospital now, for observation.”
Parker looked at Hanson. The chief had grown gray in the lighthouse service. He looked worried now.
“What is there about a broken arm that calls for observation?” Parker asked.
Hanson had a pair of gimlet eyes that could be used to drill twin holes in a questioner. But he didn’t turn the gimlets on the slightly disgruntled young man who was facing him. He studied the seaplane as if he found something of intense interest in it.
“The arm was pretty badly swollen,” he answered, still not looking at Parker. “Take a day or two to get the swelling out so the doctor can set the bone. Well, good luck, lad,” he finished, suddenly thrusting out his hand. “Make your reports regularly, and if anything suspicious should turn up, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me immediately.”
A little startled, Parker took the proffered hand. Hanson didn’t usually shake hands with men leaving for a turn of duty. Nor did he usually come down to the landing to see them off.
“Thank you,” he said. “If anything turns up, I’ll get in touch with you. But nothing will,” he added wryly. “Nothing ever does.” He walked down the dock toward the plane. Looking back, he saw that Hanson was still watching him.
He got into the plane.
It was a Navy plane, with a crew of two, which was something special in the way of service. Usually the lighthouse service used their own planes, especially in taking men to Parker’s station, which was over two hundred miles away on a tiny island near the southern side of the Gulf. But this was an emergency, and perhaps the Navy had been willing to supply transportation, since they were so anxious to have someone on duty all the time.
“Let her roll,” Parker said.
There was a lieutenant at the controls. He taxied away from the landing, set her up on the step, and lifted her into the air. Parker was aware that the radio operator was looking at him.
“Too bad about the other chap,” the radio operator said.
“Yeah,” Parker answered. He was still grumpy at this sudden call to duty. “But he probably fell down the steps and broke his arm on purpose, just so he could go on sick leave.”
He knew it wasn’t true. Johnson wasn’t that kind of guy. Johnson took his duty seriously. But Parker felt grumpy.
“What’s that?” the radio operator asked. “He broke his arm?”
“Sure. That’s what the old man said. But you ought to know. You brought him in, didn’t you?”
The radio operator looked at the lieutenant.
“Yes,” the lieutenant said hastily. “We brought him in. It sure was tough, about his arm. You men in that service ought to be very careful. If you suffered a serious accident and couldn’t get to the radio, you might die before help was sent.”
Parker twisted in his seat. He looked from the lieutenant to the radio operator.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Are you holding back something? Didn’t Johnson have a broken arm?”
“Yes,” the lieutenant answered. “That was it. A broken arm. Sure.”
A frown settled on Parker’s face. But he said nothing more. The plane climbed into the sky, leveled out for flight. He was so busy thinking that almost before he knew it the plane was nosing down again. Far off across the blue water he could see the white tower of the lighthouse rising out of the sea. He was at his station.
The radio operator helped him unload his bags.
“Good luck,” the lieutenant said.
Parker watched the plane taxi across the water, watched it rise abruptly into the air. The song of the motors died in the distance. Soon it was as small as a gull. Then it was gone. With it went the only human beings he would see for three weeks.
~ * ~
There was a small frame house beside the lighthouse. The keeper lived there. A boardwalk led from the landing up to the lighthouse. Parker started along the walk. Suddenly he stopped. His eyes ran over the tiny island, over the lighthouse, over the small house beside it, then returned to the boards under his feet.
There were wet splotches on those boards, splotches that were almost dry now. They looked like footprints. Parker stared at them.
“Nuts,” he said. “Who do I think I am, Robinson Crusoe, finding a footprint in the sand?”
He went up the walk and into the house, dropped his bags. Automatically, he began a routine tour of inspection. The door of the lighthouse was open. Wet footprints led inside.
Parker looked at them. Standing outside, he ran his eyes up the white wooden walls of the lighthouse tower. He looked at the tracks again. He turned, walked back into the house, took the automatic out of his bag. It was a .45, an Army gun. He clicked a clip of cartridges into place, gently worked the slide to feed a cartridge into the firing chamber. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket, he went back to the lighthouse. Overhead was a wooden floor. The radio equipment was up there. Much farther up, at the top of the tower, was the light. Steps led up to the radio room through a trap door. The wet footprints went up the steps.
The trap door was open.
He went up very quietly.
“Hello,” he said, when his head was above the level of the floor. “What are you doing here?”
The fellow jumped at the sound of Parker’s voice. He was in the radio room, staring at the transmitter. He didn’t know Parker was near him until the latter spoke.
He was short and squat, built like a battering-ram. Except for a strip of metallic-appearing cloth at his waist, he was naked. He looked at Parker and grinned.
“Hello, Johnson,” he said.
The lighthouse keeper’s eyes narrowed. He looked the man over. “You’re a native, aren’t you?” he said. “How does it happen that you speak English?”
The man eyed him. “Speak English?” he parroted. “You not Johnson,” he said accusingly.
“No,” Parker answered. “I came to take Johnson’s place. But how did you get here?”
South America was not too far away, and there were natives there who looked a lot like this fellow. Sometimes storms caught their canoes and drove them far out to sea. Not often, but it had happened.
“Came in boat,” the man answered. “Boat got lost. Sink. See light. Swim here. That last dark. Come in. Johnson take care of light. Take care of me, too. Went for swim, come back, Johnson gone. Look for him, not find. Where Johnson go?”
“He went away in a—” Parker hesitated. How could he explain the operation of an airplane to this fellow? “—in a boat that flies through the air, a canoe with wings. I’m taking his place.”
The native nodded. The winged canoe did not seem to surprise him. Perhaps he hadn’t understood at all.
“You let stay here?” he questioned. He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “None other place to go. Big water all around.”
“Sure,” Parker answered. “Sure. You’re welcome, old man. You can stay here until my relief comes, then I’ll take you back with me. Maybe I can fix you up on a freighter that will take you back to South America. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Name? Name? Oh, name. Bobo.”
“Bobo, eh? Well, mine’s Parker. What do you say, Bobo, we try to scare up some lunch?”
Parker turned and started down the steps. He looked back. Bobo was staring at him, so he rubbed his stomach and pointed to his mouth. Bobo seemed to get the idea. He came gladly. But he didn’t appreciate the food of civilization; he would hardly eat the food Parker set before him.
“Don’t you like it, Bobo?” the lighthouse keeper asked.
“Sure,” Bobo answered. “Good. Damn good.”
“It’s rather difficult to manage canned tomatoes with a knife,” Parker said, watching the native. “But you’ll learn.”
“You bet. Learn damned good,” Bobo answered, trying to scoop up the tomatoes with the blade of the knife, as Parker was doing. Parker watched him in silence. There were lines of thought at the corners of the lighthouseman’s eyes.<
br />
That night they slept in adjoining rooms. Lighthouse keepers never more than cat-napped during the night. The light might go out.
“Good night, Bobo,” Parker called, closing the door between the two rooms.
“Good night, Parker,” Bobo answered.
Parker didn’t go to sleep. He could sleep tomorrow, or next week, or when he was dead. He lay in the darkness, watching the circling light flash through the window. The eternal Gulf wind was blowing. It had found a loose board somewhere on the roof of the house. The board was flapping. There were other sounds, too, sounds that only lonely lighthouse keepers hear, and the lookouts of tall ships, and fishermen. Parker waited. He really wasn’t sleepy. The gun under his pillow made a hard lump.
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