Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  “Why worry?” The kid’s brains almost crackled audibly in their attempt to transmit his worry to the scientist. “Here’s something! Has it occurred to you that all the Martian has to do is to determine our course, continue it ahead on a chart, and then know our destination?”

  “It has occurred to me,” said Nudnick gently. “Our course will intercept Mercury in twenty days.”

  “Mercury!” Hughie cried. “You told me the prosydium was on an asteroid!”

  “It is on an asteroid.” Nudnick was being assiduously patient. “You know it, and I know it. But our course is for Mercury. That’s all they know. If we lose them, we will change course for the Belt. If we don’t lose them, we will go to Mercury. If they’re persistent, we’ll go back to Earth and try again some time, though I will admit there’s only a billion to one chance of our slipping away without being followed again.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hughie after a while. “I have no business in trying to tell you off, Professor Nudnick. Only I hate like hell to see that Bjornsen guy keep you away from what you want to get. That heel. That lousy wart on the nose of progress!”

  “End quotes,” said Nudnick dryly. “Captain Jaundess.”

  “O.K., O.K.,” said Hughie, grinning in spite of himself. “But I can’t seem to get over that guy Bjornsen. He got in my hair for nearly two years at school, and now that he’s kicked me out he seems to want to get under my scalp as well. I dunno—I never saw a guy like that before. I can’t figger him—the way he thinks. That rotten business of ganging up on kids. He’s inhuman!”

  “You may be right,” said Nudnick slowly. “You may just possibly be right.” After a long pause, he said, “I picked the right assistant, Hughie. You’re doing fine.”

  Hughie was so tickled by that remark that he didn’t think to ask what provoked it.

  Two days before they were due on Mercury, the professor heaved a sigh, glanced at Hughie, and connected up the stern visiscreen. “There you are,” he said quietly. Hughie looked up from his magazine, dropped it with a gasp of horror. The Martian ship was not two hundred yards behind them, looming up, filling the screen. He sprang to his feet.

  “Professor Nudnick! Do something!”

  Nudnick shook his head, spread his hands. “Any ideas?”

  “There must be something. Can’t you blast them, professor?”

  “With what? The Patrol took even our little neuro ray.”

  Hughie waved the defeatist philosophy aside impatiently. “There ought to be something you could do. Heck—you’re supposed to be ten times the scientist that Harry Petrou is—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Harry Petrou … Petrou!” Hughie swept up the magazine, thrust the too-bright cover in the scientist’s face. “The writer! The author of—”

  “Satan Strong!” The dried-up old man let out an astonishingly hearty peal of laughter.

  “Well,” said Hughie defensively, “anyway—” Furiously he began to shout half-hysterical phrases. He was scared, and he had a bad case of hero worship, and he was also very young. He said, “You go ahead and laugh. But Harry Petrou has some pretty damn good ideas. Maybe they’re not scientific. Not what you’d call scientific. Why doesn’t anybody ever do anything scientific without studying for fifty years in a dusty old laboratory? Why does one of the greatest scientists in history,” he half sobbed, “sit back and b-be bullied by a l-louse like Bjornsen?”

  “Hughie—take it easy, there.” Nudnick put out his hand, then turned away from those young, accusing eyes. “Things aren’t done that way, Hughie. Science isn’t like that—made to order for melodramatic adventures. I know—you’d like me to burrow into the air conditioner, throw a few connections around, and come out with a space-warp.”

  Hughie turned on the lower forward screen. It showed, blindingly, the flaming crescent of the inner planet. They were descending swiftly toward the night-edge of the twilight strip, the automatic pilot taking care of every detail of deceleration and gravity control.

  “You’re quitting,” said Hughie, his lip quivering. “You’re running away!” And he turned his back to Nudnick, to stare at the evil menacing bulk of the Martian ship.

  Nudnick sighed, went and sat at the controls, and took over the ship from the pilot.

  After two silent hours, Hughie observed that Nudnick was preparing to land. He said in a dead voice:

  “If you land, they’ll catch us.”

  “That’s right.” Nudnick’s voice was brisk.

  “And if they catch us, they’ll torture us.”

  “Yep.” Nudnick glanced over his shoulder. “Will you obey my orders implicitly?”

  “Sure,” said Hughie hopelessly. His eyes were fixed in fearful fascination on the Martian ship.

  “Start now, then. Get rid of all the metal on your clothes. Belt buckle, buttons—everything. You have fiber soled boots?

  “Mm-m-m.”

  “Put them on. Snap into it!”

  An hour later the Stoutfella grated on a sandy clearing not far from a red and rocky bluff. The choking atmosphere of Mercury swirled about the portholes. Nudnick climbed out of the pilot seat and tore a pair of fiber boots out of a locker. He had already ripped his buttons off, tossed his wrist radio and identification ring on the chart table. “Come on!” he snapped.

  “You … we’re not going out there?”

  “You’re damn right we are!”

  Hughie looked at him. If this old man was willing—He shrugged, picked up a magazine. It seemed as if he—stroked it. Then he tossed it aside and strode with Nudnick into the airlock.

  As the inner gate shut them out of the little world that the ship afforded, Nudnick clapped him on the back. “Chin up, kiddo,” he said warmly. “Now listen—do exactly as I tell you. When we get outside, move as fast as you can toward that bluff. The Martians won’t shoot as long as they think we have any information. Na—no questions—there isn’t time! Listen. It’s hot out there. As hot as the oven my dear old mother used to bake ten-egg cakes in. The air is not so good, but we can breathe it—for a while. Long enough, I guess. Ready?”

  The outer gate slid back and they plunged out.

  It was hot. In seconds acrid dust was packing on Hughie’s skin, washing away in veritable gushes of sweat, packing the pores again. He saw the reason for taking off all metal clothing. He had left his identification ring on; it began to sear his hand. He tore it off, and blistered flesh with it.

  The air lacerated his throat, stung his eyes. Somehow he knew the location of three things—the red bluff, the hovering Martian ship, and the professor. He pounded on. Once he tripped, went down on one knee. His breeches burst into flame. Nudnick saw and helped him slap it out. Inside the charred edges of cloth he caught a glimpse of his own kneecap, a tiny spot of bone amid a circle of cooked flesh, where his knee had ground into the burning sand.

  Nudnick tugged at his elbow. “How far do you think we are?” he wheezed.

  Hughie suddenly realized that Nudnick’s old eyes couldn’t see very far in this kind of heat; he had to be eyes for two people now. “Ship—hundred and fifty—yards—”

  “Not—far enough! Go—on!”

  They struggled on, helping each other, hindering each other. The ground rose sharply; Nudnick stopped. “Beginning of … bluff … far … enough—” He began coughing.

  Hughie held him up until he had finished. He began to understand. He had heard vague stories about Martian torture. Nudnick would rather die this way, then. They could have starved slowly in the ship. Maybe this was better—

  Nudnick’s shrill, dust-choked whisper reached him. “Martians?”

  Hughie put one hand over his eyes and peered through the fingers. The Martian ship had settled down beside the Stoutfella. The port swung open, three figures, two tall and lanky, one short and shriveled. “Three … coming … two Martians … Bjornsen.” Talking was torture. Breathing was pulling living fire into the lungs. He heard a noise and looked down. Nudnick was c
lutching him and making the noise. Slowly he realized that the old man was laughing.

  They lurched toward the three figures, clinging to each other. The two Martians grasped them, and just in time, or they would have fallen and died.

  “Of all the crazy damn things to do!” shrilled Bjornsen. In spite of the blasting breeze, the insufferable heat, the old gestures returned to him, and he rubbed his hands together in that familiar, despised gesture.

  Nudnick forced his eyes open and stared at the councilman worriedly, and then turned to each of the Martians. They were wilting a little bit in the heat, but their grip was still strong. Bjornsen spoke a few squeaky words in the Martian tongue, and the five of them began to struggle toward the ships.

  Suddenly the Martian who had Hughie’s arm began to cry out in a piercing, ululating whine. It was quite the most ghastly sound the boy had ever heard; he shuddered in spite of the heat and thrust at the creature. To his utter amazement the Martian slumped to the ground, arched his back as it began to scorch, screamed deafeningly and then lay still. Nudnick laughed cacklingly again and shoved at his Martian, tripping him at the same time. The second Martian stumbled, regained his balance, and then began screaming. In a matter of seconds he fell. He took longer, but died also—

  Bjornsen stood in front of them, watching the Martians, and then, shouting agonized curses, began a stumbling run toward his ship.

  “Damn it, he’s going to make it!” cried Nudnick; and stooping, he caught up a hot stone and hurled it.

  Straight as an explosive pellet it flew, and caught Bjornsen between his narrow shoulders. Bjornsen threw up his hands, trying wildly to keep his feet. Gibbering crazily, Nudnick threw another stone. It missed by twenty feet. Hughie caught the old man as he fell exhausted. When next he looked at Bjornsen, the councilman was, down on his knees, his hand clutching at the sill of the Martians’ airlock. He sagged, writhed, and died there.

  Hughie stood for five seconds, tottering; then he shook his head, bent and let the scientist’s limp body fall across his shoulder. It took him an eternity to straighten up, and then eternities to locate his nearby ship and begin that long, long fifty-foot journey. Hughie knew later that if it had been five—three—feet more, he could not possibly have made it. But somehow he did—somehow he tumbled the old man into the lock, pitched forward on top of him. He scrabbled weakly around, found the lock control, pressed it.

  Hughie screamed when he came out of it. Then he opened his eyes and saw that he wasn’t in that fiery desert. He closed them again and realized that his knee hurt terribly. Then Nudnick was beside him, bathing his face, talking.

  “Good stuff, kid. Fix you up in no time. Heh! Long chance just for a few tons of prosydium, eh? Well, we’ll get it now. No one else around. No one else around.”

  “Bjornsen?”

  “Dead. Remember? Like the Martians.”

  “Martians.” The words brought horror into the heat-reddened young face. He raised his head and Nudnick slipped another pillow under it. “What happened to those Martians?”

  Nudnick grinned. “They died of ignorance, son, and let that be a lesson to you.” Hughie just stared. “You see, for generations now, Martians have lived on Earth and Earthmen on Mars. It made ’em forget something—that one little fact I was talking about before we landed. Water-hoarders, Hughie. Martians can’t sweat! You see? A human can live beside a steak that’s cooking, because he sweats. The evaporation cools him down. A Martian can’t stand that kind of heat—he cooks like a steak!”

  “But … Bjornsen wasn’t—”

  “Ah. You’re wrong there. Bjornsen was! A freak, Hughie. Look at Martians. Unemotional—logical—well, isn’t that Bjornsen? Y’know, when I walked in on him when he was ganging up on you at the Institute, I heard him rub his hands together. I knew I’d heard it somewhere before, but I don’t know just where. But the other day when you said he was inhuman, it clicked. Bjornsen didn’t have no mamma and no poppa, kiddo. He came out of a Martian biochemical laboratory, or I miss my guess. Clever fellers, those Martians. Trained him from birth for that job. A key man in the middle of my little old institute. There may be more like him. I’ll see to that. Heh! I won’t be the first boss that’s told his employees, ‘Work up a sweat or get canned!’ ”

  Hughie at last managed to grin a little. Nudnick kept on talking happily. “That knee’ll be all right in a couple weeks. By that time we’ll hook on to the prosydium. You’re fixed for life, fella. Ah—hey, I’ve got a confession to make to you.”

  Hughie turned weak, amused eyes on him. The old man wagged his head. “Yep. About that prosydium. Didn’t you wonder how I knew about it? I’ll tell you. I was coming from Mars last year on a Martian liner. Very elegant. Humidifiers in every room. Radio. Recorded music. Lots of apparatus built into the staterooms. Would’ve delighted the heart of Satan Strong. Anyway, I got messing around. I … er—” He paused guiltily, then went on. “I sort of tore out some connections and spot-welded some busbars. Built me a dandy detectograph. Located that prosydium as we passed the edge of the Belt. Sheer luck. Spotted it, by golly, right from a stateroom in a Martian ship!”

  Hughie laughed admiringly. “You old son of a gun,” he said disrespectfully. “And you sneered at Satan Strong!”

  “Me?” The old man shook his head and stood up. “Why should I sneer at Satan Strong? I like Satan Strong. I ought to. I write those stories!”

  H. B. FYFE

  (1918-1997) US writer whose first sf story, "Locked Out", appeared in Astounding in 1940, but who became active, mainly with stories in Astounding, only after army service in World War Two. By 1967, when he became inactive, he had published nearly 60 stories. His Bureau of Slick Tricks tales, published in Astounding from 1948 to 1952, are typical of John W Campbell Jr's need for stories in which humans deftly outwit thick-skulled (often bureaucratic) Aliens. In his novel, D-99 (fixup 1962), which continues the series, Department 99 of the Terran government has the job of finagling citizens out of jams on other planets and flummoxing thicker species. The tone is fortunately light.

  A Transmutation of Muddles, by H. B. Fyfe

  An experienced horse-trader, bargain-haggler, and general swapper has a very special talent for turning two headaches into one aspirin pill....

  The rugged little stellar scout ship flared down to the surface of Kappa Orionis VII about a mile from the aboriginal village. The pilot, Lieutenant Eric Haruhiku, scorched an open field, but pointed out to Louis Mayne that he had been careful to disturb neither woodland nor shoreline.

  "The Kappans are touchy about those, Judge," he explained, "They fish a lot, as you'd guess from all these shallow seas, and they pick fruit in the forests; but they don't farm much."

  "No use provoking trouble," Mayne approved. "It's a long way from Rigel."

  "It's a longer way from Sol," said the pilot.

  "Don't I know, boy! If it weren't, I'd be just another retired space captain, quietly struggling with my ranch on Rigel IX. As it is, to get the grant, I had to remain on call as an arbitrator."

  "Somebody has to settle these things," said Haruhiku. "There's not much law way out here, except what the Space Force can apply. Well, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll have them get out the helicopter and take us over to the village."

  "Let me see that last message again, before you go," Mayne requested.

  The pilot extracted a sheet from his clipboard and handed it to Mayne as he left. Mayne studied the text with little pleasure.

  Terran Space Force headquarters on Rigel IX wished to inform him that the long awaited envoy from Terra to Kappa Orionis VII not only had arrived but had departed two days behind Mayne.

  It was hoped, the communication continued, that nothing would interfere with the desired objective of coming to some friendly agreement with the Kappans that would permit Terran use of the planet as a base for spaceships. The envoy, of course, was prepared to offer trade inducements and various other forms of help to the semi-civilized natives. Mayne was
requested to lay whatever groundwork he could.

  In my spare time, no doubt, he reflected. I'm to settle this silly business any way at all--as long as the natives get their way. But has anybody told the government about insurance companies? If it costs money or a lawsuit, will they back me up?

  He felt himself to be in a ridiculous dilemma. The Kappans were reported to have seized a Terran spaceship as it landed to trade. Naturally, the captain had squawked for help. He claimed he had crashed; his insurance company thought otherwise; the Kappans seemed to have some entirely different idea in mind. Mayne had been summoned into action to render a decision, after the rough and ready system of these settlements on the surface of Terra's sphere of explored space.

  Regretfully, he made his way now to the cubbyhole allowed him on the cramped scout, where he changed to a more formal tunic of a bright blue he hoped would look impressive to native eyes. By the time he was ready, the helicopter was waiting. He and Haruhiku entered, and the crewman at the controls took off for the scene of the dispute.

  Arriving over the village, they hovered a few minutes while Haruhiku studied the lay of the land. The lieutenant had been to this world before, long enough to pick up some of the language and customs, so Mayne was content to follow his advice about landing a little way off from a spaceship that towered outside the village.

  They came down about a hundred yards away, between a rutted sort of road and a long hut covered by a curved, thatched roof.

  "They're expecting us," said Haruhiku, gesturing at the group before the hut.

  It consisted of half a dozen humans and several of the Kappan natives. The latter, naturally, caught Mayne's eye first. The most imposing individual among them stood about five feet tall. The planet being of about the same mass as Terra, the Kappan probably weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He was a rugged biped with something saurian in his ancestry; for his skin was scaled, and bony plates grew into a low crown upon his long skull. His arms and legs were heavy and bowed, with joints obscured by thick muscles and loose skin. Mayne was struck by the fancy that the Kappan's color, a blend of brown and olive, was that of a small dragon who had achieved a good suntan. A yellow kilt was his main article of attire, although he wore a few decorations of polished bone.