Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J. Francis McComas

  “Thank you, sir! Thank you very much.”

  “Come along, young man. We’ll see who thanks who when this is all over . . .”

  Hardin and Gearhardt climbed the gentle slope that led from the little valley where the ships lay up to the plateau above the river whereon some Wolfian race had built their great city.

  The first contact with any relics of a vanished race is indescribable. The observer’s emotions surge too strongly, there is too bewildering an awe—a completely new kind of wonder—to permit his objective cataloging of impressions. John Leslie Hardin just looked. For a long time he stood quite still and stared at the orderly rows of lovely, low buildings. The citizens had built horizontally, they had had plenty of ground space and they had used it. Far ahead of him, toward the geometrical center of the city, he could see a few higher buildings but even these had only three or four stories.

  He walked slowly down the center of the street before him. The street itself was spaciously wide, paved with an artificial compound whose toughness still stood firm against the assault of the planet’s gray weeds and grasses. It was as smooth and uncracked as on the day it was laid. As Hardin walked, a sense of unease crept over him until suddenly he realized it was due to the clatter of his own boots. He stopped, then, and let the awful silence of that which is dead regain its impersonal tranquility. Gearhardt took his arm.

  “Sorry to intrude, Captain,” he murmured, “but didn’t you yourself say we must be on the alert?”

  Hardin shook his head, as if to clear it. “Sorry,” he muttered, “but this is the first time anything like this has happened to me.”

  “I know. I remember when, as a young man, I helped dig the equatorial desert of western Mars—but never mind that. Even now, one wonders . . . let us walk on! Where?”

  “Toward the center of the town, I guess.”

  “Good. Let us move over here, on what was surely a sidewalk for pedestrians. Perhaps you can get some of the feel of it as we go.”

  The rhythm of their boots was an alien thing. A lone bird gave a frightened cry and fled from a rooftop to the upper air.

  “What is this part?” asked Hardin. “A residential area?”

  “Yes. Like to take a look?”

  “Later, I guess,” Hardin’s tone was reluctant. “I’ve got to get the over-all picture. . . if we have time. Tell me about these houses.”

  “Well . . . you will observe that, exterior-wise, each home is severely simple, in complete structural harmony with its neighbor. As if each were a segment of a master plan. Individual taste and preference—always excellent I might say—is displayed solely in the interior. Inside the homes we have found and photographed all sorts of statuary, what must have been mural paintings—faded now beyond all deciphering—and remarkably variable room arrangements.”

  Hardin slowed as they approached an intersection, cast a quick glance in all directions, then resumed his steady pace.

  “Were they humanoid, Doctor?” he asked.

  “Undoubtedly. The statuary shows that. And the construction—for example, the few stairs we’ve seen . . . actually just level-breakers—might have been built for you and me. And the dimensions of the rooms, the non-metallic fixtures—oh, all sorts of data confirm that these people were of the same bodily structure as Terran man.”

  “Umm . . . Doctor, last night you mentioned a building you think had been a factory—”

  “Ah! I thought you’d like to see that! It lies straight ahead.”

  When Dr. Hadley, the expedition’s linguist, set up his loudspeaker the horde seemed fascinated. Despite Stiegesen’s diffident suggestion, Hadley had set up his equipment twenty-five meters in advance of the gun. He stood there, mike in hand, as the projector, beaming from just behind the gun pit, shot a simple line drawing of a man on the screen. Dr. Hadley then clearly enunciated the Basic Solarian word for man. Drawing of a woman next, with Hadley giving the word for same. Then a man again, followed by the lady. Since science knows no false modesty, both figures were in the nude. Interplanetary exploration within the Solar System had shown long ago that alien races could recognize and classify genitalia even if the rest of the bodily surface structure was meaningless to them.

  The first sound of Hadley’s many-times amplified voice caused a little confusion in the watching horde. Some of the sextupeds whistled in fear and one or two riders departed abruptly, but in moments all was calm and the long lines of riders hunched quietly in their saddles, listening to the booming voice.

  Basic Solarian could be spoken by a vocal mechanism evolved for nasal Universal American, lisping Polar Martian, or grunting Middle Venusian . . . to say nothing of Lingua Africana gutturals or upper register Sioux. It should, Hadley was certain, be equally easy for these wild men. He worked through the negative and affirmative, the I and you, and accompanied a drawing of a man throwing away an assortment of weapons with the BS word for peace.

  Then he began to perspire, a reaction that always infuriated him but one inevitable when he was under any kind of tension. Dr. Hadley was a tubby, earnest little man and very jealous of his interplanetary reputation. It occurred to him that that reputation was in grave danger and the danger was no fault of his. Why didn’t one of these stupid barbarians—just one of them!—gallop up and repeat a single word after him! It was all so carefully planned, semantically!

  But there was no response. Over and over again, he enunciated the greeting terms, the identification words . . .

  Then, finally, he got a response . . . but not the one he had anticipated.

  The natives began to laugh. And as they laughed, the drums rolled, their horns tootled, and their mounts whistled. The laughs changed to jeering yells. Dr. Hadley stepped up the speaker’s volume. But the power of the speaker had its limit and that limit could not cope with the volume generated by thousands of screeching men and animals intensified by the noise of hundreds of drums and horns.

  Dr. Hadley suddenly turned off his speaker and, his damp face red with fury, trotted back to the group around the Administrator. A lone rider loosed a bolt that fortunately went wide of its mark. Dr. Hadley was too angry to notice.

  “Sir,” he cried to the Administrator, “I’ve failed—because I had nothing to go on! How can you talk with people who won’t talk with you! How—”

  “Never mind, Hadley,” soothed the Administrator, “you made a gallant effort and it shall be reported as such. Now, we’ll try the cinema . . .”

  The street ended abruptly and Hardin found himself facing a broad, open square. He saw that it stretched on either side of him for several blocks and he estimated its width to be at least 75 meters. Over the tangle of wild grass and occasional dwarfed trees he could see the outline of a single, very large building.

  “That’s the factory,” Gearhardt announced. The two men made their way rapidly through the ragged grass. “Now you’ll see how neatly these people solved the problem of industrial housing. They simply put up their factories anywhere and built parks around them. They probably had no smoke problem. So, none of those grimy, smoggy, incredibly ugly industrial sections which we still have in a few of our own cities.”

  They walked up three broad low stairs and went through a doorway into a large anteroom.

  “Observe they used the sliding door principle.” Gearhardt was frankly lecturing now and just as frankly enjoying it.

  “What were the doors made of?”

  “My guess is some kind of magnetized alloy. The only method that could ensure sealed closing of sliding doors. If the doors were of wood, you may be sure we’d have found traces. We haven’t.” They passed through a series of small rooms. “Offices, just like home. And now, the factory itself.”

  Windowless, it was a very dim room, its sole light furnished by the open doorway behind them and another at its far end. Hardin walked slowly about, picking his way around an irregular array of what seemed to be long, low tables made of stone, or a stone-like compound. Here and there the floor was pitted wi
th jagged holes. The tables themselves were deeply scarred in places; looking more closely, Hardin saw that there were regular rows of these deep gouges and that they appeared on one side of the tables only. Gearhardt smiled and nodded slightly as he watched Hardin make his careful inspection.

  The soldier gazed up at the walls last of all, saw on them traces of pigment. Then he noticed holes in the walls, spaced at regular intervals: oblong holes, small, high up, almost at the angle of wall and ceiling.

  Hardin sighed. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he moved over and sat down on one of the tables. He took out his cigaret case and, still staring around the room, he extracted a cigaret, put it in his mouth and puffed. He forgot to put the case back in his pocket. Gearhardt sat down beside him. “Well, young man,” he smiled quizzically, “let us see what kind of an archeologist you’d have made. Describe this room . . . as it was.”

  “A factory, of course. Machines, made of metal, were set in the floor—in those holes—and fixed to these tables. The workers probably sat in metal chairs—”

  “Or wooden ones.”

  “Yes. And the room was air-conditioned.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Those holes in the walls probably once had grated vents. And there are no windows.”

  “A good argument. We also discovered these walls are soundproof.”

  “Question: what happened to the machines?”

  “You tell me, young man.”

  “I think I can. But let’s go outside, shall we? We’ve got to be on the alert, you know. And all this makes me—”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “No . . . unhappy.”

  “I feel the same . . . Let us go.” They walked outside and sat down on the broad, shallow steps. The alien sun’s red rays warmed them, but did not cheer.

  “Yes,” Hardin picked up the thread of their talk, “it all makes me unhappy. Which probably sounds odd to you—military men aren’t supposed to have emotions—”

  “Stuff!”

  “Thanks.” Hardin did not smile. “There was such a very gracious way of life in this city, Doctor. What ended it—cut it off?”

  Dr. Gearhardt stroked his chin, a lecturer’s gesture.

  “No catastrophe of nature,” he said. “These buildings are too well preserved. There’s dirt, yes, the litter of centuries, but no collapsed ruins.”

  “Then, if nature wasn’t their enemy, it must have been their fellow-beings?”

  “We may use the word human, I think. Yes, a human invader overcame them, destroyed them, ripped the metal from the edifices they’d built up with such love and taste and warmth, then . . .”

  “Went away again.”

  “Went where, Captain?”

  “Let me ask a couple of more questions, Doctor. Did these folk have air travel?”

  “I doubt it. More likely, only land and water—there are wharves down at the river.”

  “Well then, what were their defenses?”

  “Young man, I don’t know. We’ve found no evidences of fortifications. These seem to have been a peaceful people. What weapons they had would have been constructed of metal, of course . . .”

  Hardin stretched his legs and stared somberly at his boot toes. After a long moment of silence, he looked up. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you what I’m positive happened to this city and why its catastrophe affects us so vitally.” He grinned suddenly. “It’s unpardonable that a soldier should be lecturing a scientist, but I hope you’ll try to forgive me.”

  “Young man, again I say stuff! I regard you as the shrewdest person in this expedition. Further, you know history—a science I know only partially . . .”

  “Well, sir, let’s ask ourselves what kind of a people in our history didn’t occupy a city once they’d conquered it . . .”

  The big screen showed in glowing color an animated diagram of the Solar System. The riders crowded forward to watch.

  Lt. Stiegesen finished a whispered consultation with Sub-Lt. Teligny, then faded aft of the ships, dropped on his belly and was lost to sight in the rippling grass. Sub-Lt. Teligny moved unobtrusively forward and took a place in the gun pit.

  The screen showed wondrous cartoons of Earth, Venus and Mars, pictured their vast cities, their peoples, their science. The audience watched in rapt silence.

  “I fancy we’re making headway now,” smiled Jeltenko.

  “Assuredly, assuredly,” beamed Dr. Tresco.

  There came a long, dramatic—but singularly humorless—sequence of man eschewing war and the weapons of war. It was humorless, but the audience roared with laughter. It capered, gesticulated, howled with glee. And a young technician, standing a respectful distance from his elders, muttered, “Oh, oh!”

  Dr. Giovanni Tresco heard him. Curiously, the great man did not reprove the youth, but stared out at the hilarious mob with a worried frown.

  When the departure of the Messenger was projected, the horde quieted briefly. But when the first scout ship was shown landing on their planet, they howled again and even the most complacent watcher knew it was a howl of fury.

  Those in front lifted their crossbows and fired directly at the screen, ripping holes through it. The projector clacked away and the picture, no longer a comprehensible whole but a cluster of ragged, meaningless parts, flickered on. Yelling riders rode up to the screen and slashed it to ribbons with their cutting weapons.

  “Turn off that projector!” cried the Administrator.

  The alien drums beat and the horns moaned.

  “They’re going to attack!” cried young Teligny. “Get back of the guns, please! Everybody!”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Stiegesen?” gasped the Administrator as, redfaced, white hair tumbling over his broad brow, he clambered past the gun pit.

  Teligny’s boyish face paled but he answered sturdily enough. “Off on reconnaissance, sir. I—I’m in charge of defense.”

  The Administrator frowned a majestic frown.

  “A gross dereliction of duty!” he thundered. “As well as—” but the subaltern grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground as three bolts whizzed through the air where the Administrator had been standing.

  “Sorry, sir! But please get your people in the ship. Now!”

  “God—young man, you saved my life—”

  “Please, sir—get going!”

  “Ah—yes, of course.” The great man hauled himself to his hands and knees. “D’you know what to do?”

  “Certainly, sir. Shall I let ’em have it?”

  “If you mean shooting—emphatically not! You can do something else, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then don’t kill any of them—God! here they come!”

  The hapless men of science did not have time to get inside their ships. They huddled behind the ramps or lay flat on the ground while the youngster turned his back on them and gave his orders in a quiet, if slightly unsteady voice. The enlisted veterans grinned at him encouragingly and began to lob bombs and grenades.

  “Well, that’s it,” Hardin concluded. “I lack data, of course—I should be able to see them close up, observe their community life, even talk with them—that’s why I wanted prisoners.”

  He stood up, stretched, then tensed, listening.

  “Lot of noise around the ships,” he said calmly. “Guess we’d better be getting back.”

  “Yes.” Gearhardt slowly got to his feet. “We seem to have made a series of mistakes,” he said tiredly, “starting with a very big one in the year 2117.”

  “Then you think I’m right, sir?”

  “Of course I do—what is your first name?”

  “My friends call me Les—after my middle name, Leslie.”

  “You will permit me? Thank you.

  You are indeed right, Leslie.” The old man looked wistfully at the low, graceful lines of the factory building, then shook his head. The two men walked down the steps toward the park. “Odd,” Gearhardt said slowly, “even before we reach
ed the moon we wrote and talked much of meeting alien life out among the stars. Never realizing that we’d had plenty of aliens on our own planet . . . from time to time.”

  Hardin nodded. “Even as late as the Nineteenth Century,” he agreed. Then, “Hold it!” he barked.

  A native cantered around the corner of the factory and entered the park. The Wolfian saw them, jerked hard on the reins, and the sextuped tossed its head violently. Hardin pulled out his handgun and waited.

  The native did not pause more than one frozen instant. Then he lifted his arbalest and Hardin fired. The rider dropped his crossbow, stared at Hardin with great incredulity, then slowly slid out of his saddle and sprawled on the ground. The riderless mount whirled and started back just as two more natives rode into the park. They saw their fallen comrade first, then Hardin. He heard them laugh and saw them leisurely lift their bows.

  Hardin fired. His shot was a little high, hitting his target in the shoulder. The man screamed and, dropping his bow, clapped a hand to his seared shoulder. The other’s eyes widened, he half-turned in the saddle and, forgetting all about Hardin, watched unbelieving as his fellow writhed in agony.

  Hardin aimed more carefully and burned the wounded man squarely between the eyes. The unhurt native’s head slowly swiveled to watch the dead rider slump sideways out of his saddle. Then gaping, he gazed at Hardin. When the captain raised his gun again, the native screamed, frantically pulled his mount around and galloped out of sight.

  Dr. Gearhardt made a wordless noise.

  Hardin walked over and peered down toward the side of the factory. The area was clear. He stepped back to the two bodies. Dr. Gearhardt, face pale, slowly approached, staggering a little as he walked.

  “Killing . . .” he muttered.

  “Yes, killing,” Hardin said coldly. “You saw the impact of death on the survivor?”