“That black tube on that stone over there is a chase-bomb. That, too, would kill you.”
Stein did not go into the details of the chase-bomb. In his considered opinion it was the most diabolical weapon the human mind had ever conceived. Like most of the weapons of a dying culture, it was micro-constructed and justified its existence—if such a weapon could be justified —as a psychological deterrent.
The chase-bomb, once activated by body-heat, would rise with a whining sound and pursue its victim at slightly less than normal running speed. Sooner or later, of course, exhaustion would cause the condemned victim to lose the necessary speed and then the bomb would affix itself almost painlessly to his back.
There was no telling when it would blow, it might be six hours or six weeks. Any attempt to remove the bomb by any known means resulted in its immediate detonation so the victim became an outcast.
Understandably, an army, with twenty or thirty such carriers, among its units became completely demoralized. Even the desperate, if merciful, shooting of the carrier, only caused the bomb to fall off and lie in wait for the next victim.
Stein considered briefly the durability of these weapons. All of them were at least a hundred and twenty years old, yet all were functional. It was a curious paradox, and an unpleasant one, that the only mechanisms built to last had been killing machines.
They reached the foot of the hill at last and Peary breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the point of his spear into the soil. As he did so, a wristlet of what looked like human teeth, rattled slightly. The wristlet was appropriate to his appearance and in keeping with his cultural level but, in truth, all the teeth were micro-instruments.
Peary had checked carefully first to assure himself that the flies had been lost en route.
“Patrol G for George,” he said.
“Receiving you George—nice work, but you’re in trouble.’”
“Apart from the obvious, how come?”
“Our friends put down a ship between you and base. We think there’s someone waiting. We can’t use instruments to check in case detection instruments have been dropped too. I’m afraid you’ll have to find him.”
“Where and when?”
“The ship touched down about forty minutes ago, one to two kilometers dead ahead.”
“Can we get past?”
“Not with a sporting chance, I’m afraid you’ll have to take him. If you don’t, hell not only knock off the specimen, but, knowing the breed, all six of you as well.”
“What a bearer of glad tidings you are—is the ship still around?”
“Not within detector range. You’re safe enough from that angle.”
“Condemn me with faint hope—right, over and out.”
Peary pulled his spear out of the soil and climbed to the top of a nearby hillock.
Ventnor watched him completely bewildered. Already he was confused, frightened and completely at a loss. The sight of a man talking to a spear and the spear replying, was not only outside his experience but crippled his imagination.
On the hillock, Peary looked in his quiver and selected an arrow with red feathers. Then he held it up to his eye and appeared to look along it. In reality, however, he was looking through it. The missile was pierced and contained high-precision magnification equipment.
After a few moments he said, “Got him,” to no one in particular. He manipulated a section of the arrow and within a shutter opened and closed. The cybernetic picture was transferred to the micro-memory banks and the reception acknowledged with a faint click.
Unhurriedly Peary unslung his cross-bow, fitted the arrow and raised the bow to his shoulder….
5
The killer sat on a mound of earth at a spot once known as Hart Hill Crossroads. He was a thin man with crinkly dark hair, a pale cold face and curiously expressionless black eyes.
Trane did not regard himself as a killer, but as a soldier, a specialist with a precise task. He was a combat-technician undertaking alone a task which troops had once performed en mass.
The fact that he was compelled to justify his profession never struck him as a psychological weakness or caused him a moment of doubt. In truth he was completely self-contained and derived unashamed pleasure from his profession.
He was, he thought, probably the most intelligent ‘soldier’ ever permitted to bear weapons. Trane held degrees both in mathematics and bio-chemistry—an asset which made little difference to a psychology in which there were emotional deficiencies. To Trane, the words ‘compassion’, ‘mercy* and ‘affection’, were meaningless symbols by which lesser men professed to be swayed.
For some forty minutes, with aid of special instruments, he had been watching the party of seven make their tortuous descent of Charing Hill. He could, of course, have picked them off as soon as they appeared, but that went completely against his nature. This was not only a killing, it was a hunt. The hunted should know of the hunter, otherwise half the satisfaction was lost. The fear, the desperate attempts to escape and the final despair, all were part of it.
Trane, however, was not made unwary by his eagerness. He was coldly and precisely efficient. Surrounding him, well within cross-bow range, were hollows, clumps of trees and other places where primitives might hide themselves. For all he knew half the tribe of the Maidstone boys may have surrounded him.
The idea rather intrigued him; they’d learn a lesson from which they would take many years to recover.
Trane wore a special suit, he carried a slender rifle with target-seeking micro-missile which exploded on contact. He had a deflector screen, warning devices and, in the event of mass assault, a wide-beam disrupter which was powerful enough to wipe out an old-time army division. In this respect Trane was right—he was a one-man army.
With detached curiosity he watched one of the party climb on a hillock and unsling his cross-bow. What the devil was the fellow playing at? Oh, probably some edible game; they couldn’t possibly know he was here. In any case, no cross-bow ever devised could reach that far.
Trane was right—the crossbow couldn’t, but the special arrow could. When his instruments picked it up and gave warning he thought it must have been fired by another primitive concealed close at hand.
He was not worried. He snapped on the deflector screen and made adjustments to his special contact lenses which slowed the light waves—the arrow became visible to him.
He turned to meet it, the deflector screen an invisible shield in front of him.
Strangely, less than twenty meters away, the arrow veered suddenly and alarmingly. He turned to meet it, keeping the screen between himself and the missile.
The arrow continued to turn, however, described a circle, and increased speed. Despite the contact lenses he lost sight of it.
He had no means of seeing—nor would he have believed —the micro-thrust units which were driving the arrow even faster.
He could hear the thin high whistle as it circled him and reached desperately for the disrupter. Maybe he could—
The sound changed abruptly, became a shriek which ended in a curiously muffled impact.
Trane staggered as if struck by a clenched fist, then he coughed wheezingly. Jerkily, he put both hands to his chest and, still coughing, fell to his knees. Blood ran from the comer of his mouth then, with both hands clasping the point of the arrow which protruded from his chest, he pitched forward on his face and lay still. Against the black material of his uniform the red feathers of the arrow were just visible. The missile had struck him just between the shoulder blades and passed completely through his body.
The party arrived a bare fifteen minutes later and Vent-nor watched nonplussed as they went swiftly to work. The arrow with red feathers was skilfully withdrawn and an ordinary wooden one with green feathers inserted in its place.
Puttick, producing a variety of micro-tools from various parts of his person, went to work on one of Trane’s instruments. When, in due course, it was examined, the investigators would find an apparently genuine d
efect. At the inquest, therefore, no one would worry particularly except, perhaps, some unfortunate technician who would be blamed for negligence. Trane had died, been shot by a primitive, because one of his instruments had failed him.
Once finished, the party moved off at a steady trot, anxious to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the body before the ship came back.
They arrived finally at a circle of huts which Stein for some mysterious reason referred to as Base 4.
Ventnor noticed immediately that although the huts were crudely built and varied in size, their arrangements was orderly. It was clear also that strict standards of cleanliness were enforced. The standards of sanitation equalled if not surpassed those of Del. Here was no ever-present stench such as he had noticed in Hubel’s Kingdom.
The party broke up and Stein led him to one of the larger huts. “You must be very tired and hungry. Food will be brought to you soon.”
In a few moments a bearded man arrived with a tray of food on clean plastic utensils.
Stein said: “Eat!”
Ventnor ate ravenously but before he had finished, his stomach seemed to become heavy and his vision blurred. Stein’s face seemed to expand and rush at him. “Sleep,” it said. “Go to sleep now.”
Ventnor was dimly aware that the world was slipping away, that he was falling sideways but knew that someone caught him before he fell.
When he awoke, he was lying on a rough but comfortable mattress in a smaller hut. He felt rested and remarkably clear-headed.
Stein sat beside him, cross-legged on a rough mat.
“Soldier,” he said. “What do you understand by the word ‘soldier’?”
Ventnor blinked at him. “Eh? I don’t see—”
“Never mind what you don’t see. Answer the question, please.”
“Well—er—well, a soldier is a man engaged in military service.” He sat suddenly bolt upright. “How do I know that? Yesterday I had only a vague picture of a man fighting.”
Stein smiled. “Relax, Ventnor, I’ll explain it in normal language. If there are words you fail to understand, tell me, but you should get the outline. The food you ate yesterday was drugged and, while you were unconscious, we not only took out all the information we could get but went to some pains to increase your vocabulary at the same time. We call it subliminal education. There are limits to it, but it was ideal for that job. I must add here that anything else you want to learn will have to be done the hard way, by books and competent instructors.
Ventnor asked him the question which had been troubling him ever since he had been traded for a pair of binoculars and a razor. “Why have you gone to all this trouble, what’s so special about me?”
Stein sighed and gave a brief outline of Island policy. “So you see you were important to us biologically. From you we have learned a great deal of the Island’s methods and ultimate aims. We are very unhappy about it, but that’s incidental.”
He sighed again and smiled ruefully. “As for yourself, if it’s any consolation, you’re an inventive genius plus.”
Ventnor paled. “A sort of super gadgeteer?”
“You can call it that, but don’t let it worry you. Here we encourage it. As a matter of passing interest, Megellon had a bug about gadgeteers and he omitted stress-psychology. Starvation, disease and imminent death will turn any man into a gadgeteer if he thinks gadgeteering will spell survival. The world went mad trying to create things to stave off disaster.”
Ventnor shook his head. “It’s all a little hard to grasp at once and, on top of that, I feel strangely clear-headed. I understand things. It’s like a new life, a new world. I know what cities are, guns, cars, surgeries, highways and castles.”
He paused frowning. “It must have been a terrible war. All the cities wiped out, the bombs destroying millions—”
Stein looked at him strangely. “Yes, we took that from your mind too. They told you there was a gigantic war which almost completely destroyed humanity—this is where I have to do a little education myself: It isn’t true!”
“Not true?” Ventnor looked at him blankly. “But the evidence is there. You pointed out the weapons to me yourself. I mean, the scars are still there, the weapons, repeater explosions, even the mu—mu—”
“Mutated is the word.”
“Yes: the mutated animals.”
Stein smiled sadly. “There was still no war, old chap. Oh, yes, there were some bitter and bloody skirmishes but they took place between armies and splinter groups numbering less than five thousand men. At no time was there the destruction or the clashing of enormous armies such as took place in World War One or Two. It is true attempts were made to take the Island, but these were the only occasions which could be described as full scale battles. Someone wrote a poem once: “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.” That quotation is very true; the past perished in despair, weakly, and not in the furious upsurge of countless nuclear devices.”
He rose. “I am not going to give you a history lesson. If you listen, observe and study the subject with an open mind, you’ll reach the true answer yourself.”
“What happens now?”
“For your own safety it would be advisable to remain with us. If you do, you must obey our laws and follow the mode of life laid down for other males of the community. You will be taught to use a cross-bow and you will be given commando training. We are a military community and, therefore, unless you have special talents—which you haven’t— you must become a soldier. However, you will be given free time for study and education. Furthermore, every possible consideration and help will be given to any creative effort on your part.”
Ventnor said: “Thank you.” Then: “Won’t they still be looking for me?”
Stein smiled. “Yes, but not for long. In due course, they’ll find your body in a shallow grave about two kilometres from Hart Hill Crossroads. You see, their assassin got you before we got him.”
Ventnor stared at him. “How?”
Stein shrugged. “People die, we use the body. Fortunately, our Island friends often blind themselves with their own science. They identify individuals by what they call the ‘personality aura’. We altered the ‘aura’ to correspond with yours. In the clothing you will be given in a short time will be one or two mechanisms which will change the pattern of your present aura to something different.”
Ventnor stood up. “Thank you again.” He frowned at the other thoughtfully. “Tell me, am I being too clever with my new found knowledge? The most advanced mechanism I have seen is a cross-bow—where are you finding all the rest.”
Stein shook his head. “Can’t tell you that yet but congratulations on your astuteness. In the meantime, you are a primitive, act like one. It is part of your duty.”
Later, Ventnor was given fresh clothing and his body was stained to make it look filthy and he was conducted to a long hut with other recruits.
The same afternoon they were put through a course of physical training which left their muscles aching.
A month passed. Ventnor became leaner, harder and skilled in mayhem. He was taught in-fighting with a cutting spear and the skills of the cross-bow.
The cross-bow fascinated him—it was so simple yet so effective. On the other hand, reloading—
He asked permission to assemble and reassemble the device and sat pondering over the parts for a long time.
“Who makes these things?”
Gannon, another trainee with whom he had become friendly, pointed to a hut on the far side of the village. “See Walsh? I understand he’s responsible for the general servicing.”
Walsh, a grizzled elderly man with a limp moustache, listened to what Ventnor had to say and what he wanted, with boredom but his deep-set intelligent eyes were alert and interested.
“Have you any rough sketches I could work on?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve been attending evening classes, you know.”
When Ventnor had gone, he pressed a sec
tion of what looked like the roof support of the hut and said: “Get me section three. Hello, that you Stein? Walsh here. I think your hunch has paid off. Our village lad has just dropped in with specifications for a new type cross-bow.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. He just placed an order for the parts. As for the rest, he’s playing it close to his chest.”
“Seems those evening classes I started were worthwhile.”
“No doubt about it now, you owe a vote of thanks to all the recruits who went along to make it look genuine.”
“More than a vote of thanks; that kindergarten stuff must have bored them to tears. Most of them hold degrees in the advanced sciences.”
“I know. I feel appropriately and sincerely grateful. I intend to arrange rewards for all of them as soon as they’ve finished the physical course.”
Walsh sent for Ventnor a week later.
“I’ve got your parts—hope they suit.”
“Thank you.” The other picked them up and walked towards the door.
“You’re not going to try them?”
“Yes, but not here. They might flop.”
Walsh looked at him with sad humor. “Boy, you have all the makings of a true scientist—double test and secrecy, it’s a natural reaction.”
Ventnor, however, was back in an hour, his eyes excited.
“It works, come and see!”
Just beyond the village he gave a demonstration and Walsh’s eyes widened.
Under his breath he said: “Good God,” in a shocked voice.
He pushed a caller into the soil and asked for connections to three departments.
“I suggest that all you gentlemen come up and see this. Our boy is not only a genius, he’s a wizard and he’s wasting his time up here.”
All the observers arrived within half an hour and Ventnor demonstrated again.
The observers looked slightly shocked and Prone, director of Department 4, waddled over to look.
“Show me how it works, boy.”
“Well, sir, the bow is first cocked by pulling this lever at the side. I then pull the trigger discharging the arrow. A system of opposing springs pushes the second arrow into place and, at the same time, recocks the weapon like this. Each—er—magazine holds eight arrows.”
These Savage Futurians Page 5