Donald Macbride grunted skeptically. “I think this is a farce. You continually talk of danger, but both of you go unarmed. You hint at something terrible and refuse to let us look out of the windows. Something strange is going on here. You two are hiding something.”
Steve Benton got to his feet, the muscles of his cheeks working. He tossed his napkin to the table. “That is exactly what we are doing, sir. That is why the Space Forces left us here—to hide something. Now, I am afraid it would be better if we refrained from discussing the subject. You must be tired. Lieutenant Malone will show you to your rooms.”
“Aw, Steve,” the redhead protested, “it might be years before we have another chance to talk to someone.”
Benton was curt. “Unfortunately, Mr. Macbride seems unable to refrain from objecting to the strict regulations that must be enforced here. I think it would be preferable if the conversation ended. We’ll finish repairs on the ship tomorrow and have our guests back into space as soon as possible.”
“Young man,” Macbride rumbled, “you’re insufferable. When we arrive home I shall be forced to report you.”
Steve Benton laughed bitterly. “You do that, sir. It’ll be interesting to see what kind of punishment the Space Forces can figure out for a man who is permanently assigned, without relief, to this two-by-four planet.”
Dave Malone grinned at the idea. “Maybe you’ll be demoted, Steve.”
* * * *
It hadn’t been any easier for Steve Benton to resist Patricia Macbride’s charms than it had for Dave Malone. Benton was as normal as the next man; and the next man was pretty normal seeing that he was the red-headed Malone. Ten years without feminine companionship of any sort hadn’t been easy to bear, nor did it help matters for him to realize that a similar ten years stretched ahead, and another ten beyond that.
Exile! Perpetual exile, and nothing else.
He tossed in his bed, knowing that under the same roof, a few score yards away, slept a beautiful, desirable woman. He’d almost forgotten that women were more than fairy tales seen prettily portrayed by the movie projector; had almost forgotten that they were more than characters in the endless number of novels he read to while away the years. Almost…
He was unable to sleep and finally threw back the covers, got to his feet, and searched for and finally found a cigarette on the small table beside his bed. The window was open and the coolness of the night air touched him. He idly looked out, hoping that the strangers would obey his orders to leave their windows closed and shades drawn. Not that there was much danger at night, but still, you never knew when a luvver might choose to stroll near the base.
A glimpse of white drew his attention. It seemed to be moving. He frowned, not being able to place it, and peered out trying to pierce the night’s gloom.
Suddenly, he was on his feet and dashing for the door. He banged into several pieces of furniture, not taking the time to switch on a light.
A sleepy-eyed Malone stared bewilderedly at him from the doorway of another bedroom. He mumbled, “What goes on?”
Benton yelled back over his shoulder as he dashed through the front entrance. “She’s out there! Patricia’s gone outside. You stay here. Watch her old man…”
The redhead was instantly awake. “I’ll be a makron. It’s happened. We should’ve locked them in.”
Steve Benton dashed across the field, searching the shadows with his eyes as best he could as he ran. So far, so good. Not a luvver in sight. It just might be possible…
He reached her side and grasped her arm roughly. She was dressed in a white, semi-transparent negligee. She should have looked like Cleopatra to him, but she didn’t. He had no time nor patience for her femininity.
He shook her. “You fool. What are you doing out here? Get back into the house immediately. What have you seen?” he added anxiously.
She tried to shake off his hand with impatience as he hurried her toward the building but he hustled her along, still darting his eyes into every shadow, nervously alertly.
“Oh, Lieutenant…Steve…don’t be so rough. It was so stuffy in there. I couldn’t sleep. Please, my arm… Besides, what is there to see? You were so mysterious, but there’s nothing out here except an old landing field with the usual hanger and repair shop.”
He grunted. “Maybe you’re safe. They don’t come out very often at night.” He increased their pace, almost dragging her toward the house. “What got into you? Didn’t I tell you that under no circumstances…”
She giggled. “I was going to keep very quiet, and if you caught me I was going to pretend I was sleepwalking… Why, look!”
He glanced at her, then into the darkness.
“Look at what? What do you see?”
He tried anxiously to make out what she was staring at. She’d been in the dark longer than he; her eyes were better adjusted to the night. He shook her roughly. “What do you see?”
She answered impatiently, still trying to free her arm. “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing. Just an adorable little animal, a cute little thing about the size of a fox terrier, something like a tiny monkey. Why, look at those big, sad eyes. Steve…it’s lovable.”
He groaned. “A luvver!”
He swung her around sharply so that she faced him, and lashed out cruelly with his fist to the point of her jaw. She slumped forward and he caught her up into his arms.
He carried her to the door and kicked on it, swearing under his breath as his bare foot struck the metal.
“Let me in, Dave,” he yelled. “There’s a luvver out here. Be sure the old man doesn’t see it, and by all means don’t let it in! Use all your will power, Dave. Even if it wants in, don’t let it in!”
Malone’s voice was muffled through the door, but the strained quality could be felt.
“All right, Steve, I’m opening up. Come in quick.”
The door opened wide enough for Benton to slip through with his burden and was slammed immediately after him. The redhead stood with his back to it, sweat on his forehead.
“Thank God, I didn’t see it! It would have been hell if I had and it felt like coming into the house.”
Steve Benton took the girl to a couch and tried to make her comfortable. He ran his hand through his hair quickly, nervously, as though he wanted to tear out a handful. He stared at her desperately.
Donald Macbride came hurrying from his room, shrugging into a night robe. His face was drawn. “What’s happened? What’s Patricia doing here?”
Steve ignored him and snapped at Malone, “She barely got a glimpse of it. Get the lethe drug, Dave. It’s her only chance.”
The redhead tore from the room and returned in seconds, a hypodermic needle and a small medicine bottle in his hands.
Macbride stared at them. “What’s the matter with my daughter? What are you doing? Why is she unconscious…or, is she…”
Steve Benton was rapidly filling the hypodermic. “She’s not dead if that’s what you mean. I knocked her out. She saw a luvver out there. Our only chance is to try and wipe the memory from her mind.”
The hypodermic needle filled, he bared her arm and bent over her to make the injection.
Her father reached his side and roughly caught his arm. “Just a minute. I want to know more about this. I don’t understand at all. What’s in that needle?”
Malone pushed him aside. “Stand back, you old fool. Do you want your daughter ever to leave this place? If you do, shut up and pray. If we’d known she was such a spoilt, headstrong brat, we’d have locked her in her room.”
“But…but…”
Steve Benton rapidly made the injection. He threw the hypo needle wearily to the table and went over to the automatic bar to return with three stiff brandies. He handed drinks to the others and motioned them to chairs.
He gulped half of his own drink and waited a long moment before saying anything. Then he looked at the now-pale father of the unconscious girl.
“You’ll have to know this now, I guess, in s
pite of all regulations.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
Steve Benton sighed. “No, of course, you don’t. Only a score of men in the whole system do.” He paused for another spell, then went on. “The last time this happened was six years ago. Dave was the victim that time. The circumstances were quite similar; the ship he was on put in for an emergency landing. As in your case, I made all efforts to prevent its crew from going outside. The mystery was too much for our red-headed friend, and he slipped away and saw a luvver. From then on he had to share my exile. Neither of us will ever leave this isolated planet.” He ran his hand over his mouth. “I hope the measures we’ve taken with your daughter will save her from the same destiny.”
Macbride sputtered. “Fantastic! Just the sight of this ridiculous animal? What horrible…”
Benton finished his drink and accepted the fresh one Dave Malone handed him. The redhead had been standing at the bar, downing one after another.
Steve Benton shook his head. “Have you ever considered, Mr. Macbride, how many different methods animal-life uses as a means of defense? Consider, for a moment, the animals you find on Earth. One runs fast—the deer, for instance; another, the snake, is poisonous. The skunk repels enemies with its scent; the wart-hog with its repulsive appearance. The bird flies away from danger; the chameleon camouflages itself by changing its color to blend with its surroundings. The great cats are fierce; the elephant is large as a fortress; the bee has its sting; the turtle its armor; the porcupine, its quills.”
The older man looked worriedly at his daughter. “I fail to see what it has to do with Patricia, but if I must listen to this, at least let us make her comfortable.”
Dave Malone said, “She’s all right. She’ll be dead to the world for at least three days.”
“Three days!”
“Let me go on,” Steve Benton pursued. “Your daughter is the victim of the natural defense of the luvver, an animal peculiar to this planet. It’s the only life-form known that uses an ability to create affection as its defensive mechanism.”
Macbride was indignant. “You mean to tell me that the only thing this fearful animal does is inspire affection?”
“That’s right. All it does is inspire affection. Everything, not just everybody, loves a luvver. Nothing would dream of hurting one. In fact, it has difficulty keeping other animals away. They’ll follow a luvver in droves, adoringly. Omniverous, like man, it never has trouble securing all the meat it wants. Its animal victims just come close and lovingly let themselves be killed and eaten. Its ability to create affection is actually stronger than the instinct of self-preservation.”
“You mean that Patricia would have let the creature kill her without fighting, or, at least, running?” There was an edge of horror in the man’s voice.
“Happily, we aren’t faced with that problem. The luvver doesn’t seem to care for human flesh. Its danger to your daughter is the fact that it inspires undying love.”
“I can’t see that as such a danger. After all, man has loved his cats and dogs for centuries…”
“I said undying love. Irresistible love, unthinking love. Picture the possibilities. Suppose one was taken to Earth and placed in a zoo. Every person who ever saw it would find himself unable to stay away from the luvver. Millions of persons would pack the zoo trying to be near it. Hundreds, thousands, would scheme, steal, fight, in efforts to try and take it home for their exclusive affection. In short, Macbride, the luvver exerts a stronger force that the most vicious narcotic.
“We are going to place your daughter on your ship tomorrow and let you blast off. I warn you, never mention the luvver to her. If you are fortunate, we will have been successful in wiping its memory from her mind. When she revives, observe her. If she demands to be brought back here, then bring her back. Nothing can be done. She’d die of melancholy if kept indefinitely from seeing a luvver.”
Macbride seemed suddenly old. His face was ashen. His hair, formerly but streaked with gray, now seemed white. He was comprehending slowly.
“But why has the Space Forces left you two here to keep off ships? Why not just kill them? Destroy them utterly!”
Dave Malone shuddered at the blasphemy. “You can’t kill a luvver. You wouldn’t let yourself. All we can do is prevent others from seeing them, and keep them from spreading to other planets. Can you see the danger that some ship might land here and unknowingly take several of the things aboard for pets? Wherever they went, people would follow like the rats followed the Pied Piper.”
* * * *
Macbride was able to blast off shortly before dusk of the next day. He’d been led to the little spacer blindfolded, as before. Steve Benton carried the drugged girl and deposited her in her bunk.
Afterwards the two exiles stood and watched as the cruiser disappeared into the sky.
“Perhaps we got the drug into her in time,” Malone said. “She didn’t really see the luvver very well or for very long.”
Steve looked at his companion wryly. “I thought you were so anxious to have her stay.”
His companion shrugged irritably. “I’m not so sure. To tell you the truth, Steve, it got to be a burden having strangers here so long and being away from them…”
They approached the house again, their eyes brightening.
“There’s one of the little darlings now.” Steve Benton squatted down on his heels and held out a piece of sugar in his hand. “Here sweetheart, here precious…”
A luvver detached itself from the shade of the building and stared at them wistfully. They both smiled in adoration.
It strolled over languidly.
FROG LEVEL, by Bud Webster
The boxcar rocked and the rough boards hummed beneath me like marimba bars as the train sped…somewhere. I didn’t know where then, and I’m still not sure. I had just awakened from a dream I couldn’t remember, and I could still feel the oppressiveness and anxiety of it. I looked around and saw I wasn’t alone; there was an old man stretched out on a sheet of cardboard a few feet away. The Old Man.…
How had we ended up in a boxcar? I tried to remember, but the too-brief sleep I’d gotten hadn’t been restful, and I was foggy. Hadn’t I been on a bus, on my way south?
The bus, right. It came back to me through the fog, the high weirdness on the bus. It had gotten weird pretty quickly.
“There are two Frog Levels in the Commonwealth of Virginia,” the old man had whispered loudly. That’s how this thing had begun, on a south-bound bus one August afternoon and with that simple touch of madness.
“Two.” I smiled dully back at him and tried to bury myself in my book. “That’s…interesting.”
“Two!” he repeated, waggling two calloused fingers in my face. I noticed that his eyes didn’t look in quite the same direction. “Trick is,” the old man said, “trick is knowing which one is the real one.” He shook his head. “If we could just manage to be in both of ’em at the same time, we’d know which one was the real one, and which one the aliens sent us for a birthday present.”
I closed my book and sighed. I’d only been pretending to read, anyway.
“Birthday present?”
“Hell, yes. Always nice to get a birthday present.”
“From aliens?”
He gave me a patient look. “Well, it ain’t no fun if you got to give one to yourself, now, is it?”
“I guess not.” It was easier to let it go; I didn’t have the wherewithal to argue just then—not that I ever did, these days.
Now I watched as the miles inched past the open boxcar doors. It was dusty and noisy, but the gentle rocking and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the rails was almost hypnotic, not that that’s an original observation. It dawned on me that I was experiencing the very phenomenon that gave birth to all those train songs I’d heard as a kid. There was probably some kind of metaphor about my life in there somewhere, too. Not that I cared to look for it. My life sucked. My life.…
This deconstruct
ion of my life had really begun when my thesis advisor called me into his office the previous Monday morning before class.
He’d looked at me from across his desk. His office was small, crowded, and filled from floor to ceiling with bookcases. They, in turn, were filled with books. There were no flat surfaces to be seen. On the wall above his head was an autographed photo of his beloved Mudhens.
“Ian,” he said quietly, “you’re one of the best music teachers I’ve ever seen. You have an innate grasp of meter and rhythm, and you can see things in the music that the composers may not even have known they put in there.” He shook his head. “Hell, you showed me things about The Rite of Spring that were new to me, and I’ve been studying that damn-silly piece of dance music for thirty years.”
I waited. There was a “but” coming up.
He shrugged. “You’re a ‘rolling stone’, if I may quote the Great Dylan. You’ve got no direction, no center. I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ve got the requisite knowledge stacked in your head, but there’s no focus to any of it.” He began idly rearranging things on his desk top; without being aware of it, I watched the patterns as they changed.
“The committee has turned your latest thesis proposal down, Ian. It’s been done already, and they don’t think that the process of writing it will be enough of an exercise to make it worthwhile.” He picked at something in front of him. “This is your third rejection, and you’re close to losing your assistantship.”
“What about…” I began.
“I think it’s in your best interest if you take a little time off,” he interrupted. “Give the whole thing some thought. Decide what you want to do, where you want to go.” He shook his head. “Not just academically. You’re not going to be any good to us here if you’re stumbling over the rest of your life. Otherwise,” he said, spreading his hands helplessly and looking grim, “otherwise, we’ll have to send you back down to the minors, or give you your outright release. I’m sorry, Ian.”
I was stunned. Speechless. All those other things, too. I shifted in my seat and something crinkled in my back pocket; the note my girlfriend had left me when she moved out over the weekend. It said pretty much the same thing, but with a lot less consideration.
The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack Page 22