They Came From Outer Space

by Jim Wynorski (editor)

  Both were dismissed as mere hokum by critics, but today, just thirty years later, their respective visions of lunar landings and Martian explorations have already slipped into past history.

  But back then movies such as The Day the Earth Stood Still and It Came from Outer Space were being made just for the dreamers, an enthusiastic young crowd more than willing to be whisked off into deep space or brave the unknown perils of an alien invasion. In our far-reaching imaginations, we all took the dangerous interstellar journey to war-torn Metaluna in This Island Earth; fought the invisible “monsters from the Id” on the Forbidden Planet; then returned to Terra in order to quell the Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  Big budget or small, an all-star lineup or a cast of complete unknowns, the early science fiction pictures all had one thing in common—they inspired an undeniable “sense of wonder” in thousands of impressionable youngsters. They even induced some to pick up an SF paperback or magazine and get a helping of the real thing.

  I know ... because it happened to me. Just after a screening of Universal’s The Incredible Shrinking Man, there came an overwhelming compulsion to buy a copy of the now classic novel by Richard Matheson.

  It meant giving up five ten-cent comic books, but the half a buck was willingly handed over and the edition promptly tucked between the covers of a textbook for easy round-the-clock access. By the time the last chapter went flying by, I knew the pile of comics at my bedside just wouldn’t cut it anymore. For here was excitement and adventure that no caped superhero could ever equal. And like a true SF addict, I had to have more—right away.

  Most weekdays found me haunting the local library and secondhand bookstores, searching out names like Asimov, Sturgeon, Bradbury and Clarke.

  Meanwhile, on weekends, I specialized in leading gang safaris to every theater in a ten-mile radius—exposing friends to the latest fantasies from Hollywood.

  Sometimes an excellent screenplay and fine ensemble acting stole the show, as in pictures like The Thing from Another World, Village of the Damned, and The Day the Earth Caught Fire. Other times, it was the special effects department that kept us riveted with films such as War of the Worlds, Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, and The Time Machine.

  Right behind the revered classics were a fair share of honorable mentions: imaginative movies that, for one reason or another, failed to live up to their full potential. Journey to the Seventh Planet, with its novel premise of an omnipotent brain controlling a world, is a prime example of a great idea mired in cheap sets and confusing direction. Other titles from this wide category include such favorites as Mario Bava’s haunting Planet of the Vampires and Edward L. Cahn’s suspenseful It: The Terror from Beyond Space—both early precursors to 1979’s immensely popular SF shocker Alien.

  Yet, as in all genres, for every worthwhile effort there were also dozens of “Grade Z” clunkers glutting the market. Remember the mass disappointment when the alien in Flight to Mars turned out to be character actor Morris Ankrum in a moth-eaten spacesuit? Or how about the booing and hissing for Fire Maidens from Outer Space when the monster was revealed as a man wearing a turtleneck sweater over his head? And although many have tried, who can forget the ghastly alien gorilla in Robot Monster?

  Today, of course, even the most popular SF films of yesteryear have been outdistanced by the likes of Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. And why not! Youthful directors George Lucas and Steven Spielberg are both admitted devotees of imaginative film and literature. They too grew up reading Amazing Stories and sitting front-row-center for Not of This Earth and Invasion of the Saucermen.

  Perhaps someday, thanks to the influence of Luke Skywalker and the Mothership in CE3K, a director of tomorrow will bring even more breathtaking speculative adventures to the screen. But for now, let us celebrate some of the fine films and gifted authors that started it all.

  From Henry Kuttner’s fast-paced “Dr. Cyclops” to Harlan Ellison’s award-winning “A Boy and His Dog,” here are a dozen of the most famous SF tales ever put on celluloid. So let the houselights dim.... The curtain goes up immediately.

  Jim Wynorski January 1, 1980

  Hollywood, California

  DR. CYCLOPS by Henry Kuttner filmed as

  DR. CYCLOPS

  (Paramount, 1940)

  The diabolical Dr. Frankenstein, the maniacal Dr. Moreau, and the schizophrenic Dr. Jekyll—all have taken deservedly prominent places in the Mad Scientists’ Hall of Fame. But wait! One of the most cunning and twisted brains in the annals of fantastic literature needs mentioning: the malevolent Dr. Cyclops.

  Brought to life by the late SF legend Henry Kuttner, Dr. Alexander Thorkel (alias Cyclops) became a tremendously popular character with readers of Thrilling Wonder Stories when he appeared on the cover of the June 1940 issue. Inside, along with the exciting tale, a half-dozen photographs from an upcoming movie version also graced the brittle pulp pages.

  Suddenly fantasy enthusiasts everywhere were spreading the good word—Hollywood had finally produced the first Technicolor science fiction extravaganza. Directed by Ernest B. Schoedsack, one of the creative heads behind the classic adventure King Kong, this high-budget spectacle featured a fine performance by Albert Dekker and a wide array of eye-catching special effects.

  The action begins when the deranged scientist reduces a group of people to six-inch miniatures with a bizarre atomic ray of his own invention.

  From there on it’s a deadly cat-and-mouse game, as the shrunken humans attempt to elude their captor and fight off the oversize horrors that inhabit Cyclops’ hidden jungle encampment.

  And even with this typical B-film plot, the visuals remained strictly class A. Many of the props and sets were constructed to giant scale, and film technicians were constantly busy combining the actors with frightening close-ups of lizards, insects, and the towering doctor himself.

  The film became so popular that Kuttner was asked to expand his story into a full-length novel, which he did under the pseudonym Will Garth.

  Unfortunately, the book failed to match the impact of the shorter version, a tale that set the stage for such future triumphs as Attack of the Puppet People and The Incredible Shrinking Man.

  Reprinted only once since its first publication, Dr. Cyclops is as engrossing as it is entertaining.

  DR CYCLOPS

  by Henry Kutner

  CHAPTER I

  Camp in the Jungle

  BILL STOCKTON stood in the compound gate, watching Pedro drivino the mules down to the river pasture. The swarthy half-breed’s face was split by a broad grin; he twirled his black mustache and sang loudly of a cantina in Buenos Aires, thousands of miles to the east.

  “How the devil does he do it?” Stockton moaned, shaking the perspiration out of his eyes. “I can hardly drag myself around in this heat. And that guy actually sings—“ Yet it wasn’t only the heat, Stockton knew. There was more to it than that. A feeling of sombre menace—hung heavy above this wilderness encampment. During the weeks of jungle travel from the Andes, through tropical swamp and pest-infested jungle, the feeling had grown stronger. It was in the humid, sticky air. It was in the sickly-sweet, choking perfume of the great orchids that grew outside the stockade. Most of all, it was in the actions of Dr. Thorkel.

  “He’s supposed to be the greatest scientific wizard of the age,” Stockton thought skeptically. “But for my money he’s nuts. Sends a message to the Royal Academy demanding the services of a biologist and a mineralogist, and then asks us to look into a microscope. That’s all. Won’t even let us get inside that mud house of his!”

  There was reason for Stockton’s bitterness. He had been literally forced into this adventure. Hardy, the mineralogist, had been taken ill at Lima, and Dr. Bulfinch, his colleague, had sought vainly for a substitute. None was available. None, that is, save for a certain beachcomber who was going rapidly to hell with the aid of a native girl, bad gin, and rubber checks.

  Bulfinch’s assistant, Dr. Mary Phillips, had s
olved the problem. She had bought up the bad checks, threatened Stockton with jail if he refused to come along. Under the circumstances, the one-time mineralogist had shrugged and acceded. Now he was wondering if he had made a mistake.

  There was menace here. Stockton sensed it, with the psychic keenness of a professional adventurer. Secrecy was all around him. Why was the mine yard generally kept locked, if the mine actually was worthless, as Thorkel contended? Why had Thorkel seemed so excited when Stockton had mentioned the iron crystals, crystals Thorkel had been unable to see because of his weak vision?

  Then, too, there was the matter of the Dicotylinae—certain bones Mary Phillips had found. They were the bones of a native wild pig, but the molar surfaces had proved it a species of midget swine entirely unknown to science—four inches long at maturity. That was odd.

  Finally, only an hour ago, Thorkel had blandly said good-bye, only twenty-three hours after the arrival of his guests. Bulfinch had, Stockton mused with a chuckle, thrown a fit. The goatish face had gone gray; the unkempt Vandyke had bristled.

  “Are you attempting to intimate that you summoned me—Dr. Rupert Bulfinch—ten thousand miles just to look into a microscope?” he had roared.

  “Correct,” Thorkel had answered, and went back to his mud house.

  So far, so good. But there was trouble ahead. Neither Bulfinch nor Mary would think of leaving, even though that meant defiance of Thorkel. And Thorkel, Stockton felt, was a dangerous customer, cold-blooded and unscrupulous. His round face, with its bristling mustache and bald dome, could settle into grim, deadly Lines.

  Moreover, from the first a quiet, unspoken sort of conflict had arisen between Thorkel and Baker, the guide who had accompanied the party from the Andes. Stockton shrugged and gave it up.

  Dr. Bulfinch came up behind Stockton and touched his arm. There was repressed excitement in the biologist’s goatish face.

  “Come along,” he said softly. “I’ve found something.”

  Stockton followed Bulfinch into a nearby tent. Mary Phillips was there, mounting the bones of the midget pig. She was, Stockton thought, much too pretty to be a biologist. A wealth of red-gold hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she had a face that belonged on the silver screen rather than in the lab. She also had a hell of a temper.

  “Hello, beautiful,” said Stockton.

  “Oh, shut up,” the girl murmured. “What’s the matter, Dr. Bulfinch?”

  The biologist thrust a rock sample at Stockton.

  “Test this.”

  The younger man’s eyes widened.

  “This isn’t—hell, it can’t be!”

  “You’ve seen pitchblende before,” Bulfinch said with heavy sarcasm.

  “Where’d you get it?” Stockton asked, excited.

  “Baker found it near the mine shaft. It’s uranium ore,” he said

  quietly, “and it’s a hundred times richer than any deposit ever

  discovered. No wonder Thorkel wants to Get rid of us!” Mentally

  Stockton added, “And I’LL bet he wouldn’t stop at murder to shut US Up

  !”

  “Good God!” Bulfinch whispered. “Radium! Think of the medical benefits of such a find—the help it can give to science!”

  There was an interruption. A black streak shot into the tent, followed by a gaunt, disreputable dog, barking wildly. The two circled a table and fled outside again. There was the sound of a scuffle.

  Hastily Stockton raised the tent-flap. Pedro, Thorkel’s man-of-all-work, was holding the dog, while a cat retreated hastily into the distance.

  The half-breed looked up with a flash of white teeth. “I am sorry.

  This foolish Paco—“ He pulled the dog’s tail. “He does not know he can never catch Satanas. He just wants to play, though. Since Pinto went away, he is lonesome.”

  “Yeah?” Stockton asked, eying the man. “Who was Pinto?”

  “My Little mule. Ah, Pinto was smart. But not smart enough, I suppose.”

  Pedro shrugged expressively. “Poor mule.”

  A man came out of the gathering twilight—a tall, rangy figure, with a hard-bitten, harsh face—a Puritan gone to seed.

  “Hello, Baker,” Stockton grunted.

  “Bulfinch told you about the radium?” Baker said, without preamble.

  “It’s valuable, eh?”

  “Yeah. Plenty valuable.” Stockton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been wondering about that. Wondering why you were so anxious to come along when you could have sent a native. Maybe you’d heard about this radium mine, eh?”

  Baker’s harsh face did not change, but he sent a glance of sheer black hatred toward the house.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said under his breath. “It does look screwy.

  But—listen, Bill, I had a good reason for wanting to come here. If I’d come alone, Thorkel would have been suspicious—shot me on sight, maybe.

  I’d have had no chance at all to investigate—“ “Investigate what?”

  Stockton asked impatient]y.

  “I used to know a little native girl. Nice kid. Mira, her name was.

  I—well, I thought a lot of her. One day she went off to act as Thorkel’s housEkeeper. And that was the last I ever heard of the girl.”

  “She isn’t here now,” Stockton said. “Unless she’s in the house.”

  Baker shook his head. “I’ve been talking to Pedro. He says Mira was here—and disappeared. Like Pinto, his albino mule.”

  The swift tropic night had fallen. A bright moon silvered the compound.

  And suddenly the two men heard the faint, shrill neigh of a horse, from the direction of Thorkel’s house.

  Simultaneously the figure of Pedro appeared, running from behind a tent. e cried, “Pinto! My mule Pinto is in the house. He has come back!”

  Before the half-breed could reach the door of the house, it opened abruptly. Thorkel appeared. In the moonlight his bald head and gleaming, thick-lensed spectacles looked oddly inhuman.

  “Well, Pedro?” he asked quietly, in a sneering voice.

  The other jerked to a halt. He moistened his lips.

  “It is Pinto, senor—“ he whispered.

  “You are imagining things,” Thorkel said, with cold emphasis. “Go back to your work. Do you think I’d keep a mule in the house?”

  A new voice broke in.

  “Just what do you keep in there, Doctor?”

  It was Bulfinch. The biologist emerged from the tent and approached, a lean, gaunt figure in the moonlight. Mary was behind him. Baker and Stockton joined the group. Thorkel held the door closed behind him.

  “That is nothing to you,” he said, icily.

  “On the contrary,” Bulfinch snapped, “as I told you, I intend to remain here until I have received an explanation.”

  “And as I told you,” Thorkel said, almost whispering, “you do so at your own peril. I will not tolerate interference or prying. My secrets are my own. I warn you: I shall protect those secrets!”

  “Are you threatening us?” the biologist growled.

  Thorkel suddenly smiled.

  “If I showed you what I have in my house, I think you would-regret it,” he observed, a suggestion of subtle menace in his silky tones. “I wish to be left alone. If I find you still here tomorrow morning, I shall take ...

  protective measures.”

  His eyes, behind the thick-lensed spectacles, included the group in one ominous glance. Then, without another word, he reentered the house, locking the door behind him.

  “Still staying, Doc?” Stockton asked. Bulfinch growled.

  “I certainly am!”

  There was a brief pause. Then Pedro, who had been listening intently, made a commanding gesture.

  “Come with me. I will show you something—“ He hurried around the corner of the house, trailed by the dog Paco.

  Bulfinch, his thin lips working, followed, and so did the others.

  A tall bamboo fence blocked their way. Pedro pointed, and applied his ey
e to a crack. Stockton tested the gate, which had previously been open. It was barred now, so he joined Pedro and the others .

  “Wait,” the half-breed whispered. “I have seen this before.”

  They could see the mine-shaft, with a crude windlass surmounting it.

  And then a gross, strange figure entered their range of vision It resembled, at first glance, a man in a diving suit. Every inch of the stocky body was covered with the rubberlike fabric. A cylindrical helmet shielded the head.

  Through two round eyeplates could be seen the heavy spectacles of Dr.

  Thorkel.

  “Uh-huh,” Stockton whispered. “Protective suit. Radium’s dangerous stuff.”

  Thorkel went to the mine and began to turn the windlass. Abruptly Stockton felt a hand touch his arm. He turned.

  It was Baker.

  “Come along,” the other said softly. “I’ve opened the door. Cheap lock—and Mary uses hairpins. Now we’ll be able to see what he’s got hidden in that house.”

  “Si! The doctor will be busy in the yard for a long time—“ Pedro said, nodding.

  Silently the group retraced their steps. The door of the mud house was ajar.

  From within came the sound of a shrill neigh, incredibly high and thin....

  CHAPTER II

  The Little People

  THE ROOM was disappointingly bare. Across from the front door was another, apparently leading to the mine yard. Another door was in the right-hand wall, and a small mica window was let into it.

  There were heavy wooden chairs, a work-bench, and a table bearing microscope and notebooks. On the bench were several small wicker baskets.

  Littered carelessly about the floor were a rack of test-tubes, books, a beaker, two or three small boxes, and a dirty shirt or two.

  Pedro pointed to the floor.

  “Hoof prints—Pinto was here, yes!”

  Mary bent over the microscope, while Bulfinch examined the notebooks.

  “Thieves!”

  Thorkel stood in the doorway leading to the mine yard, his eyes glaring behind the glasses. He was whitely livid with rage.