They Came From Outer Space

by Jim Wynorski (editor)

  Shivering with fear and disgust, I crawled over to where I could read it without touching it:

  NOW YOU UNDERSTAND. THAT LAST EXPERIMENT WAS A NEW DISASTER, MY POOR

  HELENE. I SUPPOSE YOU RECOGNIZED PART OF DANDELO’S HEAD. WHEN I WENT

  INTO THE DISINTEGRATOR JUST NOW, MY HEAD WAS ONLY THAT OF A FLY. I NOW

  ONLY HAVE ITS EYES AND MOUTH LEFT. THE REST HAS BEEN REPLACED BY PARTS

  OF THE CAT’S HEAD. POOR DANDELO WHOSE ATOMS HAD NEVER COME TOGETHER.

  YOU SEE NOW THAT THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION, DON’T YOU? I MUST DISAPPEAR. KNOCK ON THE DOOR WHEN YOU ARE READY AND I SHALL EXPLAIN WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO. A.

  Of course he was right, and it had been wrong and cruel of me to insist on a new experiment. And I knew that there was now no possible hope, that any further experiments could only bring about worse results.

  Getting up dazed, I went to the door and tried to speak, but no sound came out of my throat ... so I knocked once!

  You can of course guess the rest. He explained his plan in short typewritten notes, and I agreed, I agreed to everything!

  My head on fire, but shivering with cold, like an automaton, I followed him into the silent factory. In my hand was a full page of explanations: what I had to know about the steam-hammer.

  Without stopping or looking back, he pointed to the switchboard that controlled the steam-hammer as he passed it. I went no further and watched him come to a halt before the terrible instrument.

  He knelt down, carefully wrapped the carpet round his head, and then stretched out flat on the ground.

  It was not difficult. I was not killing my husband. Andre, poor Andre, had gone long ago, years ago it seemed. I was merely carrying out his last wish ... and mine.

  Without hesitating, my eyes on the long still body, I firmly pushed the “stroke” button right in. The great metallic mass seemed to drop slowly. It was not so much the resounding clang of the hammer that made me jump as the sharp cracking which I had distinctly heard at the same time. My hus ...

  the thing’s body shook a second and then lay still.

  It was then I noticed that he had forgotten to put his right arm, his fly-leg, under the hammer. The police would never understand but the scientists would, and they must not! That had been Andre’s last wish, also!

  I had to do it and quickly, too; the night watchman must have heard the hammer and would be round any moment. I pushed the other button and the hammer slowly rose. Seeing but trying not to look, I ran up, leaned down, lifted and moved forward the right arm which seemed terribly light. Back at the switchboard, again I pushed the red button, and down came the hammer a second time. Then I ran all the way home.

  You know the rest and can now do whatever you think right.

  So ended Helene’s manuscript.

  The following day I telephoned Commissaire Charas to invite him to dinner.

  “With pleasure, Monsieur Delambre. Allow me, however, to ask: is it the Commissaire you are inviting or just Monsieur Charas?”

  “ave you any preference?”

  “No, not at the present moment.”

  “Well then, make it whichever you like. Will eight o’clock suit you?”

  Although it was raining, the Commissaire arrived on foot that evening.

  “Since you did not come tearing up to the door in your black Citroen, I take it you have opted for Monsieur Charas, off duty?”

  “I left the car up a side-street,” mumbled the Commissaire with a grin as the maid staggered under the weight of his raincoat.

  “Merci,” he said a minute later as I handed him a glass of Pernod into which he tipped a few drops of water, watching it turn the golden amber liquid to pale blue milk.

  “You heard about my poor sister-in-law?”

  “Yes, shortly after you telephoned me this morning. I am sorry, but perhaps it was all for the best. Being already in charge of your brother’s case, the inquiry automatically comes to me.”

  “I suppose it was suicide.”

  “Without a doubt. Cyanide, the doctors say quite rightly; I found a second tablet in the unstitched hem of her dress.”

  “Monsieur est servi,” announced the maid.

  “I would like to show you a very curious document afterwards, Charas.”

  “Ah, yes. I heard that Madame Delambre had been writing a lot, but we could find nothing beyond the short note informing us that she was committing suicide.”

  During our tete-a-tete dinner, we talked politics, books and films, and the local football club of which the Commissaire was a keen supporter.

  After dinner, I took him up to my study, where a bright fire—a habit I had picked up in England during the war—was burning.

  Without even asking him, I handed him his brandy and mixed myself what he called “crushed-bug juice in soda water”—his appreciation of whiskey.

  “I would like you to read this, Charas; first, because it was partly intended for you and, secondly, because it will interest you. If you think Commissaire Charas has no objection, I would like to burn it after.”

  Without a word, he took the wad of sheets Helene had given me the day before and settled down to read them.

  “What do you think of it all?” I asked some twenty minutes later as he carefully folded Helene’s manuscript, slipped it into the brown envelope, and put it into the fire.

  Charas watched the flames licking the envelope, from which wisps of gray smoke were escaping, and it was only when it burst into flames that he said, slowly raising his eyes to mine: “I think it proves very definitely that Madame Delambre was quite insane.”

  For a long while we watched the fire eating up Helene’s “confession.”

  “A funny thing happened to me this morning, Charas. I went to the cemetery, where my brother is buried. It was quite empty and I was alone.”

  “Not quite, Monsieur Delambre. I was there, but I did not want to disturb you.”

  “Then you saw me ...”

  “Yes. I saw you bury a matchbox.”

  “Do you know what was in it?”

  “A fly, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I had found it early this morning, caught in a spider’s web in the garden.”

  “Was it dead?”

  “No, not quite. I ... crushed it ... between two stones. Its head was

  ...

  white ... all white.”

  THE FLY Twentieth Century-Fox 1958

  94 minutes. Produced and directed by Kurt Neumann; screenplay by James Clavell; director of photography, Karl Strauss; music composed and conducted by Paul Sawtell; edited by Merrill G. White; set decorations by Walter M. Scott and Eli Benneche; special photographic effects by L.

  B.

  Abbott; wardrobe design by Charles LeMaire; makeup by Ben Nye; hairstyles by Helen Turpin; costumes by Adele Salkan; sound by Eugene Grossman and Harry M. Leonard; color consultant, Leonard Doss.

  Cast Vincent Price (Francois Delambre), Al “David” Hedison (Andre Delambre), Patricia Owens (Helene Delambre), Herbert :Marshall (Inspector Charas), Charles Herbert (Philippe Delambre), Kathleen Freeman (Emma, the Maid), Eugene Dorden (Dr. Ejoute ), Torben Meyer (Gaston), Betty Lou Gerson (Nurse Anderson).

  THE SEVENTH VICTIM

  by Robert Sheckley filmed as

  THE TENTH VICTIM

  (Avco Embassy, 1965 )

  Experience “La Dolce Vita, 1999.” This easily could have been the alternate title for the Italian motion picture adaptation of “The Seventh Victim,” inexplicably retitled to include three more corpses.

  A far cry from their usual fare of spaghetti Westerns and muscleman epics, European filmmakers finally let imagination run wild when they put Robert Sheckley’s outlandish tale before the cameras in 1965.

  Set the day after tomorrow, the feature opens on a world where war has been outlawed, and only select individuals now participate in a deadly game called the Big Hunt. Watched by millions around the globe on giant TV monitors, the violent spectacle is prese
nted as a sort of catharsis for anxiety and aggression. The bullets, bombs and beatings are all for real, and each hunt is carried out until either stalker or prey meet their demise.

  Noted director Elio Petri, who had never before tackled a work of science fiction, did a remarkable job of bringing an apocalyptic vision to his unusual feature. The Monthly Film Bulletin agrees: “On the whole the world of The Big Hunt is convincingly futuristic, maintaining a cunning balance between synthetic sets and unchanged ancient monuments.” One of the more subtle touches comes during a library sequence where a Flash Gordon first edition is elevated to million-dollar status.

  Also contributing to the picture’s overall charm are the two international costars, Ursula Andress and Marcello Mastroianni—as the hunter and the hunted, respectively. Through the course of the film, the stunning heroine employs everything from poison lipstick to a killer bra attempting to eliminate her foe. Eventually she finds herself falling more and more in love with her prey after each succeeding murderous encounter.

  The surprising and unexpected final confrontation won’t be spoiled here in the introduction. That particular denouement must be told as only Robert Sheckley can do it. Forward....

  THE SEVENTH VICTIM

  by Robert Sheckley STANTON FRELAINE sat at his desk, trying to look as busy as an executive should at nine-thirty in the morning. It was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the advertisement he had written the previous night, couldn’t think about business. All he could do was wait until the mail came.

  He had been expecting his notification for two weeks now. The government was behind schedule, as usual.

  The glass door of his office was marked Morger and Frelaine, Clothiers.

  It opened, and E. J. Morger walked in, limping slightly from his old gunshot wound. His shoulders were bent; but at the age of seventy-three, he wasn’t worrying much about his posture.

  “Well, Stan?” Morger asked. “What about that ad?”

  Frelaine had joined Morger sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven.

  Together they had built Protec-Clothes into a million-dollar concern.

  “I suppose you can run it,” Frelaine said, handing the slip of paper to Morger. If only the mail would come earlier, he thought.

  “’Do you own a Protec-Suit?”’ Morger read aloud, holding the paper close to his eyes. “’The finest tailoring in the world has gone into Morger and Frelaine’s Protec-Suit, to make it the leader in men’s fashions.”’

  Morger cleared his throat and glanced at Frelaine. He smiled and read on.

  “’Protec-Suit is the safest as well as the smartest. Every Protec-Suit comes with special built-in gun pocket, guaranteed not to bulge. No one will know you are carrying a gun—except you. The gun pocket is exceptionally easy to get at, permitting fast, unhindered draw. Choice of hip or breast pocket.” Very nice,” Morger commented.

  Frelaine nodded morosely.

  “’The Protec-Suit Special has the fling-out gun pocket, the greatest modern advance in personal protection. A touch of the concealed button throws the gun into your hand, cocked, safeties off. Why not drop into the Protec-Store nearest you? Why not be safe?”

  “That’s fine,” Morger said. “That’s a very nice, dignified ad.” He thought for a moment, fingering his white mustache. “Shouldn’t you mention that Protec-Suits come in a variety of styles, single and double-breasted, oneand two-button rolls, deep and shallow flares?”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  Frelaine took back the sheet and jotted a note on the edge of it. Then he stood up, smoothing his jacket over his prominent stomach. Frelaine was forty-three, a little overweight, a little bald on top. He was an amiable-looking man with cold eyes.

  “Relax,” Morger said. “It’ll come in today’s mail.”

  Frelaine forced himself to smile. He felt like pacing the floor, but instead sat on the edge of the desk.

  “You’d think it was my first kill,” he said, with a deprecating smile.

  “I know how it is,” Morger said. “Before I hung up my gun, I couldn’t sleep for a month, waiting for a notification. I know.”

  The two men waited. Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, the door opened. A clerk walked in and deposited the mail on Frelaine’s desk.

  Frelaine swung around and gathered up the letters. He thumbed through them rapidly and found what he had been waiting for—the long white envelope from ECB, with the official government seal on it.

  “That’s it!” Frelaine said, and broke into a grin. “That’s the baby!”

  “Fine.” Morger eyed the envelope with interest, but didn’t ask Frelaine to open it. It would be a breach of etiquette, as well as a violation in the eyes of the law. No one was supposed to know a Victim’s name except his Hunter. “Have a good hunt.”

  “I expect to,” Frelaine replied confidently. His desk was in order—had been for a week. He picked up his briefcase.

  “A good kill will do you a world of good,” Morger said, putting his hand lightly on Frelaine’s padded shoulder. “You’ve been keyed up.”

  “I know,” Frelaine grinned again and shook Morger’s hand.

  “Wish I was a kid again,” Morger said, glancing down at his crippled leg with wryly humorous eyes. “Makes me want to pick up a gun again.”

  The old man had been quite a Hunter in his day. Ten successful hunts had qualified him for the exclusive Tens Club. And, of course, for each hunt Morger had had to act as Victim, so he had twenty kills to his credit.

  “I sure hope my Victim isn’t anyone like you,” Frelaine said, half in jest.

  “Don’t worry about it. What number will this be?”

  “The seventh.”

  “Lucky seven. Go to it,” Morger said. “We’ll get you into the Tens yet.”

  Frelaine waved his hand and started out the door.

  “Just don’t get careless,” warned Morger. “All it takes is a single slip and I’ll need a new partner. If you don’t mind, I like the one I’ve got now.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Frelaine promised.

  Instead of taking a bus, Frelaine walked to his apartment. He wanted time to cool oœf. There was no sense in acting like a kid on his first kill.

  As he walked, Frelaine kept his eyes strictly to the front. Staring at anyone was practically asking for a bullet, if the man happened to be serving as Victim. Some Victims shot if you just glanced at them.

  Nervous fellows. Frelaine prudently looked above the heads of the people he passed.

  Ahead of him was a huge billboard, offering J. F. O’Donovan’s services to the public.

  “Victims!” the sign proclaimed in huge red letters. “Why take chances? Use an O’Donovan accredited Spotter. Let us locate your assigned killer. Pay after you get him!”

  The sign reminded Frelaine. He would call Ed Morrow as soon as he reached his apartment.

  He crossed the street, quickening his stride. He could hardly wait to get home now, to open the envelope and discover who his victim was.

  Would he be clever or stupid? Rich, like Frelaine’s fourth Victim, or poor, like the first and second? Would he have an organized spotter service, or try to go it on his own?

  The excitement of the chase was wonderful, coursing through his veins, quickening his heartbeat. From a block or so away, he heard gunfire.

  Two quick shots, and then a final one.

  Somebody got his man, Frelaine thought. Good for him.

  It was a superb feeling, he told himself. He was alive again.

  At his one-room apartment, the first thing Frelaine did was call Ed Morrow, his spotter. The man worked as a garage attendant between calls.

  “Hello, Ed? Frelaine.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Frelaine.” He could see the man’s thin, grease-stained face, grinning flat-lipped at the telephone.

  “I’m going out on one, Ed.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Frelaine,” Ed Morrow said. “I suppose you’ll want me to stand by?”

 
“That’s right. I don’t expect to be gone more than a week or two.

  I’ll probably get my notification of Victim Status within three months of the kill.”

  “I’ll be standing by. Good hunting, Mr. Frelaine.”

  “Thanks. So long.” He hung up. It was a wise safety measure to reserve a first-class spotter. After his kill, it would be Frelaine’s turn as Victim.

  Then, once again, Ed Morrow would be his life insurance.

  And what a marvelous spotter Morrow was! Uneducated-stupid, really.

  But what an eye for people! Morrow was a natural. His pale eyes could tell an out-of-towner at a glance. He was diabolically clever at rigging an ambush.

  An indispensable man.

  Frelaine took out the envelope, chuckling to himself, remembering some of the tricks Morrow had turned for the Hunters. Still smiling, he glanced at the data inside the envelope.

  Janet-Marie Patzig.

  His Victim was a female!

  Frelaine stood up and paced for a few moments. Then he read the letter again. Janet-Marie Patzig. No mistake. A girl. Three photographs were enclosed, her address, and the usual descriptive data.

  Frelaine frowned. He had never killed a female.

  He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed ECB.

  “Emotional Catharsis Bureau, Information Section,” a man’s voice answered.

  “Say, look,” Frelaine said. “I just got my notification and I pulled a girl. Is that in order?” He gave the clerk the girl’s name.

  “It’s all in order, sir,” the clerk replied after a minute of checking micro-files. “The girl registered with the board under her own free will.

  The law says she has the same rights and privileges as a man.”

  “Could you tell me how many kills she has?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. The only information you’re allowed is the Victim’s legal status and the descriptive data you have received.”

  “I see.” Frelaine paused. “Could I draw another?”

  “You can refuse the hunt, of course. That is your legal right. But you will not be allowed another Victim until you have served. Do you wish to refuse?”

  “Oh, no,” Frelaine said hastily. “I was just wondering. Thank you.”