They Came From Outer Space

by Jim Wynorski (editor)

  She came back with the drink and sat down opposite him, staring at emptiness.

  “Janet,” he said. “I love you.”

  She sat, just looking at him. There were tears in her eyes.

  “You can’t,” she protested. “I’m a Victim. I won’t live long enough to—“ “You won’t be killed. I’m your Hunter.”

  She stared at him a moment, then laughed uncertainly.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m going to marry you.”

  Suddenly she was in his arms.

  “Oh, Lord!” she gasped. “The waiting—I’ve been so frightened—“ “It’s all over,” he told her. “Think what a story it’ll make for our kids.

  How I came to murder you and left marrying you.”

  She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.

  “Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “I want—“ “Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love you.”

  “What?”

  She was still smiling and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a .3 caliber bullet.

  “Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.

  “I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.

  In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now—really looking at her—he knew she couldn’t be much less than thirty. Every minute of her strained, tense existence showed on her face.

  “I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.

  Frelaine struggled for breath. One part of him was able to realize detachedly what a marvelous actress she really was. She must have known all along.

  Frelaine pushed the button, and the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.

  The blow that struck him in the chest knocked him over a coffee table.

  The gun fell out of his hand. Gasping, half-conscious, he watched her take careful aim for the coup de grace.

  “Now I can join the Tens,” he heard her say elatedly as she squeezed the trigger.

  THE TENTH VICTIM Avco Embassy 1965

  92 minutes. Executive producer and presenter, Joseph E. Levine; produced by Carlo Ponti; directed by Elio Petri; screenplay by Elio Petri, Ennio Flaiano and Tonino Guerra; director of photography, Giamli di Venanzo; music composed and conducted by Piero Piccioni; edited by Ruggiero Mastroianni; sound by Ennio Sensi; costumes by Giulio Coltellacci.

  Cast Marcello Mastroianni (Marcello Polletti), Ursula Andress (Caroline Meredith), Elsa Martinelli (Olivia), Massimo Scrato (Lawyer), Salvo Randone (The Professor), Mickey Knox (Chet), Richard Armstrong (Cole), Walter Williams (Martin), Evi Rigano (victim), Milo Quesada (Rudi), Luce Bonifassy (Lidia), Anita Sanders (Relaxatorium Girl), George Wang (Chinese Assistant).

  THE SENTINEL by Arthur C. Clarke filmed as

  2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY

  (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1968 )

  When Arthur C. Clarke wrote “The Sentinel” for a pulp magazine in 1950, it never entered his mind that fifteen years later the tale would form the basis for a cinematic science fiction epic. But in 1965 noted director Stanley Kubrick (Dr. Strangelove, A Clockwork Orange) bought rights to the piece and worked closely with the author in expanding the thought-provoking story into both a majestic novel and a monumental screenplay.

  Three years and eleven million dollars later, 2001: A Space Odyssey became one of the most controversial motion pictures ever released.

  Loved by some, hated by others, misunderstood by most, the film nevertheless racked up a long list of important accolades and awards, including an Oscar for Best Special Visual Effects.

  Saturday Review declared 2001 “the motion picture of the decade,” Newsday labeled it “one of the most bizarre movies ever made,” and squire critic Wilfrid Sheed was “haunted by the total experience.”

  At last, here was a science fiction movie that went beyond the ray guns and monsters into heretofore unexplored areas of speculation. High interest in 2001 was also reflected in the enormous sales of Clarke’s novelization.

  Over one million copies of the paperback edition were in print within one year after publication. The Washington Post said, “The book does something that the Kubrick movie cannot: It leaves the vision to the reader’s imagination—and an awesome vision it is.”

  Arthur Clarke, speaking on the film, claims that “2001: A Space Odyssey is about man’s past and future life in space. It’s about concern with man’s hierarchy in the universe, which is probably pretty low. And it’s about the reaction of humanity to the discovery of a higher intelligence in the universe.”

  Like the novel and motion picture, “The Sentinel” also takes a grandiose view of Earthman’s place in the galaxy. In its own way, the tale is perhaps the most impressive of the three versions—as it was written during a time when “moon walks” and extraterrestrial encounters were foreign to everyone but the Flash Gordon set. Today, thanks to Clarke and myriad other talented authors, yesterday’s pulp fantasies have become today’s highly regarded extrapolations.

  THE SENTINEL

  by Arthur C. Clarke

  THE NEXT TIME YOU see the full moon high in the South, look carefully at its right-hand edge and let your eye travel upwards along the curve of the disc. Round about 2 o’clock you will notice a small, dark oval: anyone with normal eyesight can find it quite easily. It is the great walled plain, one of the finest on the Moon, known as the Mare Crisium—the Sea of Crises.

  Three hundred miles in diameter, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of magnificent mountains, it had never been explored until we entered it in the late summer of 1996.

  Our expedition was a large one. We had two heavy freighters which had flown our supplies and equipment from the main lunar base in the Mare Serenitatis, five hundred miles away. There were also three small rockets which were intended for short-range transport over regions which our surface vehicles couldn’t cross. Luckily, most of the Mare Crisium is very flat. There are none of the great crevasses so common and so dangerous elsewhere, and very few craters or mountains of any size. As far as we could tell, our powerful caterpillar tractors would have no difficulty in taking us wherever we wished.

  I was geologist—or selenologist, if you want to be pedantic—in charge of the group exploring the southern region of the Mare. We had crossed a hundred miles of it in a week, skirting the foothills of the mountains along the shore of what was once the ancient sea, some thousand million years before. When life was beginning on Earth, it was already dying here. The waters were retreating down the banks of those stupendous cliffs, retreating into the empty heart of the Moon.

  Over the land which we were crossing, the tideless ocean had once been half a mile deep, and now the only trace of moisture was the hoarfrost one could sometimes find in caves which the searing sunlight never penetrated.

  We had begun our journey early in the slow lunar dawn, and still had almost a week of Earth-time before nightfall. Half a dozen times a day we would leave our vehicle and go outside in the spacesuits to hunt for interesting minerals, or to place markers for the guidance of future travellers. It was an uneventful routine. There is nothing hazardous or even particularly exciting about lunar exploration. We could live comfortably for a month in our pressurized tractors, and if we ran into trouble we could always radio for help and sit tight until one of the spaceships came to our rescue. When that happened there was always a frightful outcry about the waste of rocket fuel, so a tractor sent out an SOS only in a real emergency.

  I said just now that there was nothing exciting about lunar exploration, but of course that isn’t true. One could never grow tired of those incredible mountains, so much steeper and more rugged than the gentle hills of Earth. We never knew, as we rounded the capes and promontories of that vanished sea, what new splendors would be revealed
to us. The whole southern curve of the Mare Crisium is a vast delta where a score of rivers had once found their way into the ocean, fed perhaps by the torrential rains that must have lashed the mountains in the brief volcanic age when the Moon was young. Each of these ancient valleys was an invitation, challenging us to climb into the unknown uplands beyond. But we had a hundred miles still to cover, and could only look longingly at the heights which others must scale.

  We kept Earth-time aboard the tractor, and precisely at 22.00 hours the final radio message would be sent out to Base and we would close down for the day. Outside, the rocks would still be burning beneath the almost vertical sun, but to us it was night until we awoke again eight hours later. Then one of us would prepare breakfast, there would be a great buzzing of electric shavers, and someone would switch on the short-wave radio from Earth. Indeed, when the smell of frying bacon began to fill the cabin, it was sometimes hard to believe that we were not back on our own world—everything was so normal and homey, apart from the feeling of decreased weight and the unnatural slowness with which objects fell.

  It was my turn to prepare breakfast in the corner of the main cabin that served as a galley. I can remember that moment quite vividly after all these years, for the radio had just played one of my favorite melodies, the old Welsh air David of the White Roc. Our driver was already outside in his spacesuit, inspecting our caterpillar treads.

  My assistant, Louis Garnett, was up forward in the control position, making some belated entries in yesterday’s log.

  As I stood by the frying pan, waiting, like any terrestrial housewife, for the sausages to brown, I let my gaze wander idly over the mountain walls which covered the whole of the southern horizon, marching out of sight to east and west below the curve of the Moon. They seemed only a mile or two from the tractor, but I knew that the nearest was twenty miles away. On the Moon, of course, there is no loss of detail with distance—none of that almost imperceptible haziness which softens and sometimes transfigures all far-off things on Earth.

  Those mountains were ten thousand feet high, and they climbed steeply out of the plain as if ages ago some subterranean eruption had smashed them skywards through the molten crust. The base of even the nearest was hidden from sight by the steeply curving surface of the plain, for the Moon is a very little world, and from where I was standing the optical horizon was only two miles away.

  I lifted my eyes towards the peaks which no man had ever climbed, the peaks which, before the coming of terrestrial life, had watched the retreating oceans sink sullenly into their graves, taking with them the hope and the morning promise of a world. The sunlight was beating against those ramparts with a glare that hurt the eyes, yet only a little way above them the stars were shining steadily in a sky blacker than a winter midnight on Earth.

  I was turning away when my eye caught a metallic glitter high on the ridge of a great promontory thrusting out into the sea thirty miles to the west.

  It was a dimensionless point of light, as if a star had been clawed from the sky by one of those cruel peaks, and I imagined that some smooth rock surface ùvas catching the sunlight and heliographing it straight into my eyes. Such things were not uncommon. When the Moon is in her second quarter, observers on Earth can sometimes see the great ranges in the Oceanus Procellarum burning with a blue-white iridescence as the sunlight flashes from their slopes and leaps again from world to world. But I was curious to know what kind of rock could be shining so brightly up there, and I climbed into the observation turret and swung our four-inch telescope round to the west.

  I could see just enough to tantalize me. Clear and sharp in the field of vision, the mountain peaks seemed only half a mile away, but whatever was catching the sunlight was still too small to be resolved.

  Yet it seemed to have an elusive symmetry, and the summit upon which it rested was curiously flat. I stared for a long time at that glittering enigma, straining my eyes into space, until presently a smell of burning from the galley told me that our breakfast sausages had made their quarter-million-mile journey in vain.

  All that morning we argued our way across the Mare Crisium while the western mountains reared higher in the sky. Even when we were out prospecting in the spacesuits, the discussion would continue over the radio. It was absolutely certain, my companions argued, that there had never been any form of intelligent life on the Moon. The only living things that had ever existed there were a few primitive plants and their slightly less degenerate ancestors. I knew that as well as anyone, but there are times when a scientist must not be afraid to make a fool of himself.

  “Listen,” I said at last, “I’m going up there, if only for my own peace of mind. That mountain’s less than twelve thousand feet high—that’s only two thousand under Earth gravity—and I can make the trip in twenty hours at the outside. I’ve always wanted to go up into those hills, anyway, and this gives me an excellent excuse.”

  “If you don’t break your neck,” said Garnett, “you’ll be the laughingstock of the expedition when we get back to Base. That mountain will probably be called Wilson’s Folly from now on.”

  “I won’t break my neck,” I said firmly. “Who was the first man to climb Pico and Helicon?”

  “But weren’t you rather younger in those days?” asked Louis gently.

  “That,” I said with great dignity, “is as good a reason as any for going.”

  We went to bed early that night, after driving the tractor to within half a mile of the promontory. Garnett was coming with me in the morning; he was a good climber, and had often been with me on such exploits before. Our driver was only too glad to be left in charge of the machine.

  At first sight, those cliffs seemed completely unscalable, but to anyone with a good head for heights, climbing is easy on a world where all weights are only a sixth of their normal value. The real danger in lunar mountaineering lies in overconfidence; a six-hundred-foot drop on the Moon can kill you just as thoroughly as a hundred-foot fall on Earth.

  We made our first halt on a wide ledge about four thousand feet above the plain. Climbing had not been very difficult, but my limbs were stiff with the unaccustomed effort, and I was glad of the rest. We could still see the tractor as a tiny metal insect far down at the foot of the cliff, and we reported our progress to the driver before starting on the next ascent.

  Hour by hour the horizon widened and more and more of the great plain came into sight. Now we could look for fifty miles out across the Mare, and could even see the peaks of the mountains on the opposite coast more than a hundred miles away. Few of the great lunar plains are as smooth as the Mare Crisium, and we could almost imagine that a sea of water and not of rock was lying there two miles below. Only a group of crater-pits low down on the skyline spoilt the illusion.

  Our goal was still invisible over the crest of the mountain, and we were steering by maps, using the Earth as a guide. Almost due east of us, that great silver crescent hung low over the plain, already well into its first quarter. The sun and the stars would make their slow march across the sky and would sink presently from sight, but Earth would always be there, never moving from her appointed place, waxing and waning as the years and seasons passed. In ten days’ time she would be a blinding disc bathing these rocks with her midnight radiance, fifty-fold brighter than the full moon. But we must be out of the mountains long before night, or else we would remain among them forever.

  Inside our suits it was comfortably cook, for the refrigeration units were fighting the fierce Sun and carrying away the body-heat of our exertions.

  We seldom spoke to each other, except to pass climbing instructions and to discuss OUI best plan of ascent. I do not know what Garnett was thinking, probably that this was the craziest goose-chase he had ever embarked UpOn. I more than half agreed with him, but the joy of climbing, the knowledge that no man had ever gone this way before and the exhilaration of the steadily widening landscape gave me all the reward I needed.

  I don’t think I was particularly
excited when I saw in front of us the wall of rock I had first inspected through the telescope from thirty miles away. It would level off about fifty feet above our heads, and there on the plateau would be the thing that had lured me over these barren wastes. It was, almost certainly, nothing more than a boulder splintered ages ago by a falling meteor, and with its cleavage planes still fresh and bright in this incorruptible unchanging silence.

  There were no hand-holds on the rock face, and we had to use a grapnel.

  My tired arms seemed to gain new strength as I swung the three-pronged metal anchor round my head and sent it sailing up towards the stars.

  The first time, it broke loose and came falling slowly back when we pulled the rope.

  On the third attempt, the prongs gripped firmly and our combined weights could not shift it.

  Garnett looked at me anxiously. I could tell that he wanted to go first, but I smiled back at him through the glass of my helmet and shook my head.

  Slowly, taking my time, I began the final ascent.

  Even with my spacesuit, I weighed only forty pounds here, so I pulled myself up hand over hand without bothering to use my feet. At the rim I paused and waved to my companion, then I scrambled over the edge and stood upright, staring ahead of me.

  You must understand that until this very moment I had been almost completely convinced that there could be nothing strange or unusual for me to find here. Almost, but not quite; it was that haunting doubt that had driven me forwards. Well, it was a doubt no longer, but the haunting had scarcely begun.

  I was standing on a plateau perhaps a hundred feet across. It had once been smooth—too smooth to be natural—but falling meteors had pitted and scored its surface through immeasurable aeons. It had been levelled to support a glittering, roughly pyramidal structure, twice as high as a man, that vas set in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted jewel.

  Probably no emotion at all filled my mind in those first few seconds.

  Then I felt a great lifting of my heart, and a strange, inexpressible joy. For I loved the Moon, and now I knew that the creeping moss of Aristarchus and Eratosthenes was not the only life she had brought forth in her youth. The old, discredited dream of the first explorers was true. There had, after all, been a lunar civilization—and I was the first to find it. That I had come perhaps a hundred million years too late did not distress me; it was enough to have come at all.