6 Great Short Novels of Science Fiction

by Edited by Groff Conklin

  Perhaps she would ask for such help. In fact, it seemed likely. By the time she returned he had convinced himself that she was certain to ask his help. He would agree— with simple dignity—and off he would go, perhaps to be wounded or killed, but a heroic figure even if he failed.

  He pictured himself subconsciously as a blend of Sidney Carton, the White Knight, the man who carried the message to Garcia—and just a dash of D’Artagnan.

  But she did not ask him—she would not even give him a chance to talk with her.

  She did not appear at dinner. After dinner she was closeted with the doctor in his study. When she finally reappeared she went directly to her room. He finally concluded that he might as well go to bed himself.

  To bed, and then to sleep, and take it up again in the morning— But it’s not as simple as that. The unfriendly walls stared back at him, and the other, critical half of his mind decided to make a night of it. Fool! She doesn’t want your help. Why should she? What have you got that Fader hasn’t got—and better? To her you are just one of the screw-loose multitude you’ve seen all around you.

  But I’m not crazy! Just because I choose not to submit to the dictation of others doesn’t make me crazy. Doesn’t it, though? All the rest of them in here are lamebrains; what’s so fancy about you? Not all of them. How about the doctor, and— Don’t kid yourself, chump, the doctor and Mother Johnston are here for their own reasons; they weren’t sentenced. And Persephone was born here.

  How about Magee? He was certainly rational—or seemed so. He found himself resenting, with illogical bitterness, Magee’s apparent stability. Why should he be any different from the rest of us?

  The rest of us? He had classed himself with the other inhabitants of Coventry. All right, all right, admit it, you fool. You’re just like the rest of them; turned out because the decent people won’t have you—and too damned stubborn to admit that you need treatment.

  But the thought of treatment turned him cold and made him think of his father again. Why should that be? He recalled something the doctor had said to him a couple of days before: “What you need, son, is to stand up to your father and tell him off.”

  He turned on the light and tried to read. But it was no use. Why should Persephone care what happened to the people Outside? She didn’t know them; she had no friends there. If he felt no obligations to them, how could she possibly care? No obligations? You had a soft, easy life for many years—all they asked was that you behave yourself. For that matter, where would you be now if the doctor had stopped to ask whether or not he owed you anything?

  He was still wearily chewing the bitter cud of self-examination when the first cold and colorless light of morning filtered in. He got up, pulled a robe around him and tip-toed down the hall to Magee’s room. The door was ajar. He stuck his head in and whispered, “Fader. Are you awake?”

  “Come in, kid,” Magee answered quietly. “What’s the trouble? No can sleep?”

  “No—”

  “Neither can I. Sit down.”

  “Fader, I’m going to make a break for it. I’m going Outside.”

  “Huh? When?”

  “Right away.”

  “Risky business, kid. Wait a few days and I’ll try it with you.”

  “No, I can’t wait for you to get well. I’m going out to warn the United States!”

  Magee’s eyes widened a little, but his voice was unchanged. “You haven’t let that spindly kid sell you a bill of goods, Dave?”

  “No. Not exactly. I’m doing this for myself. It’s something I need to do. See here, Fader, what about this weapon? Have they really got something that could threaten the United States?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Magee admitted. “I don’t know much about it, but it makes blasters look sick. More range. I don’t know what they expect to do about the Barrier, but I saw ‘em stringing heavy power lines before I got winged. Say, if you do get Outside, here’s a chap you might look up; in fact, be sure to. He’s got influence.” Magee scrawled something on a scrap of paper, folded the scrap and handed it to MacKinnon, who pocketed it absentmindedly and went on:

  “How closely is the gate guarded, Fader?”

  “You can’t get out the gate; that’s out of the question. Here’s what you will have to do—” He tore off another piece of paper and commenced sketching and explaining.

  Dave shook hands with Magee before he left. “You’ll say good-by for me, won’t you? And thank the doctor? I’d rather just slide out before anyone is up.”

  “Of course, kid,” the Fader assured him. “Well—watch out for that first step; it’s a honey!”

  ~ * ~

  MacKinnon crouched behind the bushes and peered cautiously at the little band of Angels filing into the bleak, ugly church. He shivered, both from fear and from the icy morning air. But his need was greater than his fear. These zealots had food—and he must have it.

  The first two days after he left the house of the doctor had been fair enough. True, he had caught cold from sleeping on the ground; it had settled in his lungs and slowed him down. But he did not mind that now, if only he could refrain from sneezing or coughing until the little band of faithful were safe inside the temple. He watched them pass—dour-looking men, women in skirts that dragged the ground and whose work-lined faces were framed in shawls. The light had gone out of their faces. The very children were sober.

  The last of them filed inside, leaving only the sexton in the churchyard, busy with some obscure duty. After an interminable time, during which MacKinnon pressed a finger against his upper lip in a frantic attempt to forestall a sneeze, the sexton, too, entered the grim building and closed the doors.

  MacKinnon crept out of his hiding place and hurried to the house he had previously selected on the edge of the clearing, farthest from the church.

  The dog was suspicious, but he quieted him. The house was locked, but the rear door could be forced. He was a little giddy at the sight of food when he found it—hard bread and strong, unsalted butter made from goat’s milk. A misstep two days before had landed him in a mountain stream. The mishap had not seemed important until he discovered that his food tablets were a pulpy mess. He had eaten them the rest of that day, then mold had taken them and he had thrown the remainder away.

  The bread lasted him through three more sleeps, but the butter melted and he was unable to carry it. He soaked as much of it as he could into the bread, then licked up the rest, after which he was very thirsty. He found one more stream, but was forced to leave it when it left the hills and entered cultivated country.

  Some hours after the last of the bread was gone he reached his first objective—the main river to which all other streams in Coventry were tributary. Some place downstream it dived under the black curtain of the Barrier, and continued seaward. With the gateway closed and guarded, its outlet constituted the only possible egress.

  In the meantime it was water, and the thirst was upon him again, and his cold was worse. But he would have to wait until dark to drink; there were figures down there by the bank—some in uniform, he thought. One of them made fast a little skiff to a landing. He marked it for his own and watched it with jealous eyes. It was still there when the sun went down.

  The early-morning sun struck his nose and he sneezed. He came wide awake, raised his head and looked around. The little skiff he had appropriated floated in midstream. There were no oars. He could not remember whether or not there had been any oars. The current was fairly strong; it seemed as if he should have drifted clear to the Barrier. Perhaps he had passed under it—no, that was ridiculous.

  Then he saw it, less than a mile away, black and ominous—but the most welcome sight he had seen in days. He was too weak and feverish to enjoy it, but it renewed the determination that kept him going.

  The little boat scraped against bottom. He saw that the current at a bend had brought him to the bank. He hopped awkwardly out, his congealed joints complaining, and drew the bow of the skiff up onto the sand. Then he t
hought better of it, pushed it out once more, shoved as hard as he was able and watched it disappear around the meander. No need to advertise where he had landed;

  He slept most of that day, rousing himself once to move out of the sun when it grew too hot. But the sun had cooked much of the cold out of his bones, and he felt much better by nightfall.

  Although the Barrier was only a mile or so away, it took most of the night to reach it by following the river bank. He knew when he had reached it by the clouds of steam that rose from the water. When the sun came up he considered the situation. The Barrier stretched across the water, but the juncture between it and the surface of the stream was hidden by billowing clouds. Some place, down under the surface of the water—how far down he did not know—somewhere down there the Barrier ceased, and its raw edge turned the water it touched to steam.

  Slowly, reluctantly and most unheroically, he commenced to strip off his clothes. The time had come and he did not relish it. He came across the scrap of paper that Magee had handed him, and attempted to examine it. But it had been pulped by his involuntary dip in the mountain stream and was quite illegible. He chucked it away.

  He shivered as he stood hesitating on the bank, although the sun was warm. Then his mind was made up for him; he spied a patrol on the far bank.

  Perhaps they had seen him; perhaps not. He dived.

  Down, down, as far as his strength would take him. Down, and try to touch bottom, to be sure of avoiding that searing, deadly base. He felt mud with his hands. Now to swim under it. Perhaps it was death to pass under it, as well as over it; he would soon know. But which way was it? There was no direction down here.

  He stayed down until his congested lungs refused. Then he rose part way and felt scalding water on his face. For a timeless interval of unutterable sorrow and loneliness he realized that he was trapped between heat and water-trapped under the barrier.

  ~ * ~

  Two private soldiers gossiped idly on a small dock which lay under the face of the Barrier. The river which poured out from beneath it held no interest for them, they had watched it for many dull tours of guard duty. An alarm clanged behind them and brought them to alertness. “What sector, Jack?”

  “This bank. There he is now—see!”

  They fished him out and had him spread out on the dock by the time the sergeant of the guard arrived. “Alive or dead?” he inquired.

  “Dead, I think,” answered the one who was not busy giving artificial resuscitation.

  The sergeant clucked in a manner incongruous to his battered face and said, “Too bad. I’ve ordered the ambulance; send him up to the infirmary, anyhow.”

  ~ * ~

  The nurse tried to keep him quiet, but MacKinnon made such an uproar that she got the ward-surgeon.

  “Here! Here! What’s all this nonsense?” the medico rebuked him, while reaching for his pulse.

  Dave managed to convince him that he would not quiet down nor accept a soporific until he had told his story. They struck a working agreement that MacKinnon was to be allowed to talk—”But keep it short, mind you!”—and the doctor would pass the word along to his next superior, and in return Dave would submit to a hypodermic.

  The next morning two other men, unidentified, were brought to MacKinnon by the surgeon. They listened to his full story and questioned him in detail. He was transferred to corps area headquarters that afternoon by ambulance. There he was questioned again. He was regaining his strength rapidly, but he was growing quite tired of the whole rigmarole and wanted assurance that his warning was being taken seriously. The latest of his interrogators reassured him. “Compose yourself,” he told Dave, “you are to see the commander this afternoon.”

  The corps area commander, a nice little chap with a quick, birdlike manner and a most unmilitary appearance, listened gravely while MacKinnon recited his story for what seemed to him the fiftieth time. He nodded agreement when David finished. “Rest assured, David MacKinnon, that all necessary steps are being taken.”

  “But how about their weapon?”

  “That is taken care of—and as for the Barrier, it may not be as easy to break as our neighbors think. But your efforts are appreciated. May I do you some service?”

  “Well, no—not for myself, but there are two of my friends in there—” He asked that something be done to rescue Magee, and that Persephone be enabled to come out if she wished.

  “I know of that girl,” the general remarked. “We will get in touch with her. If at any time she wishes to become a citizen, it can be arranged. As for Magee, that is another matter—” He touched the stud of his desk visiphone. “Send Captain Randall in.”

  A neat, trim figure in the uniform of a captain of the United States army entered with a light step. MacKinnon glanced at him with casual, polite interest, then his expression went to pieces. “Fader!” he yelled.

  Their mutual greeting was hardly sufficiently decorous for the sanctum sanctorum of a commanding general, but the general did not seem to mind. When they had calmed down, MacKinnon had to ask the question uppermost in his mind. “But see here, Fader, all this doesn’t make sense—” He paused, staring, then pointed a finger accusingly, “I know! You’re in the Secret Service!”

  The Fader grinned cheerfully. “Did you think,” he observed, “that the United States army would leave a plague spot like that unwatched?”

  The general cleared his throat. “What do you plan to do now, David MacKinnon?”

  “Eh? Me? Why, I don’t have any plans—” He thought for a moment, then turned to his friend. “Do you know, Fader, I believe I’ll turn in for psychological treatment, after all. You’re on the Outside—”

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” interrupted the general gently.

  “No? Why not, sir?”

  “You have cured yourself. You may not be aware of it, but four psychotechnicians have interviewed you. Their reports agree. I am authorized to tell you that your status as a free citizen has been restored, if you wish it.”

  The general and Captain “the Fader” Randall managed tactfully between them to terminate the interview. Randall walked back to the infirmary with his friend.

  Dave wanted a thousand questions answered at once. “But, Fader,” he demanded, “you must have gotten out before I did.”

  “A day or two.”

  “Then my job was unnecessary!”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Randall contradicted. “I might not have gotten through. As a matter of fact, they had all the details before I reported. There are others— Anyhow,” he continued, to change the subject, “now that you are here, what will you do?”

  “Me? It’s too soon to say. It won’t be classical literature, that’s a cinch. If I wasn’t such a dummy in math I might still try for interplanetary.”

  “Well, we can talk about it tonight,” suggested Fader, glancing at his telechronometer. “I’ve got to run along, but I’ll stop by later.”

  He was out the door with an easy speed that was nostalgic of the thieves’ kitchen.

  Dave watched him, then said suddenly, “Hey! Fader! Why couldn’t I get into the Secret Ser—”

  But the Fader had gone. He could only ask himself.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE OTHER WORLD ….. By Murray Leinster

  DICK BLAIR dug up a Fifth Dynasty tomb in Lower Egypt and found that one object, and one only, had been spoiled by dampness in a climate which preserved all the other objects in the tomb to perfection. Almost simultaneously, in New York, a plumber carrying a kit of tools turned into a doorway on Eighth Avenue and was never seen again, living or dead. Shortly after, a half-ton of dried figs vanished inexplicably from a locked warehouse in Smyrna, and—in New York—a covered barge complete with a load of bricks and building materials evaporated into thin air while a night watchman gazed goggle-eyed. His account of the event was not believed.

  There were other pertinent events even before these. One year in New York’s histo
ry of the number of missing persons who had no reason to vanish went up to four times normal. Most missing persons have their reasons for disappearing, but there are always a few who seem neither to have been murdered or to have absconded. This year the number of such cases was unprecedented, and there was no explanation for it at all.

  There was the time seventy-five years before when the four prettiest members of a theatrical chorus went upstairs to doff their winter wraps in the home of a rich man who was giving a party, and never came down again. Then there was that indubitable were-wolf which was killed in Avino province in Italy, in the 1850’s. It was classed only tentatively as wolf because it had some oddities of conformation, but it had intelligence at least equal to that of the peasants on whom it had preyed for two weeks before its destruction. It had killed and partly or wholly devoured twenty-two human beings in two weeks. The scientists of the time were very much annoyed when enraged peasants stormed the place where it was held for examination and burned the carcass to ashes.