The Hamelin Plague

by A Bertram Chandler

  IT'S NOT HUMAN

  Barrett and Pamela were in the radio room with the admiral when Karl came running into the room, his face white. "Sir, there's something horrible in the paint locker. It's—it's not ... human!"

  Barrett and the others ran from the room, down to the paint locker. They stepped in.

  At first Barrett thought somebody had spilled red paint. Then he looked around. There was a cat on the floor, its throat torn out. And there were rats, also dead and mangled. And in the corner, there was something else-It was bigger than the rats, bigger than the cat. There was a gaping wound in its belly. The forelegs—or arms?—of the thing were almost human.

  "What is it?" asked the admiral. "It looks like a monkey, but it has teeth like a rat."

  Pamela's eyes widened in fright and she whispered, "It's a King Rat—or one of the many princes..."

  AUTHOR'S PROFILE A. Bertram Chandler was born in Aldershot, England, and during World War II served in the British Merchant Navy in all theatres of war with the exception of the Murmansk convoys. He was a gunnery officer on a number of troop transports and later a chief officer on several British passenger liners.

  He is well known as a writer of science fiction short stories and novels and he holds a certificate of competency as master mariner. He is also a fellow of the British Interplanetary Society, London.

  A Science Fiction Novel

  THE HAMELIN PLAGUE

  A. Bertram Chandler

  MONARCH BOOKS, INC.

  MONARCH BOOKS 35¢

  Derby, Connecticut THE HAMELIN PLAGUE

  A Monarch Books Original Science Fiction Novel Published in November, 1963

  Copyright 1963 by A. Bertram Chandler

  Dedication

  For My Fat Cat

  Cover Painting by Bob Maguire

  Monarch Books are published by MONARCH BOOKS, INC., Capital Building, Derby, Connecticut, and represent the works of outstanding novelists and writers of non-fiction especially chosen for their literary merit and reading entertainment.

  Printed in the United States of America

  All Rights Reserved

  CHAPTER 1

  Barrett heard the rapid succession of short blasts from the captain's mouth whistle and turned to look aft. He could see, by the yellow glare of the wharf floodlamps, the Old Man standing in the wing of the bridge, making the crossed arms signal. The chief officer acknowledged it by repeating the gesture, then ordered, "Make her fast at that, Bo's'n."

  "The usual, Chief?"

  "Yes. Two eyes and a bight. Shoulder wire." He went to the fo'c's'le headrail, looked down to the wharf, looked aft. As he watched, the ship came alongside with the faintest of jars. "That'll do," he said over his shoulder, "'vast heaving." The windlass ceased its clatter. He called to the mooring gang on the quay, "Let's have that heaving line back. I'm putting out a bight on the offshore Manila."

  He stood there, watchful but not interfering, until the ship was securely moored, and the turns of the last line had been thrown over and around the bitts.

  "What are the orders, Chief?" asked the bo's'n.

  "To begin with," Barrett told his petty officer severely, "don't forget the rat guards this time. Port Health has been very fussy about 'em of late. And it'll be six o'clock turn-to tomorrow morning for breaking out derricks and opening hatches. I shan't be down until eight, but the third officer will be aboard. I've arranged with the engineers for power on deck."

  He had a last look around. "See you in the morning, then, Bo's'n," he concluded and clattered down the port ladder from the fo'c's'le head, made his way with long strides along the foredeck, climbed the ladders and companionways to the officers' flat under the bridge. At the end of the cross alleyway, to starboard, was the master's accommodation. Barrett tapped at the door.

  "Come in, Mr., Barrett, come in!" called Captain Hall cheerfully. He, already changed into civilian clothes, was seated at his desk, opening the mail that had come aboard on the vessel's arrival. "Now, where did I put the arrival letter? Ah, here. Commence discharge at 0800 hours tomorrow, Monday, with five gangs. Five twilight gangs tomorrow evening. Expect to complete discharge by noon, Tuesday. Sail for Newcastle at 2200 hours. You'll be in tomorrow, won't you? You can ring the Newcastle office at about ten and give 'em the details of the loading. Here's their freight list."

  "I'll do that, sir," promised Barrett.

  "Good man. I'll shoot through now. Mustn't keep Mum waiting. Oh, you can give me a ring tomorrow if anything important crops up. Don't bother otherwise."

  "Very good, sir," said Barrett.

  He walked to his own cabin, glanced at the letters that had been put on his desk. There seemed to be nothing of any immediate importance, and nothing personal. So he made his way down to the foredeck again, jumped up onto the after mooring bitts and swung a long leg over the bulwarks, followed it with the other, dropped the short distance to the planking of the wharf. He strode to the gatekeeper's office. The Old Man was there already; he had just finished with the telephone and pushed the instrument towards his chief officer, saying, "She's all yours, Mr. Barrett."

  "How's the taxi situation, sir?" asked Barrett.

  "Quite good. Legion have promised to have one down for me in a couple of minutes. But I thought you didn't bother with cabs."

  "I don't usually. Jane should have been here to pick me up. I'm going to ring her now to find out what's wrong."

  "She's still getting rid of the boy friend," the captain told him cynically. There was the sound of a horn from the street outside. "Well, here's my cab. See you Tuesday. Good night."

  "Good night, sir," said Barrett.

  He dialed his home number, listened to the double rings, wondered if Jane was on her way down to the waterfront. Then he heard the faint clatter as the instrument at the other end was lifted from its cradle and he heard Jane's voice.

  "It's me," he said.

  "Welcome home," she said.

  "But I'm not home yet," he protested. "I was hoping you'd be down to pick me up."

  "I was going to come down, Tim, but... oh, I'm furious with myself. I had the car out yesterday to drive round to Margaret's and—"

  "Did you have an accident?"

  "No. But I must have driven over something. When I started to get the car out tonight I found that I had a flat. I was damn lucky I didn't have a blowout when I was driving home from the North Shore. The tire's chewed to ribbons."

  "I'll look at it when I get home," he said. "A fat lot of good that will do!" she scoffed. "Well, see ya."

  "See ya," he repeated, and hung up. He walked back to the ship. The gangway was out now and already the first of the A.B.'s to get changed into go-ashore rigs were coming down it. "Good night, Chief," they said cheerfully as they passed him. "Good night," he grunted.

  Back in his cabin he threw off his uniform shirt, stepped out of his shorts, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. He rinsed his face and hands hastily in the washbasin, dried himself sketchily and then, before the mirror, ran a brush over his sandy crewcut. He grinned at his reflection as he did so. For some time now Jane had been nagging him to let his hair grow long enough so that something could be done with it, but he had managed to withstand her demands. His face, he had decided, would not be helped by any sort of hair styling; it was too rugged, too ... rough hewn? Yes, that was it.

  Tim Barrett, the bucko mate, he thought. But if I were a real bucko mate the Seamen's Union would declare the ship black. He shrugged, got into his civilian clothing. He looked burlier in them (although no less tall) than he had in the skimpy tropical rig. He picked up the brief case into which he had already stowed his toilet gear. He switched off the lights and went out into the alleyway. The second and third ma
tes, he saw, were already away. Only Sparks, a confirmed bachelor, was remaining aboard.

  He called, "Good night, Bill."

  "Good night, Timmy," came the reply from behind the drawn door curtain. Then the drape was pulled to one side and Bill Maloney—fat, bald and as glum-looking as always—was standing there. "Didn't Jane come down for you?"

  "No. She's buggered the car."

  "Sorry to hear that. And I've been saving a bottle of Cascade beer for her. I know she likes it. I was going to give her a drink. Oh, well, it's only cluttering up the fridge. We may as well split it."

  "Not tonight, thanks, Bill. It's late."

  "Then I'll have it all to myself. Give Jane my regards."

  "I'll do that," said Barrett.

  He went ashore, to the gatekeeper's office, and rang for a taxi.

  While he was waiting for the cab he made friends with one of the wharf cats—a tough, battered, black-and-white tom. The cabbie, when he arrived, said, "I could do wi' one o' them, mate. What abaht slingin' the bastard inter the boot?"

  "So you like cats?" remarked Barrett, climbing in beside the driver.

  "Nah. Hate the brutes. But I hate rats worse."

  "Troubled with 'em?" asked Barrett, not really interested.

  "Yair. Destructive bastards. Yer wouldn't think they'd eat tires, would yer?"

  "I wouldn't," admitted Barrett.

  "But they did. I'm bloody sure as it was them." Then, after a pause, he asked, "Where to, Mate?"

  "Woollahra. Erin Street."

  "Just off Ocean Street, ain't it? Fasten yer seat belt— we're takin' off."

  The vehicle didn't take off, quite, but made good time as far as King's Cross. There the usual harassed policeman was endeavoring, without much success, to sort out the streams of traffic from all directions. During the delay the driver made conversation.

  "In from overseas, Mate?"

  "No. Just coastwise."

  "An' where do yer run to?"

  "Mainly New South Wales ports to Tasmania, and back. Coal and steel from Newcastle, general cargo from Sydney, to Burnie and Devonport and Launceston. Potatoes and newsprint and such back to Sydney."

  While he was talking, Barrett looked at the placards outside a nearby paper shop. PLAGUE STRIKES DJARKARTA, he read. Then, FIRE BUG STILL AT LARGE. And, SHOCK DECISION AT RANDWICK.

  He laughed.

  "What's so bleedin' funny, Mate?" asked the driver, pausing in the act of lighting a cigarette.

  "Those placards. There are at least three of the Rand-wick ones to only one each of the others. Fire and pestilence aren't ignored entirely, but the only real news is about horse racing."

  "You can say that again, Mate. Thanks to them bleedin' judges, I dropped a tenner yesterday. Well, looks as though the mug's made up his bleedin' mind at last."

  They turned into the New South Head Road, picking up speed again. Barrett was content to sit in silence, listening to the driver's chatter, mentally ticking off the familiar landmarks as they passed—the Rushcutters Bay Stadium and the big new bowling alley, and the fancy turret clock outside the Customs Credit building that had never kept correct time since its installation, and the Edgecliff Post Office and the turn-off up Ocean Street, and the white, brilliantly floodlit Clyde Industries office and, at last, Trevellyan Street.

  "Turn right," ordered Barrett, "then first left into Erin Street. The house with the white fence and the black gates."

  "That'll be eight bob," said the driver, switching on the light over the meter.

  Barrett gave him ten, got out of the cab. He stood there for a moment or so, soaking up the atmosphere of the quiet, familiar little thoroughfare. On his side the small cottages, with the exception of his own, were in darkness, although there were a few lights showing in the windows of the tall buildings on the other side, the line of private hotels and blocks of flats fronting Ocean Street. The almost full moon gave illumination enough to bring out the gracious lines of the big houses, but not enough to reveal the shabby, peeling paint, the dilapidation of the balconies. A light, warm breeze stirred the foliage of the jacarandas, rustled the leaves of the camphor trees.

  The cab backed and turned to go back the way it had come. The twin beams of its headlamps swept over something dark huddled in the middle of the road; swept over it and passed on.

  Barrett, somehow, was curious. Ignoring the retreating car he walked slowly towards the thing—whatever it was —a black blotch on the silvery gray of the paving. It was an animal of some kind. It was a dog. A dead dog. Its blood was spreading about it in a viscous pool. Probably run over, thought Barrett, although there's little enough traffic in a quiet street like this. Poor little bastard.

  He squatted to make a closer examination, hoping to find an identification tag on the collar, but there was none. And then he saw the wound that had killed the animal, the injury from which all the blood had come. It was a ragged gash in the throat. It could not have been inflicted by a car.

  He straightened, shrugged. There was nothing further that he could do, and the garbage collectors would be round in the morning.

  But what, a little voice at the back of his mind was asking, had killed the dog?

  He turned abruptly, walked quickly to his front gate, and then along the short path to his front door.

  CHAPTER 2

  The door opened while he was still fumbling for his keys.

  "Come in," snapped Jane crossly. "Come in. You've been prowling around outside for hours."

  "About five minutes, darling," he corrected mildly. "There's a dead dog in the street."

  "Then tell me about it, if you must, inside. I'm cold.

  "It's quite warm," he said.

  "I don't think so."

  "You haven't been messing around the Tasmanian coast for the past fortnight," he told her.

  He followed her into the house and the long living room that opened directly off the front door. He dropped his brief case as soon as he was inside, lifted his hands to her slim shoulders, and turned her so that she was facing him. He looked at her for a second or so, at the thin, finely boned face under the dark, sleek hair, at the wide, generous mouth. (At the mouth that once had been generous, he thought, but that wasn't generous any longer.) He kissed her then, but he knew—they both of them knew—that there was something lacking. (There had been something lacking for too long a time now.) Nevertheless, his right hand found the fastening of her robe.

  She pulled away. "Not so fast, sailor. Not so fast. This isn't my night for being raped."

  "I've still got my trousers on," he pointed out sourly.

  "Then keep them on. Business first—and I don't mean monkey business. Sit down."

  Barrett sighed, let her go, and she headed for the kitchen. He flopped into his chair. There was a little heap of already opened envelopes on the coffee table. He picked up the first one, extracted its contents. Gas bill. He sighed again. He looked at the second one—telephone bill...

  Jane—tall for a woman, graceful—came back from the kitchen carrying a tray. She was already, he noticed, less tense, in a better temper. She said lightly, "You probably constructed a couple or three Dagwoods for yourself before you left your ship—but I like an occasional meal with my husband."

  "The coffee smells good," admitted Barrett "Look who made it. And there's some cheesecake from that little Austrian shop."

  "Talking of cheesecake—"

  "We are. The kind you eat." She primly adjusted the robe which, as she sat down, had fallen away from her slender legs.

  "Oh," he grunted. "All right."

  As they sipped their coffee and nibbled the pastry, they discussed, first of all, household finances and then the various matters that had cropped up during his brief absence. When they were finished eating he brought out and filled his pipe and then, getting to his feet, began fumbling through his pockets.

  "What the hell's biting you?" complained Jane. "Can't you sit still for five minutes?"

  "Matches," he expla
ined. "They must have fallen out of my pocket in the cab."

  "Stay where you are," she ordered. "I'll get a box from the kitchen."

  He picked up the Sunday paper as she got up and left the living room, skimming through its contents. That mysterious firebug, he learned, was having a good run for his money. One of the oddest features of the series of blazes bad been the failure of fire-detecting and extinguishing systems. Barrett was inclined to think this somewhat less odd than the newspaper did. He could remember a fire aboard ship that was discovered only when the hold in question was opened to work cargo—and then, after this fire had been extinguished, the smoke-detecting apparatus had been tested and had worked perfectly, with red lights flashing and alarm bells ringing in the wheelhouse and the officers' flat. Even so, he admitted to himself, with a series of fires there was something odd about it all.

  He turned to the item of news from Indonesia. The plague there was serious enough—bubonic plague. No wonder the port authorities were becoming concerned about the maintenance of rat guards on ship's mooring lines. Although, he thought, there would be little likelihood of such a pestilence getting out of control in a country with modern standards of hygiene and sanitation.

  He irritably shifted his cold pipe in his mouth—what was keeping the woman?—as he turned to the sporting pages to discover just what the "shock decision" at Rand-wick had been. Then he heard, from the kitchen, Jane's heartfelt "Damn!" He got up from his chair and went to see what was wrong.

  Jane was standing there, in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking furious. She said, "If you'd had a chance to come in here I'd be blaming you."

  "What's the trouble?" he asked.

  "Just the family poltergeist," she told him. "It must be a poltergeist. There are so many things—too many things —going missing these days. Little things, like boxes of matches. Like the box of matches that should be on the ledge over the gas stove."