The Complete Short Stories

by Brian Aldiss

  ‘Did you see what it was?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘No, there weren’t nothing to see. It was a ghost, that’s what it was. It come right in here and touched the cows. It touched me too. It was a ghost.’

  The farmer snorted. ‘A tramp more like. You couldn’t see because the light wasn’t on.’

  His man shook his head emphatically. ‘Light weren’t that bad. I tell you, whatever it was, it come right up to me and touched me.’ He stopped, and pointed to the edge of the stall. ‘Look there! See, I weren’t telling you no lie, master. It was a ghost, and there’s its wet hand-print.’

  They crowded round and examined the worn and chewed timber at the corner of the partition between two stalls. An indefinite patch of moisture darkened the wood. Gregory’s thoughts went back to his experience on the pond, and again he felt the prickle of unease along his spine. But the farmer said stoutly, ‘Nonsense, it’s a bit of cowslime. Now you get on with the milking, Bert, and let’s have no more hossing about, because I want my tea. Where’s Cuff?’

  Bert looked defiant.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe the bitch. She saw whatever it was and went for it. It kicked her over, but she ran it out of here.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can see her,’ Gregory said.

  He ran outside and began calling the bitch. By now it was almost entirely dark. He could see nothing moving in the wide space of the front yard, and so set off in the other direction, down the path towards the pig sties and the fields, calling Cuff as he went. He paused. Low and savage growls sounded ahead, under the elm trees. It was Cuff. He went slowly forward. At this moment, he cursed that electric light meant lack of lanterns, and wished too that he had a weapon.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  The farmer came up by his side. ‘Let’s charge ’em!’

  They ran forward. The trunks of the four great elms were clear against the western sky, with water glinting leadenly behind them. The dog became visible. As Gregory saw Cuff, she sailed into the air, whirled round, and flew at the farmer. He flung up his arms and warded off the body. At the same time, Gregory felt a rush of air as if someone unseen had run past him, and a stale muddy smell filled his nostrils. Staggering, he looked behind him. The wan light from the cowsheds spread across the path between the outhouses and the farmhouse. Beyond the light, more distantly, was the silent countryside behind the grain store. Nothing untoward could be seen.

  ‘They killed my old Cuff,’ said the farmer.

  Gregory knelt down beside him to look at the bitch. There was no mark of injury on her, but she was dead, her fine head lying limp.

  ‘She knew there was something there,’ Gregory said. ‘She went to attack whatever it was and it got her first. What was it? Whatever in the world was it?’

  ‘They killed my old Cuff,’ said the farmer again, unhearing. He picked the body up in his arms, turned, and carried it towards the house. Gregory stood where he was, mind and heart equally uneasy.

  He jumped violently when a step sounded nearby. It was Bert Neckland.

  ‘What, did that there ghost kill the old bitch?’ he asked.

  ‘It killed the bitch certainly, but it was something more terrible than a ghost.’

  ‘That’s one of them ghosts, bor. I seen plenty in my time. I ent afraid of ghosts, are you?’

  ‘You looked fairly sick in the cowshed a minute ago.’

  The farmhand put his fists on his hips. He was no more than a couple of years older than Gregory, a stocky young man with a spotty complexion and a snub nose that gave him at once an air of comedy and menace. ‘Is that so, Master Gregory? Well, you looks pretty funky standing there now.’

  ‘I am scared. I don’t mind admitting it. But only because we have something here a lot nastier than any spectre.’

  Neckland came a little closer.

  ‘Then if you are so blooming windy, perhaps you’ll be staying away from the farm in future.’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He tried to edge back into the light, but the labourer got in his way.

  ‘If I was you, I should stay away.’ He emphasised his point by digging an elbow into Gregory’s coat. ‘And just remember that Nancy was interested in me long afore you come along, bor.’

  ‘Oh, that’s it, is it! I think Nancy can decide for herself in whom she is interested, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m telling you who she’s interested in, see? And mind you don’t forget, see?’ He emphasised the words with another nudge. Gregory pushed his arm away angrily. Neckland shrugged his shoulders and walked off. As he went, he said, ‘You’re going to get worse than ghosts if you keep hanging round here.’

  Gregory was shaken. The suppressed violence in the man’s voice suggested that he had been harbouring malice for some time. Unsuspectingly, Gregory had always gone out of his way to be cordial, had regarded the sullenness as mere slow-wittedness and done his socialist best to overcome the barrier between them. He thought of following Neckland and trying to make it up with him; but that would look too feeble. Instead, he followed the way the farmer had gone with his dead bitch, and made for the house.

  Gregory Rolles was too late back to Cottersall that night to meet his friend Fox. The next night, the weather became exceedingly chill and Gabriel Woodcock, the oldest inhabitant, was prophesying snow before the winter was out (a not very venturesome prophecy to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours, thus impressing most of the inhabitants of the village, for they took pleasure in being impressed and exclaiming and saying ‘Well I never!’ to each other). The two friends met in The Wayfarer, where the fires were bigger, though the ale was weaker, than in the Three Poachers at the other end of the village.

  Seeing to it that nothing dramatic was missed from his account, Gregory related the affairs of the previous day, omitting any reference to Neckland’s pugnacity. Fox listened fascinated, neglecting both his pipe and his ale.

  ‘So you see how it is, Bruce,’ Gregory concluded. ‘In that deep pond by the mill lurks a vehicle of some sort, the very one we saw in the sky, and in it lives an invisible being of evil intent. You see how I fear for my friends there. Should I tell the police about it, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure it would not help the Grendons to have old Farrish bumping out there on his penny-farthing,’ Fox said, referring to the local representative of the law. He took a long draw first on the pipe and then on the glass. ‘But I’m not sure you have your conclusions quite right, Greg. Understand, I don’t doubt the facts, amazing though they are. I mean, we were more or less expecting celestial visitants. The world’s recent blossoming with gas and electric lighting in its cities at night must have been a signal to half the nations of space that we are now civilised down here. But have our visitants done any deliberate harm to anyone?’

  ‘They nearly drowned me and they killed poor Cuff. I don’t see what you’re getting at. They haven’t begun in a very friendly fashion, have they now?’

  ‘Think what the situation must seem like to them. Suppose they come from Mars or the Moon – we know their world must be absolutely different from Earth. They may be terrified. And it can hardly be called an unfriendly act to try and get into your rowing boat. The first unfriendly act was yours, when you struck out with the oar.’

  Gregory bit his lip. His friend had a point. ‘I was scared.’

  ‘It may have been because they were scared that they killed Cuff. The dog attacked them, after all, didn’t she? I feel sorry for these creatures, alone in an unfriendly world.’

  ‘You keep saying “these”! As far as we know, there is only one of them.’

  ‘My point is this, Greg. You have completely gone back on your previous enlightened attitude. You are all for killing these poor things instead of trying to speak to them. Remember what you were saying about other worlds being full of socialists? Try thinking of these chaps as invisible socialists and see if that doesn’t make them easier to deal with.’

  Gregory fell to stroking his chin. Inw
ardly, he acknowledged that Bruce Fox’s words made a great impression on him. He had allowed panic to prejudice his judgement; as a result, he had behaved as immoderately as a savage in some remote corner of the Empire confronted by his first steam locomotive.

  ‘I’d better get back to the farm and sort things out as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘If these things really do need help, I’ll help them.’

  ‘That’s it. But try not to think of them as “things”. Think of them as – as – I know, as The Aurigans.’

  ‘Aurigans it is. But don’t be so smug, Bruce. If you’d been in that boat –’

  ‘I know, old friend. I’d have died of fright.’ To this monument of tact, Fox added, ‘Do as you say, go back and sort things out as soon as possible. I’m longing for the next instalment of this mystery. It’s quite the jolliest thing since Sherlock Holmes.’

  Gregory Rolles went back to the farm. But the sorting out of which Bruce had spoken took longer than he expected. This was chiefly because the Aurigans seemed to have settled quietly into their new home after the initial day’s troubles.

  They came forth no more from the pond, as far as he could discover; at least they caused no more disturbance. The young graduate particularly regretted this since he had taken his friend’s words much to heart, and wanted to prove how enlightened and benevolent he was towards this strange form of life. After some days, he came to believe the Aurigans must have left as unexpectedly as they arrived. Then a minor incident convinced him otherwise; and that same night, in his snug room over the baker’s shop, he described it to his correspondent in Worcester Park, Surrey.

  ‘Dear Mr Wells,

  I must apologise for my failure to write earlier, owing to lack of news concerning the Grendon Farm affair.

  Only today, the Aurigans showed themselves again! – If indeed “showed” is the right word for invisible creatures.

  Nancy Grendon and I were in the orchard feeding the hens. There is still much snow lying about, and everywhere is very white. As the poultry came running to Nancy’s tub, I saw a disturbance further down the orchard – merely some snow dropping from an apple bough, but the movement caught my eye, and I then saw a procession of falling snow proceed towards us from tree to tree. The grass is long there, and I soon noted the stalks being thrust aside by an unknown agency!

  I directed Nancy’s attention to the phenomenon. The motion in the grass stopped only a few yards from us.

  Nancy was startled, but I determined to acquit myself more like a Briton than I had previously. Accordingly, I advanced and said, “Who are you? What do you want? We are your friends if you are friendly.” No answer came. I stepped forward again, and now the grass again fell back, and I could see by the way it was pressed down that the creature must have large feet. By the movement of the grasses, I could see he was running. I cried to him and ran too. He went round the side of the house, and then over the frozen mud in the farmyard I could see no further trace of him. But instinct led me forward, past the barn to the pond.

  Surely enough, I then saw the cold, muddy water rise and heave, as if engulfing a body that slid quietly in. Shards of broken ice were thrust aside, and by an outward motion, I could see where the strange being went. In a flurry and a small whirlpool, he was gone, and I have no doubt dived down to the mysterious star vehicle.

  These things – people – I know not what to call them – must be aquatic; perhaps they live in the canals of the Red Planet. But imagine, Sir – an invisible mankind! The idea is almost as wonderful and fantastic as something from your novel, The Time Machine.

  Pray give me your comment, and trust in my sanity and accuracy as a reporter!

  Yours in friendship,

  Gregory Rolles.’

  What he did not tell was the way Nancy had clung to him after, in the warmth of the parlour, and confessed her fear. And he had scorned the idea that these beings could be hostile, and had seen the admiration in her eyes, and had thought that she was, after all, a dashed pretty girl, and perhaps worth braving the wrath of those two very different people for: Edward Rolles, his father, and Bert Neckland, the farm labourer.

  At that point Mrs Grendon came in, and the two young people moved rapidly apart. Mrs Grendon went more slowly. The new life within her was large now, and she carried herself accordingly. So as not to distress her, they told her nothing of what they had seen. Nor was there time for discussion, for the farmer and his two men came tramping into the kitchen, kicking off their boots and demanding lunch.

  It was at lunch a week later, when Gregory was again at the farm, taking with him an article on electricity as a pretext for his visit, that the subject of the stinking dew was first discussed.

  Grubby was the first to mention it in Gregory’s hearing. Grubby, with Bert Neckland, formed the whole strength of Joseph Grendon’s labour force; but whereas Neckland was considered couth enough to board in the farmhouse (he had a gaunt room in the attic), Grubby was fit only to sleep in a little flint-and-chalk hut well away from the farm building. His ‘house’, as he dignified the miserable hut, stood below the orchard and near the sties, the occupants of which lulled Grubby to sleep with their snorts.

  ‘Reckon we ent ever had a dew like that before, Mr Grendon,’ he said, his manner suggesting to Gregory that he had made this observation already this morning; Grubby never ventured to say anything original.

  ‘Heavy as an autumn dew,’ said the farmer firmly, as if there had been an argument on that point.

  Silence fell, broken only by a general munching and, from Grubby, a particular guzzling, as they all made their way through huge platefuls of stewed rabbit and dumplings.

  ‘It weren’t no ordinary dew, that I do know,’ Grubby said after a while.

  ‘It stank of toadstools,’ Neckland said. ‘Or rotten pond water.’

  More munching.

  ‘I have read of freak dews before,’ Gregory told the company. ‘And you hear of freak rains, when frogs fall out of the sky. I’ve even read of hailstones with live frogs and toads embedded in them.’

  ‘There’s always something beyond belief as you have read of, Master Gregory,’ Neckland said. ‘But we happen to be talking about this here dew that fell right on this here farm this here morning. There weren’t no frogs in it, either.’

  ‘Well it’s gone now, so I can’t see why you’re worried about it,’ Nancy said.

  ‘We ent ever had a dew like that before, Miss Nancy,’ Grubby said.

  ‘I know I had to wash my washing again,’ Mrs Grendon said. ‘I left it out all night and it stank really foul this morning.’

  ‘It may be something to do with the pond,’ Gregory said. ‘Some sort of freak of evaporation.’

  Neckland snorted. From his position at the top of the table, the farmer halted his shovelling operations to point a fork at Gregory.

  ‘You may well be right there. Because I tell you what, that there dew only come down on our land and property. A yard the other side of the gate, the road was dry. Bone dry it was.’

  ‘Right you are there, master,’ Neckland agreed. ‘And while the West Field was dripping with the stuff, I saw for myself that the bracken over the hedge weren’t wet at all. Ah, it’s a rum go!’

  ‘Say what you like, we ent ever had a dew like it,’ Grubby said. He appeared to be summing up the feeling of the company.

  Leading off the parlour was a smaller room. Although it shared a massive fireplace with the parlour – for the whole house was built round and supported by this central brick stack – fires were rarely lit in the smaller room. This was the Best Room. Here Joseph Grendon occasionally retired to survey – with some severity and discomfort – his accounts. Otherwise the room was never used.

  After his meal, Grendon retired belching into the Best Room, and Gregory followed. This was where the farmer kept his modest store of books, his Carlyles, Ainsworths, Ruskins, and Lyttons, together with the copy of The Time Machine which Gregory had presented to him at Christmas, complete with a soc
ially-inspired inscription. But the room was chiefly notable for the stuffed animals it contained, some encased in glass.

  These animals had evidently been assaulted by a blunderer in taxidermy, for they stood in poses that would in life have been beyond them, even supposing them to have been equipped with the extra joints and malformations indicated by their post-mortemnal shapes. They numbered among them creatures that bore chance resemblances to owls, dogs, foxes, cats, goats and calves. Only the stuffed fish carried more than a wan likeness to their living counterparts, and they had felt such an autumn after death that all their scales had been shed like leaves.

  Gregory looked doubtfully at these monsters in which man’s forming hand was more evident than God’s. There were so many of them that some had overflowed into the parlour; in the Best Room, it was their multitude as well as their deformity that appalled. All the same, seeing how gloomily Grendon scowled over his ledger, Gregory said, thinking to cheer the older man, ‘You should practise some more taxidermy, Joseph.’

  ‘Ah.’ Without looking up.

  ‘The hobby would be pleasant for you.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now he did look up. ‘You’re young and you know only the good side of life. You’re ignorant, Master Gregory, for all your university learning. You don’t know how the qualities get whittled away from a man until by the time he’s my age, there’s only persistence left.’

  ‘That’s not –’

  ‘I shall never do another stuffing job. I ent got time! I ent really got time for nothing but this here old farm.’

  ‘But that’s not true! You –’

  ‘I say it is true, and I don’t talk idle. I pass the time of day with you; I might even say I like you; but you don’t mean nothing to me.’ He looked straight at Gregory as he spoke, and then slowly lowered his eyes with what might have been sadness. ‘Neither does Marjorie mean nothing to me now, though that was different afore we married. I got this here farm, you see, and I’m the farm and it is me.’

  He was stuck for words, and the beady eyes of the specimens ranged about him stared at him unhelpfully.