“All right, careful now with that line.”
“Come on, baby. Here you go. That’s a boy!”
Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed the imploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as he wiggled in anticipation.
He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knew it, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He was surprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered. Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want to protect himself.
He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, their attention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that he had not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.
“Wait!” He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran back into the little crowd. “I’ve got my lunch, want some?”
The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that, and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box. He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within a few feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was about to push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard a deafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.
“Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!”
“There you are, boys. It’s all in knowing how. Just winged him, that’s all. Now pick him up.”
The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie’s misery lay in his confusion. What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward him again, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use this power carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split second following the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in all directions to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it had ordered the stoppage of time.
The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hung motionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way in transverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie dragged himself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability to understand.
As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at first to not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done something wrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed, he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who had in his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from one end; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal’s head. He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made a hissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing. Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, true to its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loud explosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie had stopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and its three legs drawn up into a squatting position.
Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll, torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this ocean country! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beach animals.
Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friends with a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playing with them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn’t fit into. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start the long walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, lie knew he didn’t dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. His fatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had already abused this faculty.
* * * *
When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood in open-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on the spot where Purnie had been standing.
“My God, he’s—he’s gone.”
Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in his hand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope. “All right, you people, what’s going on here? Get him in that box. What did you do with him?”
The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, for to them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure of was that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping around in front of them, and the next moment he was gone.
“Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?”
“Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn’t that him?”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“Benson, I’m holding you personally responsible for this! Now that you’ve botched it up, I’ll bring him down my own way.”
“Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There’s something about that fuzzy little devil that we should... Forbes! I warned you about that gun!”
Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at his friends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide. Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the short distance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified at the spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals below filled him with hysteria.
The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf. Others were pinned down on the sand.
“I didn’t mean it!” Purnie screamed. “I’m sorry! Can’t you hear?” He hopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic and shame. “Get up! Please get up!” He was horrified by the moans reaching his ears from the beach. “You’re getting all wet! Did you hear me? Please get up.” He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he have done this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off, tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring it about.
The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.
Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves. The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding of death.
“Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?”
“I—I can’t move, Captain. My leg, it’s... My God, we’re going to drown!”
“Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?”
“The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of us here in the water—”
“Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he’s—” His sounds were cut off by a wavelet gently rolling over his head.
Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of the animals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregarding the consequences, he ordered time to stop.
Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then he tugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie worked slowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as far as his friends’ safety was concerned. No matter what their condition of life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way until he started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid, where a raised hand signaled the location of a submerged body. The hand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among the logs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.
It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.
Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim after another until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, he started unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there. He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sitting position, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock. Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue into a new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed the chaotic scene before him.
At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away from him.
He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period of time-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off... without him. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness, he
knew he must first resume time.
Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and then to consider if this were the moment to start time before it was too late. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of the knoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.
Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he ordered time to resume, nothing happened.
His heart sank. He wasn’t afraid of death, and he knew that if he died the oceans would roll again. And his friends would move about. But he wanted to see them safe.
He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn’t persuade it by bits and pieces, first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn’t. He had to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind took command...
His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomach and pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled over Purnie as sounds came from the animal.
“What’s the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick! What’s happening?”
“I’m coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We’re either crazy or those damn logs are alive!”
“It’s not the logs. How about us? How’d we get out of the water? Miles, we’re both cracking.”
“I’m telling you, man, it’s the logs, or rocks or whatever they are. I was looking right at them. First they’re on top of me, then they’re piled up over there!”
“Damnit, the logs didn’t pick us up out of the ocean, did they? Captain Benson!”
“Are you men all right?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Who saw exactly what happened?”
“I’m afraid we’re not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—”
“I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We’ve got to round up the others and get out of here while time is on our side.”
“But what happened, Captain?”
“Hell, Rhodes, don’t you think I’d like to know? Those logs are so old they’re petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn’t lift one. It would take superhuman energy to move one of those things.”
“I haven’t seen anything superhuman. Those ostriches down there are so busy eating seaweed—”
“All right, let’s bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can’t walk. Where’s Forbes?”
“He’s sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Or laughing. I can’t tell which.”
“We’ll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along, Forbes! You all right?”
“Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they’ll do anything I say! This one’s got a mind of its own. Did you see that little trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!”
“See if you can find his gun, Schick; he’ll either kill himself or one of us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We’ll be along shortly.”
“Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I’m holding you personally responsible for this. Hee-hee!”
* * * *
Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?
He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks, where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moons he saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two and three, the Weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around the curving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear far behind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.
“Is it possible that we’re all crazy, Captain?”
“It’s possible, but we’re not.”
“I wish I could be sure.”
“See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?”
“He’ll never be the same. He really cracked, didn’t he?”
“Right. And if you’d lost your mind, you’d never be aware of Forbes’s condition; you’d be just like he is. He thinks the world is out of step; you think you’re out of step. You’re O.K., Cabot, buck up.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed back there?”
“You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of us suddenly—”
“Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.”
“Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.”
“But didn’t you notice our little pop-eyed friend?”
“Oh, him. I’m afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly of myself.”
“Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw him too.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.”
“Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Got him in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devil come back to his tormentors— back to us—when we were trapped under those logs?”
“Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn’t do him any more harm.... I’m sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I’m still a little shaky.”
“Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for takeoff. I’ll join you in a few minutes. I think I’ll go back and look around. You know. Make sure we haven’t left anyone.”
“No need to do that. They’re all ahead of us. I’ve checked.”
“That’s my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.”
* * * *
As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw through glazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it was nearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by now had become familiar.
“Where are you?”
Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he was beyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when he returned.
“We’ve made a terrible mistake. We—” The sounds faded in and out on Purnie’s ears as the creature turned slowly and called in different directions. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scattered logs and peer around and under them.
“If you’re hurt I’d like to help!” The twin moons were high in the sky now, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a double shadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watched the creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction of the others.
Purnie’s eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. The beach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmering white square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnie ever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.
<
* * * *
CREATURE OF THE SNOWS
by William Sambrot
The Ugly Earthman has had small chance as yet to assert his antagonisms aspace. But all along familiar planetary frontiers, explorers (of both breeds; questers and conquistadors) daily attack the boundaries of the unknown.
Last year, one of the oldest of old mysteries, the Abominable Snowman, was back in the public prints, under examination on two very different fronts.
Fellow name of Tschernezky In London (a reputable zoologist at Queen Mary College), made a plaster cast from photographs of footprints ascribed to A. Snowman; compared the cast’s prints with those of similarly made prints of the several animals the A. S. is supposed to be; announced (according to Newsweek) that the photo prints had not been, made by bear, langur, or mountain gorilla, but by a “very huge, heavily built, two-footed primate....”
Meantime Edmund (Everest) Hillary went back to the mountains to check the whole matter out; came back and published a series of loudly debunking articles, exposing all evidence offered to him as either fraudulent or honest error. (Whether he saw Tshernezky’s plaster casts, I do not know.)
In any case, the public prints were full of A. S., and s-f was ripe for it; this was the year for Other Creat
ure stories.
* * * *
Ed McKale straightened up under his load of cameras and equipment, squinting against the blasting wind, peering, staring, sweeping the jagged, unending expanse of snow and wind-scoured rock. Looking, searching, as he’d been doing now for two months, cameras at the ready.
Nothing. Nothing but the towering Himalayas, thrusting miles high on all sides, stretching in awesome grandeur from horizon to horizon, each pinnacle tipped with immense banners of snow plumes, streaming out in the wind, vivid against the darkly blue sky. The vista was one of surpassing beauty; viewing it, Ed automatically thought of light settings, focal length, color filters—then just as automatically rejected the thought. He was here, on top of the world, to photograph something infinitely more newsworthy —if only he could find it.
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology] Page 22