The 13th Science Fiction MEGAPACK®: 26 Great SF Stories!

by Lake, Jay

  You can’t force the men to go with you, he told himself. You can’t make them believe that the Sirians are dangerous. You’ve got to make them want to return to Earth. And once they get to the village, they’re lost. There’s so little time.…

  He rubbed his chin. He was sure the Sirians had killed Van Gundy. If only Garcia could remember—

  Suddenly he straightened.

  Perhaps it was a blessing that Garcia did not remember!

  Out of desperation that was like a prayer, a plan arose in his brain. It expanded and crystallized, then faded as memory slipped away like a rock under rising water. For a few moments he was a boy on a Dakota wheat farm, staring down at a strange grave.

  Then the water receded; the rock remained. He was again Captain Torkel and the plan lay like an opened flower in his thoughts.

  Please, God, don’t let me forget now. Let me keep my memory for a while longer, just a little while longer.

  His hand tight about his pistol, he strode across the meadow and plunged into the singing forest.

  Rays from the sinking sun penetrated the foliage at intervals, creating islands of rainbow brilliance in the semi-darkness. Leaves fluttered above him. An orange-colored bird darted upward, releasing a cackle that was like shrill, old-woman laughter.

  He moved slowly, hesitating, listening.

  Soon he heard the low voices of Sirians. He stepped off the forest path, concealing himself in foliage. He tried to clear his mind so that the natives would not receive a telepathic warning.

  The Sirians came nearer.

  Captain Torkel counted: one, two, three, four, five. The first, he saw, was Taaleeb.

  Perfect, he thought. Thank you, God.

  He stepped out of the foliage.

  Taaleeb’s features broke into a smile. “Good evening, our friend from Earth-Star. We come to escort you back to our—”

  The smile died. Alarm flooded his face.

  Captain Torkel raised the pistol. “That won’t be necessary. There’s been a change in plan.”

  The Sirian’s dark gaze speared into his skull. “Yes, I see,” he murmured.…

  * * * *

  A few minutes later Captain Torkel returned to the meadow, the five scowling Sirians herded before him. Each carried an uprooted grapevine.

  “You know what to do?” he asked, brandishing the pistol.

  “Your mind has told us,” said Taaleeb sullenly.

  “I don’t like to kill—no more than your people wanted to kill Van Gundy. But, like you, I will if I have to.”

  It seemed strange to Captain Torkel to see a snarl on Taaleeb’s handsome features.

  “You know everything,” the Sirian muttered. “Your mind has guessed how we think and what we have done. Yet you are a fool. You could have had all I promised you—wine, food, happy nights!”

  “But the others—the ones who stoned the rocket—would they have let you keep that promise?”

  Taaleeb digested the question for a moment. “Perhaps not. And perhaps those others were wiser than Taaleeb. I see now that we should have killed you. I am sorry we did not—but perhaps even now it is not too late.” His eyes were like dark, hot fires.

  They walked across the meadow. The darkness was deepening, crawling like a hand over Van Gundy’s grave.

  “The pistol will be in my pocket,” Captain Torkel cautioned his captives, “but it will be ready.”

  The Sirians nodded.

  “And one more thing. Smile.”

  The Sirians smiled.

  They reached the Star Queen just as Lieutenant Washington and Fox and Kelly were stepping out of the airlock. Garcia stood behind them, sleepy-eyed, yawning off the effects of his sedative. The men stared first at the Sirians, then at Captain Torkel.

  Lieutenant Washington said, threateningly, “Get out of here, Captain. We’ve made our decision.”

  “No,” said Captain Torkel. “I’m going to join you. I’m going to the village, too.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Fox. “He’s going with us. Atta boy, Captain!”

  “Why?” asked the stern-faced lieutenant.

  “Because we won’t have to return to Earth—not even if we wanted to. The Sirians are going in our place.”

  Garcia frowned. “Are you crazy, Captain?”

  “No, I was just wrong about the Sirians, Garcia. They’re good people, just like the lieutenant said. They like us. They want to help our people—and they’re going to take the Star Queen back to Earth.”

  “That’s impossible,” spat Lieutenant Washington. “They’re simple natives. They’re ignorant. They couldn’t astrogate that ship.”

  Of course not, thought the captain. No more than we could sprout wings and fly back to Earth.

  He fought to keep his tone calm, convincing. “Why can’t they? They’re telepaths. They’ve gotten all our knowledge from our minds. They can be just as good in space as we are—maybe better. And they’ll save humanity. Right. Taaleeb?”

  “Right,” said Taaleeb, smiling.

  “Wonderful!” said Fox, clapping his hands. “Let’s go to the village.”

  “But they haven’t the intelligence,” protested Lieutenant Washington. “Captain, I think you’re—”

  “Look at the way they’ve learned to talk our language. Doesn’t that indicate an extremely high intelligence?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Fox. “It does, Lieutenant. Let’s go, Captain. Ready?”

  Garcia edged forward, blinking the drowsiness from his eyes. “How about Van Gundy, Captain? Who killed Van Gundy?”

  Captain Torkel started to speak. The lie stuck in his throat. He telepathed, You tell him, Taaleeb. You tell him the lie.

  Taaleeb said, “You killed him, friend Garcia. We have looked into your mind. We see what happened. You began to break the portholes. Friend Van Gundy tried to stop you. He had knife, you took knife. You killed him. You took the flame-weapon because you were afraid of what friend captain might do.”

  Garcia groaned. “God. Is that right, Captain? Is that what happened? I—I can’t remember.”

  “I’m afraid so,” sighed the captain. To himself, he said, And I pray you never remember.

  Then he saw Taaleeb glancing anxiously toward the forest. How strong was the Sirian telepathic sense? Strong enough to send to the village for help?

  His fingers were hot and moist on the pistol in his pocket. He struggled to put down the rising anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Taaleeb,” he said, “better have your men take the vines aboard.”

  “Yes,” said Taaleeb, smiling. The Sirians carried the vines to the airlock, laid them within.

  “What’s the idea of that?” asked Lieutenant Washington.

  “It was their idea,” the captain lied. “Those vines will grow rapidly in our hydroponics tanks. They’ll produce something like a bottle of wine for each of them once a month. That’ll be something to make their trip a little more pleasant. And that shows they’re intelligent, doesn’t it?”

  He motioned toward the rocket. “The Sirians want to leave for Earth now, men. Get whatever gear you want out of the ship.”

  “They’re leaving now?” asked Fox.

  “Of course. Tell them why, Taaleeb.”

  The Sirian said, “Because, as your friend captain says, we must allow a margin for error. Your sun may explode a day or two or three before the predicted time. Even if it does not, we wish to see your world as much as possible before its death.”

  * * * *

  Fox and Garcia started to enter the airlock.

  “Wait,” said Lieutenant Washington. “I don’t think I like this.”

  Captain Torkel’s heart pounded. This may be it, he thought. “What do you mean?”
he asked.

  “I mean, these Sirians will be heroes to humanity, won’t they?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And they’ll return here with our race, or what’s left of it, in twelve years?”

  “Yes, God willing.”

  “Then what will our people think of us? What will they do to us?”

  This is it, the captain told himself. He could feel blood pulsing through his temples like drumbeats. “They won’t like us for what we’re doing. That’s a cinch. But there’s no other solution. You wouldn’t want the Sirians not to go, would you?”

  The lieutenant slowly shook his head. “No. Of course not.”

  “No,” chorused Fox and Garcia weakly.

  The lieutenant snapped, almost accusingly, “Then we’d be exiles from our own people. They’d call us traitors.”

  “Who cares?” said Fox.

  “I care,” grumbled the lieutenant.

  Captain Torkel turned to Garcia. “How do you feel about this? Would you care?”

  Garcia wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t care about that. To hell with it. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure if I like the idea of someone else doing my job for me. I’m a good engineer. I’m forty years old, and no one’s ever had to do my job for me.”

  The captain pursed his lips. “Well, I suppose you two could relieve two of the Sirians and go to Earth while Fox and Kelly and I stay here.”

  Lieutenant Washington snorted, “You’ve changed, Captain. You used to be so damned anxious to get back to Earth. What’s happened to you?”

  The captain pretended to be in deep thought. “I suppose it’s because it was hard for me to make that decision not to go back to Earth. When I did make it, it was a solid decision, one not easily changed. Besides, you said yourself that we couldn’t take another six or twelve years in space, that we’d go mad.”

  “But it’s different now. We’ve gotten some of the madness out of us. I haven’t had a drink since this afternoon. Garcia’s got rid of some of his hatred. Maybe killing Van Gundy was like a kind of shock treatment to him. And Fox—”

  “He’s right,” Fox interrupted him. “I’m going to stay here. Don’t try to talk me out of that. But I feel cleaner inside. I guess when you know that nobody’ll stop you from stealing, you lose desire.”

  “Even Kelly’s better,” said the lieutenant. “Look at the way he’s been talking.”

  Captain Torkel nodded. “Yes, and my memory’s been better these past few hours. You know, men, I do keep thinking of what Taaleeb said. He said he wanted to see as much as possible of our world before its death. If those predictions should turn out right, we’d have a whole week to spend on Earth. I could see Dakota again, see the wheat and the sky and the hills.”

  Lieutenant Washington mused “And I could fly down to Louisiana, take a look at Maine, too. Maybe put some flowers on Mom’s grave, make her ready to become warm again.”

  Garcia said wistfully, “And we could see Monterey and the boats and listen to the gulls. And maybe that old flower peddler Van Gundy knew is still in Frisco. I bet Van Gundy’d like us to find out.” He began to laugh almost hysterically.

  “I’m going to stay here,” declared Fox, “but we never thought of that week, did we? We kept thinking of being in space for twelve unbroken years. It wouldn’t be that way at all.”

  Captain Torkel asked, “Wouldn’t you like to see Broadway again, Fox? I’ll bet they’ll have it all lit up, all shining and proud and full of life. Wouldn’t you, Fox?”

  Fox gulped. Even in the gathering darkness, the captain saw tears in his eyes. “I—yes, Captain. I guess I would.”

  “And your wife, Fox?”

  Fox wiped his eyes. “I don’t know.” Then he jerked backward. “I just thought of something. My wife’ll be here in twelve years. She’ll make the journey all right, make it if she has to take a rocket by herself and hold it together with hairpins. She’ll locate me, too. When she finds out what I’ve—”

  Fox suddenly stood very straight and heroic. “Captain, I’m going back to Earth—right now.”

  “And I,” said Lieutenant Washington deeply.

  “I want to go,” said Garcia, his voice cracking, “but I’m a murderer. You don’t want a murderer with you, do you?”

  Captain Torkel glanced nervously toward the forest. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw faint reflections of lights, and voices.

  “We need you, Garcia. You’ve got to take care of those engines. We’ll have a trial. Court is now in session. How do you plead?”

  “I—”

  “Guilty. Okay. Sentence suspended. Let’s get aboard.”

  He kept his hand in his pocket, tight about the pistol. To Taaleeb he said, “Thanks, friend, but I guess we won’t need your help after all.” He shot out the thought: Keep smiling, fellow. Keep smiling until the very last second.

  Fox slapped Kelly’s face to gain his attention. “Kelly, we’re going back to Earth. We’re going home, back where your wife is. You want to come along or stay here alone?”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  “Kelly, Kelly—”

  “Where, Kelly? To the village or to Earth? Damn you, say it!”

  “Kelly go—Earth.”

  * * * *

  Captain Torkel leaned back in his crash-chair. The rocket shook under the vibration of thundering atomic engines. He flicked a switch. Acceleration began.

  “Brace yourselves, men! Earth, here we come!”

  Before the rising acceleration froze his movements, he snapped on the starboard visi-screen.

  He stared only for a second.

  He stared at the mass of Sirians filtering out of the dark forest, their sleek bodies illumined by the crimson glare from the jets and by the trembling fires from their torches.

  They were like red devils, their faces contorted in rage and hatred as they poured over the meadow. Captain Torkel shivered at the sight of the knives, stones, clubs in upraised hands, at the savage mouths spitting forth alien oaths. This was what mankind would meet when the refugee ships began to land, twelve years hence.… But they had twelve years to decide what to do about it.

  Then the image was swept away in space like a red stone falling into the depths of a black pool.

  Captain Torkel turned off the screen. Acceleration pushed him deeper and deeper into his chair.

  Soon the thunder of the jets faded, and there was silence. The blackness of space pushed itself against the ports. Captain Torkel cut the engines.

  “Beautiful Louisiana,” said Lieutenant Washington in low, reverent tones, “and lovely Maine.”

  “Good old Broadway.”

  “And the gulls and boats at Monterey.”

  “And North Dakota.”

  “Heaven,” mumbled Kelly.

  THE HERMIT OF MARS, by Stephen Bartholomew

  Originally published in Worlds of Tomorrow, October 1963.

  When Martin Devere was 23 and still working on his Master’s, he was hurt by a woman. It was then that he decided that the only things that were worthwhile in life were pure art and pure science. That, of course, is another story, but it may explain why he chose to become an archeologist in the first place.

  Now he was the oldest human being on Mars. He was 91. For many years, in fact, he had been the only human being on Mars. Up until today.

  He looked through the transparent wall of his pressurized igloo at the puff of dust in the desert where the second rocket had come down. Earth and Mars were just past conjunction, and the regular automatic supply rocket had landed two days ago. As usual, Martin Devere, taking his own good time about it, had unloaded the supplies, keeping the things he really needed and t
hrowing away the useless stuff like the latest microfilmed newspapers and magazines, the taped TV shows and concerts. As payment for his groceries he had then reloaded the rocket with the written reports he had accumulated since the last conjunction, plus a few artifacts.

  Then he had pushed a button and sent the rocket on its way again, back to Earth. He didn’t mind writing the reports. Most of them were rubbish anyway, but they seemed to keep the people back at the Institute happy. He did mind the artifacts. It seemed wrong to remove them, though he sent only the less valuable ones back. But perhaps it couldn’t be helped. One time, the supply rocket had failed to return when he pushed its red button—the thing was still sitting out there in the desert, slowly rusting. Martin Devere had happily unloaded the artifacts and put them back where they belonged. It wasn’t his fault.

  The puff of dust on the horizon was beginning to settle. This second rocket had descended with a shrill scream through the thin air, its voice more highly pitched than it would have been in denser atmosphere. Martin Devere had looked up from his work in time to see its braking jets vanish behind the low Martian hills a few kilometers distant.

  It was much too large to be an automatic supply rocket, even if there had been reason to expect another one. Martin Devere knew it could mean only one thing—someone was paying him an unannounced visit.

  He waited, watching through the igloo wall to see who had come to poke around and bother him after all these years.

  At first he was annoyed that the people at the Institute hadn’t let him know visitors were coming. Then he reminded himself that it had been years since he’d taken the trouble to listen to his radio receiver, or to read the messages they sent him along with supplies.

  After a long time, he made out a smaller dust-puff, and then a little sandcat advancing slowly across the desert. Riding on top of it were two men in space suits.