Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  He ran fast, fast as he knew he would be able to run if he ever tried, faster than they thought, and he was stronger than they thought, and he had kept that to himself, so they never thought he could break the barrier.

  There was a small rise of ground between him and the Dome now, and he felt better. He was free and they would never find him, because he wouldn’t let them find him. If he saw one of them coming after him, he would run and run—

  Or—

  He smiled to himself. He was stronger than they thought he was, because they never thought he could break the barrier, and if he saw one of them coming toward him, one of them inside of a black, shiny thing, he would—he would—

  He didn’t want to think. Not now. He wanted to run.

  There was a dark patch ahead of him, the big dark patch. He knew that he could go into it like he had seen things that moved do.

  (Some things moved, and they were the things that were alive like he was alive, and the things that didn’t move, they were the things that were not-alive.) He had seen alive things, big, pretty alive things, move in and out of the woods, so he knew that he could go in, and he knew that it would hide him.

  Often he had looked out from behind his barrier and felt it call to him, that dark patch, call to him in a silent voice that made his blood tingle, call to him, say, “You belong here,” say, “This is your home, your place is here, away from them.”

  He used his hands to help him run, and it made him run faster.

  Squat, insect-like he was, scuttling toward the dark woods.

  The underbrush was thick; it tore at him. But it felt good, even, to have something tear at him, because it meant that he was free of the Dome.

  Deeper and deeper into the woods. Until the tall, gnarled trees were all around him, and the soft darkness they made was all around him.

  Sam rested.

  He drew up his body into a big, fuzzy ball and rested; the ground was warm to him and the wood was friendly to him and he was tired, oh, so very tired because he had run and run.

  Sam slept.

  When he awoke, it was dark—not dim, but dark. There were not even any of the long-tailed things there in the sky. For a moment he was afraid and he was not sure where he was; then, slowly, he knew, and he was not afraid any more. And if he waited, it would get lighter. (It always got light after it got dark, if he just waited.)

  He huddled there, waiting for the huge, bluish sun to rise, to give him light, so that he might see the new world around him.

  By and by he heard strange sounds in the trees, and he knew that something alive, like he was alive, was up there making the sounds. He wanted to be able to see them, but it was still too dark. (Although, far to his left, above the tops of the trees, he could see the jet of the sky begin to color, oh, ever so slightly, and he knew if he waited just a little more he would be able to see the things up there that were alive like he was alive.)

  He thought of the Dome while he squatted, waiting. And he thought of the ugly things inside the Dome.

  They would stand there in the Dome, stand there before a little barrier and look into his room, and they would look in on him, stand and stare and watch him. They were always watching him.

  They were tall and pale—with only two arms and only two legs and only two eyes—and ugly, oh, so very ugly. And they looked all soft and squeezy. If he had one of them in his arms, he could mash it. Into a little pulp.

  But when they got inside the black, shiny things, they weren’t soft any more. They were hard, hard and cold. And he couldn’t mash one of them then.

  Sam had tried.

  Not hard, not so hard they could see how strong he was, but hard enough to see that he couldn’t mash one of them when it was inside a black, shiny thing, and when he touched them, they always touched cold and hard.

  Ever since he could know, they touched cold and hard.

  Sometimes he wanted to touch one of them when it wasn’t inside a black, shiny thing, and it hurt him bad, deep, to think of that—wanting to touch one of them very softly (oh, so very softly), and feel one of them touch him and pet him until he went to sleep. But they always put on their black, shiny things when they came to see him, came into his room to see him, and they touched cold, not at all like he wanted to be touched.

  But lately, it didn’t hurt him so deep. Anyhow, not so much, lately.

  They were too ugly, he told himself, not pretty like him, but ugly, and he didn’t want anything as ugly as that to touch him, he told himself.

  He didn’t like them, he told himself. He never did like them, and that was why he had run away and away, because he didn’t like them.

  It was light, and he could see little things above him moving. They were very pretty, and he wanted to hold one of them in his hands.

  But just to see them made Sam know that he was different from them in a way that he was not different from the ugly ones, and it was very puzzling. He wasn’t like the little, moving, alive things that he wanted to hold in his hands but couldn’t because he did not know how to get up to them, up there in the treetops above him.

  It made him sad.

  He looked around in the first dim light.

  If he were back in the Dome, they would be bringing in the good-tasting things again; he looked around some more.

  And he saw some of the good-tasting things, hanging ripely red on a bush, there, ripely red and shining.

  They tasted even better than they ever had, and he ate all he wanted, more than they had ever given him.

  He moved on, deeper into the woods, and as he moved, he heard sounds all around him of things moving like he was moving, of things alive like he was alive.

  One time he saw a big bulk of a thing, up ahead, through the dense trees, and he gave a little, sharp shout and ran after it, but it heard him, and it ran away, knocking down the littler of the trees, and he couldn’t catch it because it ran so fast.

  That made Sam feel very bad, very bad indeed, and he sat down and felt very bad for a long time.

  Then he got up.

  This time he wouldn’t let one of them get away; he wouldn’t make a cry so it could hear him; he would be very quiet until he got near enough to reach out and touch it, and then hold it, to keep it from running away.

  Finally he saw another one of the alive things, not as big as the first and lots more furry.

  He crept up on it very slowly.

  He saw, when he was near enough, that it was bending over and eating at something that looked like it might have been alive, once like he was alive, but that wasn’t alive any more.

  Sam was very close now, behind a little tree, watching it eat, hearing it eat, seeing long teeth rip into the thing on the ground.

  Sam stepped out.

  The thing that was eating stopped eating and threw back its head and opened its mouth, and the green stuff dripped from its jaws.

  It made a very loud sound.

  Sam was very happy. Sam made a loud sound, too.

  Sam moved in, and it backed away, still making sounds.

  He got ready, tensing his muscles, and sprang.

  Sam caught it around the neck, and Sam held on to it. It thrashed about but Sam was very strong and he didn’t let it get away.

  It tried to put its long teeth into one of his arms but Sam wouldn’t let it because he was afraid it might hurt him, worse than the brush had scratched him, worse than that.

  For a long time Sam held it while it fought and snarled, and he ran his fingers through its fur, and that felt good to him. Sam made noises of pleasure, and petted it, and liked to feel it warm in his arms against him. It was furry like he was furry. But he knew that he was more like the ugly ones than he was like the furry things.

  So Sam let it go, and it ran away, and Sam felt very sad again, and very puzzled, too.

  Sam sat down on the ground and looked at the thing that lay on the ground, not moving, half eaten up.

  Sam squirmed over, alongside of it, and petted it, but i
t wasn’t any fun because it was still and cold.

  Sam finally took his strong hands and tore out some, of the greenish meat.

  Sam tasted it, and it was good, better even than the round, red things.

  He ate until he couldn’t eat any more, and then he coiled up against what was left of the body that had fed him and slept for a long time, happy.

  Sam was hungry again. He had moved on into the woods, and he was hungry again.

  He knew he was hungry when he saw one of the furry things like he had eaten of, ahead of him, eating off of the low-hanging leaves.

  Sam knew that if he walked up to it, it would run; knew that if he wanted it to lie down so he could eat of it, he would have to make it lie down, or it would run away.

  Sam was afraid he couldn’t get close enough because there was an open space, a wide open space between them, and if he tried to cross it, it would see him and run away.

  Sam wrinkled his brow.

  Then Sam picked up a hard thing that lay on the ground, a big, hard thing, that was heavy.

  Sam knew he could hit the alive thing before him with it, and when he did, he would knock it down, like he had knocked one of the ugly ones down, in his room there, against the Dome, when it had brought him his good-tasting things.

  Sam threw the rock.

  Sam heard it hit and Sam was right behind it. He pounced on the live thing that lay kicking, rushed and fell on it, and it squealed and squealed and Sam knew that it was afraid.

  Sam dug his hands into it, and it squealed some more.

  After a time, it stopped squealing, and Sam ate, ate of the warm meat.

  When he finished eating, he thought about what had happened, and he decided that alive things don’t like to be made not-alive things.

  And he thought he ought to remember that: for if he didn’t like something, he might want to do something to the thing he didn’t like that it wouldn’t like to have done to it.

  Sam squatted on the hill and looked down on the Dome. It was a very tall and very steep hill, and the Dome lay down at the bottom of it, and Sam looked down on the Dome.

  He crouched very low, so they wouldn’t see him. He could see some of them in the black, shiny things on the outside of the Dome.

  But he knew they weren’t waiting for a long-tailed thing.

  A long-tailed thing was very big and very pretty, and it made a loud sound like thunder-rumble. Only it just came once in a great while, and it stopped on the big, level place there. The black, shiny things would take stuff out of it and put stuff into it, and then, after a while, it would give a big sound, and its tail would lick out and out—the most pretty tail—and it would jump up into the air, and go up and up until it was just a little speck, just like one of those other specks up there. Sam thought maybe that’s what stars were, long-tailed things, far, far away.

  But they weren’t waiting for a long-tailed thing today. They were still looking for Sam, and if they found him, they would bring him back, and then they would put him in the room again, on the outside of the Dome, there, where they could watch him.

  There had never been anything but the room. Ever since he could know, he had always lived in the room. At first he was very little—so little that he could hardly know at all; and even before that, he thought; as if he had started to be alive there.

  And they always watched him. (And when he didn’t feel good, they would do things to make him feel better.) It was very strange, somehow: why they wanted to do all the things they did: as if they were all there just because he was, and for no other reason, and the only thing they wanted to do was watch him.

  Sam didn’t like that, not at all, because they were ugly, and they would never pet him and hold him like he wanted to be petted and held.

  Sam was very still, watching.

  He didn’t like them. He wanted to do something to hurt them, because he didn’t like them; do something like he did to things he wanted to eat of, make them not-alive, because things that are alive don’t want to be made not-alive; he wanted to make the soft, ugly things not-alive. Because they never petted him, never once petted him as long as he could remember.

  Sam thought and thought about it, sitting there, very low to the ground, watching the Dome, and he finally thought of something he might do to them that they wouldn’t like.

  For he knew that they always put on the black, shiny things when they came out of the Dome, into his air, even into his air there in the room. And he thought (for he was cleverer than they thought he was) that the soft, ugly things put on the black, shiny things when they came out into his air because they didn’t like his air just like he didn’t like their air. (He had smelled it once, when some of it had leaked into his room; it was hotter than anything he had ever felt, and it made him very sick, and it hurt his eyes so he knew that he didn’t like their air, not at all.)

  And maybe that was why they had the Dome, so they wouldn’t have to live in his air.

  And if they didn’t like his air, maybe—

  Sam was excited. He was so excited that he wanted to jump up and down, but he was afraid to, because they might see him and then come and get him and take him back to his room . . .

  Maybe, Sam thought, his air would make them not-alive. They wouldn’t like that.

  Sam crept down off the hill and then, when he was out of sight of the Dome he jumped up and down, and he squealed little squeals of happiness.

  After 10 periods of the light, Sam was back again. The eleventh period was just beginning, and the bluish sun was purpling the horizon, way out over the mountains beyond the Dome.

  And he looked down at the Dome and he smiled to himself and he felt very happy. It had been hard to do, but he felt very happy because it was done. He sat there on the top of the hill, looking down at the Dome, lying there under him, and he felt very happy.

  It was a big, heavy thing, very big and very heavy.

  It had been a long way away from the Dome, and he had had to move it at night (so they wouldn’t see him) all the way to the top of the hill.

  He had used big sticks that he had found in the woods to move it, and he was very strong, very strong indeed, stronger than they thought, and he had moved it, and now he was ready.

  Sam had worked hard, almost all of the ten dark periods. He stood looking down on the Dome. (And he would break it with the big, hard thing like he had broke the barrier, once with the table.)

  It had been hard to roll, but he knew there was just a little more to do, now, and he put a stick under the big, heavy thing and he pried and pried, with all his might, until the big, heavy thing finally teetered on the ridge and then—

  It began to roll.

  Slowly at first, and then faster and faster as it headed down the steep slope toward the Dome, faster and faster and faster.

  It hit the Dome.

  It was very hard, and it hit the Dome.

  Nothing happened at first, and Sam felt very bad indeed.

  Then he could see, in the dim mists of morning, a dent in the Dome, a dent that the big, heavy thing had made and he thought it made a crack, too, over to one side, away from the dent, made a long, straight crack, as if it was a place not as strong as the rest that had cracked.

  Three black, shiny things came out after awhile.

  Only three.

  Sam thought that maybe that was all of them, that the rest were all not-alive.

  There were only three, and Sam was stronger than they thought he was, and Sam would hunt them down, like he hunted things down that he wanted to eat of.

  He began to clamber down the hill (and he was faster than they thought he was.)

  He caught the first of the black, shiny ones and threw it to the ground; he pounded at the barrier (through which he could see the ugly, white face) until it broke.

  Then he started off after the other two.

  The last one, Sam took his time with. After he had peeled the black, shiny thing off, he shook the not-alive thing that had been inside; all
sorts of funny stuff fell out and lay around Sam on the ground.

  At last he threw the limp, white, ugly thing away and looked at all the other stuff.

  And one of the things started to move. It fluttered and moved in the mild breeze. Sam thought maybe it was alive, and he ran after it and caught it.

  But it was not-alive and Sam turned it over and over in his hands. It was very light and very thin. Sam could almost see through it. Sam looked close at it; wrinkled his brow and looked hard at the funny, black marks on it.

  Dear Bertha,

  The monster has been gone for nearly three Earth weeks. And, to tell the truth, I’m rather glad. I expect we’ll close out this Experimental Station now and catch the rocket after next for home. So I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought.

  After today, we are even going to stop looking for him. But since the whole purpose of the Station has merely been to mutate a human embryo and raise it to adulthood in an alien environment, I think we’ve done all that’s expected of us. In fact, succeeded quite well.

  We have, during the

  Sam shook it very hard but the black marks didn’t come off.

  Sam thought, then, that it might be good to eat. But he found out it wasn’t.

  END

  SURVIVAL PROBLEMS

  Joe White, top plastic specialist with the Research Department of the American Mortuary Society, under contract with the National Institutes of Health, won the Survivor’s Lottery.

  Word traveled up the managerial ladder to Mr. Braswell himself. Mr. Braswell, head of the society, announced that he would attend the testimonial banquet in person: a rare event.

  Mr. Braswell, now seventy-three, appeared no older than fifty. Since before White was born, Mr. Braswell had been taking Go-Slow injections. These, while slowing his metabolic rate and thereby extending his life span, unfortunately slowed down the mental processes correspondingly.

  Attendance at the testimonial was intentionally restricted to White’s immediate associates, Mr. Braswell, and Mr. Braswell’s personal physician, Dr. Franklin. The press was excluded, and White’s bodyguard remained outside.