He Who Shrank: A Collection of Short Fiction

by Henry Hasse

  Ketrik pulled the man to a sitting posture. He gazed deep into the eyes which were glazing over with pain. But it was not enough to prevent the true color from shining through ... the color of dull, tarnished gold.

  "I thought so," Ketrik murmured, and then his hand loosened, balled into a fist that drove forward. The man laid back and went limp.

  Ketrik's fingers probed the other's face. The man was a Martian, all right, the features had been subtly altered. Enough to fool even Mark! Captain of the elite guard! How long had the man masqueraded in that position, Ketrik wondered—and then he shrugged. It didn't matter now.

  He went through the man's clothes, found nothing of interest until he came under the left arm-pit. There, next to the skin, he found a tiny metal disk. He rose, went over to the wall-light to examine his find. The disk was perforated with queer Martian characters. Ketrik knew Martian, but he couldn't quite make these out. He bent closer.

  A sixth sense warned him, or perhaps it was some slight sound. He whirled. The Martian's hand had moved, was now grasping the electro which he swung up into line. Ketrik's hand dropped and he fired his own heat-beam from the hip. The beam cut a clean swath across the other's chest, and he died without so much as a sigh.

  "Sorry, buddy, whoever you are," Ketrik whispered. "Guess I'd have had to do that anyway, though. When Dar Vaajo plants Specials like you on Earth, we don't play for fun!"

  He fastened the identification disk under his own arm-pit. Five minutes later, from the starboard lock, he dumped the body into space and without a qualm, rayed it to dust.

  Then, champing with impatience, Ketrik allowed his "freighter" to plod Moonward. He skirted within five thousand miles of it, then with the satellite as a shield between him and Earth, he charted for Mars.

  His brush with the Martian operative had sobered him. He began to realize that Mark had every reason for alarm! The subtle tampering with the Council's mental patterns, the placing of operatives in high Earth positions, the secret scientific experiments on Mars—they all had to tie in. He was sure of one thing now. Dar Vaajo, an embittered old man, was making one last bid which would bring his race to its former glory or else carry it forever to extinction with him.

  There were surely other Martian operatives on Earth, and they would have established a communications base. By this time they had undoubtedly flashed the news of his coming. Ketrik smiled inwardly. Very well—they'd be expecting him at Turibek, but he'd take the indirect approach.

  All the way to Mars his mind was at work. He was remembering days he'd spent in that wild desert country of South Mars. From the tide of his thoughts he segregated events ... places and people ... the canals and cruel deserts, the customs of the Rajecs, those fierce black outcasts from the cities of Mars. He knew that before he got through to Turibek, he'd need all this. Already a plan was forming....

  Twenty hours later he sighted a Mars patrol, six formidable spacers athwart the Earth-route. They moved leisurely, in perfect formation, and Ketrik knew their network of "finder beams" covered a large area. However, the power-principle of the Frequency Tuner defied those "finders." No challenge came through his open radio, which meant they hadn't sighted him yet.

  A solid black ship was strictly against the Space Code, but Codes mattered little now! With the ebony backdrop of space behind him, Ketrik's ship would be hard to detect. He decided to try a sneak past them. He'd have to go into Inferior-plane, but he was sure he could make it.

  Quickly he changed course, swept into a sharp parabola that carried him far below the Ecliptic. In a matter of minutes he was watching the Mars-cruisers fade away into darkness. His present course would bring him far over into Mars' darkside, but that was what he wanted anyway.

  Hours later the vast South Desert was rising up below him. Deimos had just appeared, climbing with slow majesty across the sky; Phobos would come a few hours later, pursuing its reckless course. Ketrik peered far ahead to the horizon. There, against the dark downward curve, he saw a faint glow that was not the glow of Deimos. He knew that must be the capital city, Turibek, untold miles away. He made swift calculation. To the right, then, would be the K'Mari Range. He knew those mountains. It would be the very place to leave his ship.

  He dropped lower and headed for there. The pale ghost-glow of Deimos didn't help much. He switched to infra-red, peered at the V-Panel as it lighted up and saw the unmistakable, serrated line of mountains about twenty miles away. He had judged it that close! Ketrik grinned proudly.

  It was short-lived. A Martian voice sliced through the radio, shrill and commanding.

  "Ground! You, below there—you will ground immediately or we blast!"

  Then Ketrik realized that for the past several minutes there had been a faint humming sound from above and all about him, scarcely heard. He had relaxed in his vigilance, and the Martian 'copters had picked out his trail—those fast-powered and deadly scouting ships. They too must be equipped with infra-red!

  Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Ketrik was acting. He leaped away from the V-Panel, grabbed the Control and threw it over. Too late now! The ship responded, but sluggishly. The nose veered sharply upward, trying to leap away—then the entire hull shuddered. Power-beams! It must be a vast concentration of them, to stop Frequency power! Slowly his forward progress was retarded. Relentlessly he was being forced down into the Martian sands. Again the voice sliced through.

  "It is useless, outlaw! We've had you in our finder for the past five minutes and you are in a network of Power-beams. Nullify your control immediately or we blast!"

  Ketrik cursed. Already his ship was straining at the seams. And now he felt insufferable heat all about him, realized they were using the beams. His stomach turned over as he thought of his rocket-tubes loaded with fuel....

  Quickly he entered the starboard lock; stood peering down. He was dropping fast. Above him now he saw hosts of vague shapes, heard the whine of Martian 'copter blades cutting the air. The metal under his fingers was growing hot. He counted to five, slowly ... and leaped outward.

  It may have been thirty feet—or fifty. Ketrik only knew that he was plummeting downward. He let his muscles go limp, and just in time. He hit the sand hard, rolled over once and knew that no bones were broken. Above him he saw the pale glow of heat-beams, saw the hull of his spacer growing cherry-red ... and suddenly realized his danger.

  He staggered up, went ploughing across the desert, still mentally counting off the seconds ... "eight ... nine ... ten...." The explosion lighted the sky for a hell-filled moment. Ketrik went hurling forward, to land head foremost into the sand. Parts of his ship came thudding down about him.

  One fragment, red-hot, landed against his arm and burned it severely. Other fragments scattered over a wide area. Ketrik was cursing now, unconsciously using the mono-syllabic Martian in which he had versed himself.

  Then it was all over. Ketrik was glad of only one thing. His ship was gone, but the Frequency Tuner had gone with it! The Martians would never get that priceless power unit. He rolled to his back and looked up.

  It was not over! A few 'copters were descending to view the wreckage—or perhaps to look for him. Had they seen him jump? Powerful searchlights began criss-crossing the area. Again he staggered up, went forward into darkness. Every muscle ached, but his eyes were alert for the beams. Whenever one passed near him, he flattened into the sand. After untold agonies, he judged that he was fairly safe. Far behind, he heard the drift of excited Martian voices.

  He didn't rest. He kept going away from those voices. They might still be looking for him. He was utterly confused in his direction now. He could be going toward Turibek, or toward K'Mari Range ... or out into the vast wilderness to the south. One of those dark storms was sweeping up, and Deimos was hidden. Soon the sharp sand began to pelt him.

  Ketrik turned up his collar and ploughed on. He remembered that those storms usually, but not always, came up from the south. He guided his direction by th
at, and plunged on.

  "At least one thing's settled," he muttered after a while. "I'm relieved of the problem of hiding my ship!"

  III

  Through adventures on every far-flung world, every barren satellite, Ketrik's uncanny "time-awareness" had never failed him. It didn't now. He knew that it was precisely one hour and twenty minutes later when he saw the flickering lights, so he couldn't have come far. He saw the lights but once, quite a distance ahead and low against the ground. Then they were gone as the sand rose in renewed fury.

  He moved cautiously now. He didn't see the lights again but knew he was going toward them. Ketrik was no stranger to this south desert. Now the old nameless awareness was with him. It may not have been anything he heard—but he suddenly knew that very close, just beyond the radius of his vision, unknown shapes moved through murky darkness. The very sands seemed to whisper the danger. But Ketrik heard other sounds now. The sounds he heard were sibilant footsteps and they were patient, very patient, as they kept pace with him.

  He became suddenly motionless, held his ears attuned. The soft footsteps stopped, but not before Ketrik determined that they were on both sides of him now and probably behind him as well. He nodded grimly and went on, no longer trying to tread softly. He loosened the electro in his belt. These might be Rajecs or they might be the scavenger rats that trailed a man until he dropped. In either event....

  He knew very soon. They came hurtling out of darkness at him, great black shapes, silent and swift. But they were man-size, which meant they were Rajecs. His electro was out, but he didn't get a chance to use it. A muscular hand seized his arm and bore it painfully backward. Other Rajecs crowded in. Even at this close range Ketrik could see little except their eyes, feral as flaming topaz.

  Even Ketrik could not fight that which he could not see. But he tried, tried grimly until the weight of their bodies bore him down. He remembered that these people could see in darkness. They undoubtedly saw that he was "Martian," and his life would be forfeit unless....

  He was trying to remember something else, something out of Rajec legendry. A single word. It came to him then, and he ceased fighting. He whispered the word fiercely.

  "S'Relah!"

  It was magic. The clutching hands loosened. He could feel the black muscular figures draw back, hesitant.

  "You are Martian!" one of them hissed.

  "But S'Relah, I tell you!" Ketrik spat the word. "I am one of you!"

  They helped him to rise, but kept firm grip on his arms. "We will see. Come."

  They went forward through darkness. Presently they were mounting a slight rise. From the top of it Ketrik looked down at the campfires of a Rajec caravan, a large one.

  As they moved down the slope, Ketrik realized he'd have to stick to his word. His mind raced, building up a brief but, he hoped, suitable story. He was sufficiently versed in Martian history. He knew that aeons ago vast tribes of these black-skinned Rajecs had been dominant on the planet. But the "Upper Martians," so called, had progressed phenomenally. They were superior in the arts, social government, science, and the "culture" of warfare. They had swept down from the north, expanding, building their cities and developing their waterways, the now famous Canals. A bitter thousand-years' war had driven the Rajecs ever southward into the merciless deserts.

  There they had stayed, waging periodic but futile warfare. Wild and tribal now, they still had never forgotten. The S'Relah was a fanatic, inter-tribal society ... persisting through countless generations, dedicated to a relentless hate of those upper Martians. And Ketrik knew what few men knew—that among the S'Relah were many renegade Martians, outlaws and embittered "politicals" usually, working through the Society for personal gain or revenge.

  Ketrik had his story ready as they came into the camp. The Rajec leader was sent for. This man was large, well proportioned, the muscles beneath his ebon skin high-lighted in the glow of the central fire. He was armed merely with a razor-edged dagger in a jewelled belt. Ketrik, looking at him, felt respect and a certain foreboding—the latter occasioned by the slight enigmatic smile about the other's lips.

  The man eyed Ketrik with equal interest. His keen gaze lingered overly long on his "Martian" features. He certainly noted the electro which Ketrik retained, but it didn't seem to bother him. He spoke at last, in Martian.

  "You claim to be S'Relah. We will need proof of that. What is your name?"

  "Khosan."

  "Ah, yes. Khosan. And where do you come from?"

  "L'Ottli." Ketrik named a small mining camp far to the south. "Been prospecting there for six months, trying to make stake enough to get up to Turibek."

  "Yes. We, too, go to Turibek. You knew that?"

  Ketrik allowed puzzlement to show in his eyes. The other went on. "You seem surprised, Khosan. Had you not heard, then, that your emperor, Dar Vaajo, has signed a treaty with the consolidated tribes of Rajec?"

  "I had not heard. And I believe you lie! The Rajecs would never make treaty!" Ketrik hoped his disbelief sounded convincing.

  "It is true," the black shrugged. "But that does not matter. Your going to Turibek matters. A foolhardy thing to attempt alone!" The enigmatic smile still lingered. "But, then, being at L'Ottli for so long, you were not aware of Dar Vaajo's scouts everywhere. This area has become thick with their 'copters—especially in the last few hours!" There was calculated meaning in the last words.

  Ketrik decided on a bold stroke. He said calmly, "Yes. I am aware of it now. They blasted my plane out of the sky scarcely an hour ago. Perhaps you saw that?"

  "We all have observed a slight display in the sky to the west. You know—Khosan—word reaches us swiftly and in many ways. It is rumored that Vaajo's scouts are seeking to apprehend one who may come here from Earth." The black paused, but Ketrik's eyes never flickered. "They may even search this area. They know our camp is here. There should be a reward of many Martian credits for capture of the one they seek!"

  Ketrik shrugged. "That explains why they fired at me. I guess they mistook me for that one."

  The Rajec's smile vanished abruptly. His next questions came fast. "You are S'Relah? Why are you S'Relah?"

  "Political. Irreconcilable. My father was a 'political' before me."

  "Where do you go in Turibek?"

  "Where the Street of the Double Moon makes juncture with the Low Canal is a tiny shop dealing in curios from the far planets. The proprietor is one Jal Thurlo. I go there for a meeting with him."

  "And the reason? The reason—quickly!"

  Ketrik's gaze leveled and he said slowly, "You would not expect me to tell you that. He too is a 'political'."

  "You can quote the oath of the S'Relah?"

  Ketrik had been waiting for that one. Now, in a low voice, he quoted the oath which not all Rajecs, very few Martians, and probably no Earthman save himself had ever heard. It was a strange and terrible oath, an oath hallowed in blood, and its implications would have made some men blanch. But Ketrik spoke it feelingly. He finished the words and looked closely at the black's face.

  The man was satisfied and strangely moved, albeit slightly puzzled. He drew a tremulous breath at last.

  "You have proven! You may go on to Turibek with us. We travel afoot and the way is slow, but certain."

  "That is agreeable."

  The leader drew Ketrik aside, out of hearing of the others. "At the rear of our caravan is a small group of Martians, prospectors from the nearby mountains—a ragged, harmless lot, whom we tolerate. I think it advisable that you travel with them. Dar Vaajo's Specials are stationed along our route."

  Ketrik nodded curtly, started to move away. The Rajec stopped him. "This mining camp you mention, this L'Ottli where you have been for six months. Is it not far, far to the south, at the extreme end of the K'Mari Range?"

  "That's the place." Ketrik was on his guard.

  "I thought you would like to know there is no L'Ottli. That entire town was wiped out in a great avalanche three years ago. Oh, yes
, one more thing." The black was smiling now, looking at the place on Ketrik's arm where the hot chunk of metal had burned the sleeve away. "That is a bad burn, and a strange one—for a Martian."

  Ketrik looked at his injured arm for the first time. Around the area of the burn was a tiny outline of white—the white skin of an Earthman showing through. Only the keen eyes of this Rajec would have noticed it.

  "I'll give you other garments," the man said. "You had better burn these. Good night, and sleep well—Khosan."

  But Ketrik didn't sleep well. He burned his garments and donned the others, then found the camp of the Martian prospectors. There were six of them, all asleep now. Ketrik found a place by the fire and lay awake, speculating.

  The Rajec leader he trusted. The man was undoubtedly of the S'Relah. But these six Martians would be suspicious of him, a newcomer. If they hadn't yet heard of the search for a spy in the area, they would certainly hear of it on the morrow! And they'd report him to any of Dar Vaajo's "Specials" they met along the line of march.

  That last thought gave Ketrik his answer, a temporary one at least.

  At dawn the caravan moved. The six Martians were surprised at this newcomer, but not yet suspicious. Ketrik didn't give them time to be. From beneath his arm-pit he produced the thin disk which he'd taken from the slain Martian operative. He flashed it briefly, asked a few curt questions, and the men were properly cowed. Apparently they knew the power of Vaajo's Specials.