He Who Shrank: A Collection of Short Fiction

by Henry Hasse

  "You are wondering why I asked for an Emergency Council, particularly since our Federation has ridden a crest of peace for the past hundred years. Our various governments were never more in accord." He paused for effect, watching the puzzlement grow in their eyes. "Nevertheless, I am convinced that we face the greatest crisis we have ever known! I ask for your fullest cooperation. Any data you can submit—anything—may well be a part of the pattern!"

  Kraaj, the Jovian emissary, shifted his huge bulk nervously. "Pattern? Pattern for what? You speak in riddles, DeHarries!"

  "A pattern so diabolic it's frightening. A pattern I'm convinced is weaving about us all. For example: Earth's complex civilization, atomic-powered industries and commerce, would be irreparably damaged if we were cut off from the Uranium isotope we receive from Mars. You can realize the seriousness when I point out that the annual shipment which should have arrived a month ago—did not arrive."

  Jal Tagar of Mars was instantly on his feet, his heavy-lidded eyes blazing. "I submit that my government is blameless! As you well know, the shipment was dispatched as usual! Your own Earth representatives were aboard—"

  DeHarries turned a smiling countenance upon Jal Tagar which left the Martian Overlord abashed.

  "No accusation has been made," DeHarries said softly, "and none is contemplated. I think we all agree that Mars is blameless."

  Aladdian arose to her full height of four-feet-eleven.

  "DeHarries is right. We have delayed too long. I have felt that there is a strange force at work among us. As you know, Venus has long held the secret of allotropic metal, which makes any space fleet invulnerable. We have guarded it carefully—" [1]

  She placed tiny fists upon the table. "Yet—our most secret documents, concerning the processing of this metal, have disappeared from the vault in our Royal Laboratories!"

  "A matter which need not concern us," growled Rehlek, the Callistan Leader. "Has it not been the Federation policy for each planet to solve its own internal problems?"

  "Save where those problems may effect the status of the Federation!" Aladdian countered. "I submit the theft of our allotropic process as a part of the pattern DeHarries mentioned. Have you nothing to report, Rehlek?"

  "Nothing that would have any bearing—" The Callistan hesitated, then his eyes became worried. "Yes! Simply that during the past year there has been an alarming traffic in tsith-stems among our people. We thought we had this drug traffic stopped, but now it's growing out of hand. We can't trace how it's being entered and distributed. Under the influence of this drug our workers become restless, and easily incited to revolt." Rehlek wet his lips nervously. "Begging your pardon, Aladdian ... these tsith-stems come only from the K'Yarthan Swamp of Venus!"

  Rasping sounds had been issuing from Sarik, the sun-hardened little Mercurian. Now he lifted his shell-like body from the chair. His faceted eyes glittered angrily.

  "We are newest in the Federation. We have tried to cooperate in every way. We even permitted the location, on our planet, of the Federation Prison for Outlaws and Irreconcilables. If what I have to report is a part of your pattern, DeHarries, make the most of it.

  "Recently our vast Solar Reflectors—which protect our cities from the sun—were found to be tampered with! If our engineers had not discovered certain discrepancies in time, thousands of my people would have died under merciless radiations. We are still investigating this foul piece of work. It was deliberate, not accidental." Sarik glared about the table. "I hardly need remind you—we can easily convert our Solar Reflectors into powerful weapons should the need arise!"

  At this open threat, such a clamor of protests arose that DeHarries pounded for order. He gave the floor to Jal Tagar.

  "DeHarries ... I see the reason for alarm. Similar incidents have occurred on Mars. In return for our Uranium, Earth supplies us with engineers for the maintenance and development of our Canals. As long as a year ago, there began a series of breakdowns in our Canal system! Already the desert has reclaimed vast areas of our irrigated lands!"

  Carver, the Earthman from Perlac, rose to deliver the final bombshell. Using the Frequency Tuner, he had traversed the route from his adopted planet in a mere two weeks. The strange world beyond Pluto, to which many of Earth's scientists had migrated, was becoming a power and an asset to the Federation. [2]

  Now Carver announced simply, "We have lost the Frequency Tuner. The detailed plans of this power unit, which we intended to share with the Federation, have been stolen."

  DeHarries broke the stunned silence.

  "And Venus had announced that the secret of allotropic metal should be shared by the Federation. Each planet knew this. Each would benefit. It doesn't seem likely that any planet individually could be behind these thefts and outrages."

  "There's a frightening purpose behind it all," Rehlek of Callisto said worriedly. "Someone or something is seeking to cause disunity. Creating suspicion.... It may easily lead to war!"

  Jal Tagar said, "You have a theory, DeHarries?"

  "A theory and a plan. It's my conviction that in our various governments, in places of highest trust, are men who are not what they seem!" He glanced about, saw that the others did not fully grasp the idea.

  "I mean that literally!" DeHarries went on. "Men whose minds have somehow been seized; who are now under the control of—of an alien intelligence! Something not of our Federation!"

  Sarik waved a disdainful hand. "Men whose minds have been seized? That is fantastic!"

  "Is it? How much do you know of the members of your own Inner Council, Sarik? Just one alien intellect planted there could cause inestimable damage! What do you really know of Jal Tagar, here, beyond what you see? Or of Aladdian? Or of me? I may be an alien—though I deny it. Any one or any several of us may be other than what we seem!"

  Aladdian shuddered, glancing around. "It's an eerie thought—and one to ponder upon! But you said you have a plan, DeHarries?"

  "Yes." He glanced from face to face in the growing silence. "A very simple plan. But I like to think it will work...."

  II

  Curt Emmons paused in his cautious stride. With a supernal sense of keening, he knew he was not alone in the darkness. He threw his shoulders aside. The energast recoil was no more than a soft sigh, but the beam passed so close to Curt's face he could feel the swirling heat of it.

  With a muffled cry, Curt let himself crumple and fall. The muscles of his broad shoulders went tight as he pressed against the hard prison pavement. Weaponless, he realized his only chance was the element of surprise! He saw a darker shadow detach itself from the wall and come toward him. A lone Guard. The man stared down for a moment, then, relaxed, bent over the prone figure.

  Curt propelled himself upward. With an oath the Guard tried to leap back, bring the energast into position. Curt clawed for the gun wrist. His fingers tightened. The Guard was Jovian, Curt realized in an instant of panic. His other hand found the wrist, his feet moved swiftly, then he threw all his strength into the leverage. Bone snapped, and the seven-foot bulk sailed backward into the wall.

  But Curt knew these Jovians! He leaped forward as the Guard tried to rise, brought his knee up under the chin with a sickening crunch. Blood bubbled from the man's lips. Curt sprang upon him, thrust an open hand into his face. He brought the other hand in a vicious, slicing blow across the hard throat muscles. The Jovian plunged forward and lay still.

  Curt came to his feet, breathing heavily. It seemed unbelievable that other Guards were not attracted to the scene! But all he heard was the steady, hollow sound of the pumps supplying air to the Prison Dome. He groped for the energast gun, but couldn't find it now. There was no time to waste!

  He hurried forward, keeping one hand outstretched against the wall. He sought to pierce the darkness ahead. A few minutes later he paused again, as another figure loomed. Curt wished now that he'd found the gun, but it was too late for that!

  "Emmons?..."

  Curt let out a slow breath of relief as the w
hisper came to him. He hurried forward to greet another Earthman.

  "You're late," the second man said. "What happened?"

  "A little trouble. How about the helmets? Get them?"

  "Wouldn't be here otherwise!"

  "The Martian. Did he make it?"

  "Yeah, but I don't see why he—"

  "Never mind that, Rikert," Curt snapped. "Let's go."

  They reached one of the gates. The Martian was waiting. Curt stumbled over another Guard, but this one was dead. A tiny bak-glass needle protruded from his throat.

  "We had some trouble too," Rikert explained.

  Curt wondered which of them had the needle-gun, but he said nothing. When they had donned the oxygen-helmets, Curt produced a triggered electronic key.

  "I managed to smuggle this. It's the only way we'll make it out of here! Don't worry about the alarms, just stay close to me. I have a plan."

  Once in the exit lock, Curt had a moment of foreboding as he watched the huge inner doors close behind them. Again he applied the electronic key. The outer doors opened. They stepped into the unending lava waste of Mercury's nightside.

  No sound reached them now. But Curt knew that already, in the Prison Dome behind them, the alarm was being given. He hugged the outer crystyte wall, hurrying along it away from the exit. The others sped after him. Rikert clicked on his speaker.

  "Emmons, what the hell! This is crazy!"

  "Is it?" Curt didn't stop his half running pace. "You two agreed I was to handle this! They won't think to look for us so close!"

  They stopped at last, huddling against the wall. A half mile behind them the lock was opening again. Two of the surface-cars, on caterpillar treads, blasted out and away. Searchlights slashed the ragged terrain.

  "They won't spend too much time," Curt said. "They figure we're dead men already." Never yet had a prisoner succeeded in reaching the Mercurian cities, hundreds of miles away on the twilight-strip. Curt's face went grim as he thought of their chances. They weren't trying to reach a city! Their destination was the little mountain-range somewhere on the nightside.

  Ten minutes later the surface-cars came back. The Prison lock opened and closed. Grimly, the three fugitives headed into the wastes.

  There'd be no pursuit now.

  Rikert strode forward purposeful as an automaton, and he was much like an automaton in other ways. As silent and grim. As big and hard, and as cold. The square lines of his face were unmoving beneath the crystyte helmet.

  Kueelo was smaller, but he managed to keep pace. His eyes burned brightly in his finely chiselled face. Only the high-pitched, mad little tune on his lips seemed to keep him going.

  Curt Emmons, perhaps more than the others, knew the chances against them. His gray eyes flicked worriedly to the dial inside his helmet. It registered slightly over half, which meant they had two more hours of oxygen. It would be close! He set his lips tight, glanced at his companions.

  He knew Rikert would bear up. It was Kueelo who worried Curt. The little Martian was leg weary, keeping pace on sheer grit alone—grit that stemmed somehow from that eerie little tune eternally on his lips!

  "We're a little ahead of schedule," Curt lied. "Let's take five."

  Kueelo sank down gratefully on the hard rock. Even Rikert eased his bulk down. Then in annoyance he thrust a hand against the Martian.

  "Damn it, Kueelo, turn it off!"

  Abruptly the tune died on Kueelo's lips. He stretched out, gazed with infinite longing at the black sky and myriads of mocking stars. He searched for Mars.

  Curt stared back across Mercury's lava-waste. The Prison Dome was well behind them now. He wished he could say how far ahead their objective lay, the little mountain-range that straddled half the planet.

  "Last chance," Curt told them grimly. "If either of you wants to change his mind, you've just enough oxygen to make it back! They may let you in again—if you want a month of solitary at the radite mines. What about you, Rikert?"

  The big man raised his head, laughed nastily. "Go back to that hell hole? I'd rather die a quick death out here. You getting cold feet, Emmons?"

  Curt flashed darkly. He'd only made the suggestion for Kueelo's sake.

  "You, Kueelo? There's a chance of our missing Landreth. We've been delayed, and he said he'd wait only ten hours with the spaceship."

  The little Martian's face showed white in the darkness. His voice was soft, very soft and musical as always.

  "Thanks, Emmons. But I've waited years for a chance like this. If it were a million to one I'd still say go on." Curt nodded. Sure, he knew. Kueelo was a Martian political, an "irreconcilable," exiled to Mercury six years ago when Jal Tagar's government had taken over Mars. As to Rikert, Curt knew even less. The man had been sentenced for murder or space-piracy. It didn't matter now.

  What mattered was that these two knew even less about him. He wondered how long he'd stay alive if they learned his real status!

  DeHarries had taken into his confidence a mere half-dozen of his most trusted operatives. They were given widespread assignments. None knew what he would find, or where. And Curt's assignment, the Federation Prison, was toughest of all. Not even the Prison overseers knew his true identity! Curt worked with the hardened criminals of all planets, enduring the privations and hardships and awful radite rays.

  Gradually, Curt became one of the select group of prisoners who helped unload the supply ship which arrived twice a year. On its last arrival, just a few days ago, a crew member had slipped a folded note into Curt's hand! The message stated that Landreth would be waiting on the darkside, and would take three men—any three. It set the time and the place.

  Landreth! Curt could scarcely believe his luck. That elusive pirate had disappeared, and was thought to be dead. Apparently not! What new scheme was he hatching now—and more important—did it have a bearing on the unseen forces which DeHarries felt were at work?

  Curt selected Rikert for the escape because the man was big and tough and could handle himself well in a showdown fight. Kueelo he selected for a different reason. It was partly sentiment—but more than that, Curt had a deep-rooted suspicion that Kueelo was more than an ordinary "political"!

  Curt gave the signal, and they continued across the dark uncertain terrain. Jagged rock cut into their boots. Soon they were forced to circle wide around crevices large enough to swallow a man.

  Curt watched the hand on his oxygen gauge drop lower and lower. There could be no turning back now! If they didn't find Landreth's ship within the next hour....

  Rikert spoke, worry creeping into his voice. "We ought to be getting close, Emmons! How about using a signal flare?"

  Curt peered ahead at the cobalt sky. The horizon dropped sheerly away. He shook his head.

  "Only got two flares, can't waste them! Wait 'til we sight the mountains."

  Rikert grumbled, but Curt saved his breath. Half an hour later they glimpsed a serrated line of cliffs low on the horizon. Curt released one of the flares in that direction. They watched it rage in a fiery arc across the darkness for perhaps twenty seconds ... then it disappeared.

  They awaited an answering signal. Anything to guide them! But nothing appeared. The darkness pressed in, almost tangible.

  Despair washed over Curt like a cold wave from the sea.

  "Better set your oxygen flow to one-half," he advised. They hurried the pace now, heedless of sharp rocks and dangerous gullies. Once Curt pulled Kueelo back from a steep brink just in time. The little Martian was staggering.

  Could Landreth have given up hope on them, and hoisted gravs? At the thought, Curt hurriedly brought out the remaining flare. With a prayer on his lips he aimed it, this time in a higher arc.

  Then Kueelo was clutching at Curt's arm, pointing far off to the left.

  There was the answering signal—a thin pencil of light slicing upward. It flashed on and off at intervals, but it seemed a long way!

  Already, sharp pains were slicing through Curt's lungs. He stayed close to Kuee
lo—but the Martian's fatigue seemed to have left him now! He was giving voice again to the peculiar little aria in the higher octaves which Curt had come to know so well. In that strange tune was a challenge, a promise—and something more. It was pagan. It was strength. It got into a man's soul!

  It seemed an eternity. They were nearing the cliffs, stumbling into a rocky ravine. They saw the spaceship, Landreth's ship! But the scalpels of fire in Curt's lungs were unendurable. The spaceship and all the terrain danced and faded away. His legs were leaden, Kueelo staggered against him, and somehow he managed to hold the little Martian upright.

  A vague impression ... a spilled square of light out of which a helmeted figure came leaping. Kueelo collapsed, sliding slowly away. Curt plummeted forward, gasped for air where there was suddenly none, then utter darkness claimed him.

  III

  There was air now. Great gulps of it. Someone had thrown back Curt's helmet, and he could hear the steady thrum of the airostat. It was beautiful music.

  Kueelo had recovered, and Rikert. And a fourth man was there. As Curt came to his feet he heard Rikert's voice, a little suspicious, addressing the stranger.

  "You! You're not Landreth. I thought we were going to meet—"

  "Disappointed? Get going then! Back where you came from!" The stranger's voice was like a whiplash. He held an electro in his hard-knuckled fist. Rikert became silent.

  "So. You'd like to see Landreth, eh?"

  Rikert grinned, wet his lips a little. "Sure would! Don't get me wrong, mister. There's one man I'd like to join up with, if he's operating again!"

  Curt watched the stranger, saw him grin as though secretly amused at Rikert's words.

  "Later!" the man said. "Right now get this through your heads, all of you. Your lives were forfeit at the mines, and that isn't altered by your being here! I'll blast the first one who makes a wrong move." He gestured with the gun, surveyed them coldly. "Good. Now you will strip. Put your clothes over here."