Honeymoon in Hell

by Fredric Brown

  “And Lecky—or the thing that was running Lecky—told ; me they’d been using me as a guinea pig, that they could have put a ring on me, taken me over, at any time. But they wanted a check on how they were doing at imitating normal people. They wanted to know whether or not I got suspicious and guessed the truth.

  “So Dick—or the thing that was running him—had kept himself out of sight under Dick’s sleeve, so if I got suspicious of the others, I’d talk it over with Dick—just as I really did , do. And that let them know they needed a lot more practice animating those bodies before they took the ship back to Earth to start their campaign there.

  “And, well, that was the whole story and they told it to 1 me to watch my reactions, as a normal human. And then Lecky took a ring out of his pocket and held it out toward me with one hand, keeping the pistol on me with the other hand.

  “He told me I might as well put it on because if I didn’t, he could shoot me first and then put it on me—but that they greatly preferred to take over undamaged bodies and that it would be better for me, too, if I—that is, my body— didn’t die first.

  “But naturally, I didn’t see it that way. I pretended to reach out for the ring, hesitantly, but instead I batted the gun out of his hand, and made a dive for it as it hit the floor.

  “I got it, too, just as they all came for me. And I fired three shots into them before I saw that it wasn’t even annoying them. The only way you can stop a body animated by one of those rings is to fix it so it can’t move, like cutting off the legs or something. A bullet in the heart doesn’t worry it.

  “But I’d backed to the door and got out of it—out into the Gandymedean night, without even a coat on. It was colder than hell, too. And after I got out there, there just wasn’t any place to go. Except back in the ship, and I wasn’t going there.

  “They didn’t come out after me—didn’t bother to. They knew that within three hours—four at the outside—I’d be unconscious from insufficient oxygen. If the cold, or something else, didn’t get me first.

  - “Maybe there was some way out, but I didn’t see one. I just sat down on a stone about a hundred yards from the ship and tried to think of something I could do. But—”

  I didn’t go anywhere with the “but—” and there was a moment’s silence, and then Charlie said, “Well?”

  And Blake said, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I couldn’t think of a thing to do. I just sat there.”

  ‘Till morning?”

  “No. I lost consciousness before morning. I came to while it was still dark, in the ship.”

  Blake was looking at me with a puzzled frown. He said, “The hen. You mean—”

  And then Charlie let out a sudden yip and dived headfirst out of the bunk he’d been lying on, and grabbed the gun out of my hand. I’d just finished cleaning it and slipped the cartridge-clip back in.

  And then, with it in his hand, he stood there staring at me as though he’d never seen me before.

  Blake said, “Sit down, Charlie. Don’t you know when you’re being ribbed? But—uh—better keep the gun, just the same.”

  Charlie kept the gun all right, and turned it around to point at me. He said, “I’m making a damn fool out of myself all right, but—Hank, roll up your sleeves ”

  I grinned and stood up. I said, “Don’t forget my ankles, too.”

  But there was something dead serious in his face, and I didn’t push him too far. Blake said, “He could even have it on him somewhere else, with adhesive tape. I mean on the million-to-one chance that he wasn’t kidding.”

  Charlie nodded without turning to look at Blake. He said, “Hank, I hate to ask it, but—”

  I sighed, and then chuckled. I said, “Well, I was just going ! to take a shower anyway.” |

  It was hot in the ship, and I was wearing only shoes and a | pair of coveralls. Paying no attention to Blake and Charlie, ; I slipped them off and stepped through the oilsilk curtains of the little shower cubicle. And turned on the water.

  Over the sound of the shower, I could hear Blake laughing and Charlie cursing softly to himself.

  And when I came out of the shower, drying myself, even Charlie was grinning. Blake said, “And I thought that yam Charlie just told was a dilly. This trip is backwards; we’ll end up having to tell each other the truth.”

  There was a sharp rapping on the hull beside the airlock, and Charlie Dean went to open it. He growled, “If you tell Zeb and Ray what chumps you made out of us, I’ll beat your damn ears in. You and your earring gods . . .”

  Portion of telepathic report of No. 67843, on Asteroid— ' J-864A to No. 5463, on Terra:

  “As planned, I tested credulity of terrestrial minds by telling them the true story of what happened on Ganymede. Found them capable of acceptance thereof.

  This proves that our idea of embedding ourselves within the flesh of these terrestrial creatures was an excellent one and is essential to the success of our plan. True, this is less simple than our method on Ganymede, but we must continue to perform the operation upon each terrestrial being as we take him over. Bracelets or other appendages would arouse suspicion.

  There is no necessity in wasting a month here. I shall now take command of the ship and return. We will report no ore present here. The four of us who will animate the four terrestrials now aboard this ship will report to you from Terra ...”

  THE WEAPON

  The room was quiet in the dimness of early evening. Dr. James Graham, key scientist of a very important project, sat in his favorite chair, thinking. It was so still that he could hear the turning of pages in the next room as his son leafed through a picture book.

  Often Graham did his best work, his most creative thinking under these circumstances, sitting alone in an unlighted room in his own apartment after the day’s regular work. But tonight his mind would not work constructively. Mostly he thought about his mentally arrested son—his only son—in the next room. The thoughts were loving thoughts, not the bitter anguish he had felt years ago when he had first learned of the boy’s condition. The boy was happy; wasn’t that the main thing? And to how many men is given a child who will always be a child, who will not grow up to leave him? Certainly that was rationalization, but what is wrong with rationalization when— The doorbell rang.

  Graham rose and turned on lights in the almost-dark room before he went through the hallway to the door. He was not annoyed; tonight, at this moment, almost any interruption to his thoughts was welcome.

  He opened the door. A stranger stood there; he said, “Dr. Graham? My name is Niemand; I’d like to talk to you. May I come in a moment?”

  Graham looked at him. He was a small man, nondescript, obviously harmless—possibly a reporter or an insurance agent.

  But it didn’t matter what he was. Graham found himself saying, “Of course. Come in, Mr. Niemand.” A few minutes of conversation, he justified himself by thinking, might divert his thoughts and clear his mind.

  “Sit down,” he said, in the living room. “Care for a drink?”

  Niemand said, “No, thank you.” He sat in the chair; Graham sat on the sofa.

  The small man interlocked his fingers; he leaned forward. He said, “Dr. Graham, you are the man whose scientific work is more likely than that of any other man to end the human race’s chance for survival.”

  A crackpot, Graham thought. Too late now he realized that he should have asked the man’s business before admitting him. It would be an embarrassing interview; he disliked being rude, yet only rudeness was effective.

  “Dr. Graham, the weapon on which you are working—”

  The visitor stopped and turned his head at the door that led to a bedroom opened and a boy of fifteen came in. The i boy didn’t notice Niemand; he ran to Graham.

  “Daddy, will you read to me now?” The boy of fifteen laughed the sweet laughter of a child of four.

  Graham put an arm around the boy. He looked at his visitor, wondering whether he had
known about the boy. From . the lack of surprise on Niemand’s face, Graham felt sure he I had known.

  “Harry”—Graham’s voice was warm with affection— “Daddy’s busy. Just for a little while. Go back to your room; I’ll come and read to you soon.”

  “ ‘Chicken Little’? You’ll read me ‘Chicken Little’?”

  “If you wish. Now run along. Wait. Harry, this is Mr. Niemand.”

  The boy smiled bashfully at the visitor. Niemand said, “Hi, ' Harry,” and smiled back at him, holding out his hand. Graham, watching, was sure now that Niemand had known; the smile and the gesture were for the boy’s mental age, not his physical one.

  The boy took Niemand’s hand. For a moment it seemed that he was going to climb into Niemand’s lap, and Graham pulled him back gently. He said, “Go to your room now, Harry.”

  The boy skipped back into his bedroom, not closing the door.

  Niemand’s eyes met Graham’s and he said, “I like him,” with obvious sincerity. He added, “I hope that what you’re going to read to him will always be true.”

  Graham didn’t understand. Niemand said, “ ‘Chicken Little,’ I mean. It’s a fine story—but may ‘Chicken Little’ always be wrong about the sky falling down.”

  Graham suddenly had liked Niemand when Niemand had shown liking for the boy. Now he remembered that he must close the interview quickly. He rose, in dismissal. He said, “I fear you’re wasting your time and mine, Mr. Niemand.

  I know all the arguments, everything you can say I’ve heard a thousand times. Possibly there is truth in what you believe, but it does not concern me. I’m a scientist, and only a scientist. Yes, it is public knowledge that I am working on a weapon, a rather ultimate one. But, for me personally, that is only a by-product of the fact that I am advancing science.

  I have thought it through, and I have found that that is my only concern.”

  “But, Dr. Graham, is humanity ready for an ultimate weapon?”

  Graham frowned. “I have told you my point of view, Mr. Niemand.”

  Niemand rose slowly from the chair. He said, “Very well, if you do not choose to discuss it, I’ll say no more.” He passed a hand across his forehead. “I’ll leave, Dr. Graham. I wonder, though ... may I change my mind about the drink you offered me?”

  Graham’s irritation faded. He said, “Certainly. Will whisky and water do?”

  “Admirably.”

  Graham excused himself and went into the kitchen. He got the decanter of whisky, another of water, ice cubes, glasses.,

  When he returned to the living room, Niemand was just leaving the boy’s bedroom. He heard Niemand’s “Good night, Harry,” and Harry’s happy “ ’Night, Mr. Niemand.”

  Graham made drinks. A little later, Niemand declined a second one and started to leave.

  Niemand said, “I took the liberty of bringing a small gift to your son, doctor. I gave it to him while you were getting the drinks for us. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Of course. Thank you. Good night.”

  Graham closed the door; he walked through the living room into Harry’s room. He said, “All right, Harry. Now I’ll read to—”

  There was sudden sweat on his forehead, but he forced his face and his voice to be calm as he stepped to the side of the bed. “May I see that, Harry?” When he had it safely, his hands shook as he examined it.

  He thought, only a madman would give a loaded revolver to an idiot.

  A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR

  Looking at it one way, you could say that it happened a great many different times over a twenty-four hour period; another way, that it happened once and all at once.

  It happened, that is, at 8:30 p.m. on Wednesday, June 9th, 1954. That means it came first, of course, in the Marshall Islands, the Gilbert Islands and in all the other islands—and on all the ships at sea—which were just west of the International Date Line. It was twenty-four hours later in happening in the various islands and on the various ships just east of the International Date Line.

  Of course, on ships which, during that twenty-four hour period, crossed the date line from east to west and therefore . had two 8:30 p.m.’s, both on June 9th, it happened twice. On ships crossing the other way and therefore having no 8:30 p.m. (or one bell, if we must be nautical) it didn’t happen at all.

  That may sound complicated, but it’s simple, really. Just say that it happened at 8:30 p.m. everywhere, regardless of time belts and strictly in accordance with whether or not the area in question had or did not have daylight saving time. Simply that: 8:30 p.m. everywhere.

  And 8:30 p.m. everywhere is just about the optimum moment for radio listening, which undoubtedly had something to do with it. Otherwise somebody or something went to an awful lot of unnecessary trouble, so to stagger the times that they would be the same all over the world.

  Even if, at 8:30 on June 9, 1954, you weren’t listening to your radio—and you probably were—you certainly remember it. The world was on the brink of war. Oh, it had been on the brink of war for years, but this time its toes were over the edge and it balanced precariously. There were special sessions in—but we’ll come to that later.

  Take Dan Murphy, inebriated Australian of Irish birth, being pugnacious in a Brisbane pub. And the Dutchman known as Dutch being pugnacious right back. The radio blaring. The bartender trying to quiet them down and the rest of the crowd trying to egg them on. You’ve seen it happen and you’ve heard it happen, unless you make a habit of staying out of waterfront saloons.

  Murphy had stepped back from the bar already and was wiping his hands on the sides of his dirty sweat shirt. He was well into the preliminaries. He said, “Why, you — — — ! ” and waited for the riposte. He wasn’t disappointed. “— you!” said Dutch.

  That, as it happened, was at twenty-nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds past eight o’clock, June 9, 1954. Dan Murphy took a second or two to smile happily and get his dukes up. Then something happened to the radio. For a fraction of a second, only that long, it went dead. Then a quite calm, quite ordinary voice said, “And now a word from our sponsor.” And there was something—some ineffably indefinable quality—in the voice that made everybody in the room listen and hear. Dan Murphy with his right pulled back for a roundhouse swing; Dutch the Dutchman with his feet ready to step back from it and his forearm ready to block it; the bartender with his hand on the bung starter under the bar and his knees bent ready to vault over the bar.

  A full frozen second, and then a different voice, also from the radio, said “Fight.”

  One word, only one word. Probably the only time in history that “a word from our sponsor” on the radio had been just that. And I won’t try to describe the inflection of that word; it has been too variously described. You’ll find people who swear it was said viciously, in hatred; others who are equally sure that it was calm and cold. But it was unmistakably a command, in whatever tone of voice.

  And then there was a fraction of a second of silence again and then the regular program—in the case of the radio in the Brisbane pub, an Hawaiian instrumental group—was back on. staring at it already. The bartender had taken his hand off the bung-starter. He said, “— me for a — —. What was that an ad for?”

  “Let’s call this off a minute, Dutch,” Dan Murphy said. “I got a funny feeling like that — — radio was talking to me. Personally. And what the — — — business has a bloody wireless set got telling me what to do?”

  “Me too,” Dutch said, sincerely if a bit ambiguously. He put his elbows on the bar and stared at the radio. Nothing but the plaintive sliding wail of an Hawaiian ensemble came out of it.

  Dan Murphy stepped to the bar beside him. He said, “What the devil were we fighting about?”

  “You called me a — — — — ” Dutch reminded him. “And I said, — you.”

  “Oh,” Murphy said. “All right, in a couple minutes I’ll knock your head off. But right now I want to think a bit. How’s about a drink?”

  �
�Sure,” Dutch said.

  For some reason, they never got around to starting the fight.

  Take, two and a half hours later (but still at 8:30 p.m.), the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Wade Evans of Oklahoma City, presently in. their room at the Grand Hotel, Singapore, dress-H ing to go night-clubbing in what they thought was the most romantic city of their round-the-world cruise. The room radio going, but quite softly (Mrs. Evans had turned it down so her husband wouldn’t miss a word of what she had to say to him, which was plenty ).

  “And the way you acted yesterday evening on the boat with that Miss—Mamselle Cartier — Cah-tee-yay. Half your age, and French. Honestly, Wade, I don’t see why you took me along at all on this cruise. Second honeymoon, indeed!” “And just how did I act with her? I danced with her, twice. Twice in a whole evening. Dammit, Ida, I’m getting sick of your acting this way. And beside—” Mr. Evans took a deep breath to go on, and thereby lost his chance.

  “Treat me like dirt. When we get back—”

  “All right, all right. If that’s the way you feel about it, why wait till we get back? If you think I'm enjoying—” Somehow that silence of only a fraction of a second on the radio stopped him. “And now a word from our sponsor . .

  And half a minute later, with the radio again playing Strauss, Wade Evans was still staring at it in utter bewilderment. Finally he said, “What was that?”

  Ida Evans looked at him wide-eyed. “You know, I had the funniest feeling that that was talking to us, to me? Like it was telling us to g-go ahead and fight, like we were starting ' to.”

  Mr. Evans laughed a little uncertainly. “Me, too. Like it told us to. And the funny thing is, now I don’t want to.” He walked over and turned the radio off. “Listen, Ida, do we have to fight? After all, this is our second honeymoon. Why not—listen, Ida, do you really want to go night-clubbing this evening?”