Collected Fiction, page 15
The men with the torches were some distance behind him now. Ahead loomed another familiar outline—a cave. He had clambered over these rocks before, it seemed. He knew the pits of shadow that speckled the cliff rock, and knew the narrow passage of stone through which he now squeezed his prostrate body.
Was that someone shouting, far away? . . .
Darkness, and a lapping pool. He crawled forward, felt chill waters creep over his body. Muffled by distance came an insistent shouting from outside the cave.
“Graham! Graham Dean!”
Then the smell of dank sea-foulness was in his nostrils—a familiar, pleasant smell. He knew where he was, now. It was the cave where in his dream he had kissed the sea-thing. It was the cave in which—
He remembered now. The black blur lifted from his brain, and he remembered all. His mind bridged the gap, and he once again recalled coming here earlier this very evening, before he had found himself in the water.
Morelia Godolfo had called him here; here her dark whispers had guided him at twilight, when he had come from the bed at Doctor Yamada’s house. It was the siren song of the sea-creature that had lured him in dreams.
He remembered how she had coiled about his feet when he entered-, flung her sea-bleached body up until its inhuman head had loomed close to his own. And then the hot pulpy lips had pressed against his—the loathsome, slimy lips had kissed him again. Wet, dank, horribly avid kiss! His senses had drowned in its evil, for he knew that this second kiss meant doom.
“The sea-dweller will take your body,” Doctor Yamada had said . . . And the second kiss meant doom.
All this had happened hours ago!
Dean shifted around in the rocky chamber to avoid wetting himself in the pool. As he did so, he glanced down at his body for the first time that night—glanced down with an undulating neck at the shape he had worn for three hours in the sea. He saw the fish-like scales, the scabrous whiteness of the slimy skin; saw the veined gills. He stared into the waters of the pool then, so that the reflection of his face was visible in the dim moonlight that filtered through fissures in the rocks.
He saw all . . .
His head rested on the long, reptilian neck. It was an anthropoid head with flat contours that were monstrously inhuman. The eyes were white and protuberant; they bulged with the glassy stare of a drowning thing. There was no nose, and the center of the face was covered with a tangle of wormy blue feelers. The mouth was worst of all. Dean saw pale white lips in a dead face—human lips. Lips that had kissed his own. And now—they were his own!
He was in the body of the evil sea-thing—the evil sea-thing that had once harbored the soul of Morelia Godolfo!
At that moment Dean would gladly have welcomed death, for the stark, blasphemous horror of his discovery was too much to bear. He knew about his dreams now, and the legends; he had learned the truth, and paid a hideous price. He recalled, vividly, how he had recovered consciousness in the water and swum out to meet those—others. He recalled the great black hulk from which drowning men had been taken in boats—the shattered wreck on the water. What was it Yamada had told him? “When there is a wreck they go there, like vultures to a feast.” And now, at last, he remembered what had eluded him that night—what that familiar shape on the waters had been. It was a crashed zeppelin. He had gone swimming into the wreckage with those things, and they had taken men . . . Three hours—God! Dean wanted very much to die. He was in the sea-body of Morelia Godolfo, and it was too evil for further life.
Morelia Godolfo! Where was she? And his own body, the shape of Graham Dean?
A RUSTLING in the shadowy cavern behind him proclaimed the answer. Graham Dean saw himself in the moonlight—saw his body, line for line, hunching furtively past the pool in an attempt to creep away unobserved.
Dean’s flippered fins moved swiftly. His own body turned.
It was ghastly for Dean to see himself reflected where no mirror existed; ghastlier still to see that in his face there no longer were his eyes. The sly, mocking stare of the sea-creature peered out at him from behind their fleshy mask, and they were ancient, evil. The pseudo-human snarled at him and tried to dodge off into the darkness. Dean followed, on all fours.
He knew what he must do. That sea-thing—Morelia—she had taken his body during that last black kiss, just as he had been forced into hers. But she had not yet recovered enough to go out into the world. That was why he had found her still in the cave. Now, however, she would leave, and his uncle Michael would never know. The world would never know, either, what horror stalked its surface—until it was too late. Dean, his own tragic form hateful to him now, knew what he must do.
Purposefully he maneuvered the mocking body of himself into a rocky comer. There was a look of fright in those gelid eyes . . .
A sound caused Dean to turn, pivoting his reptilian neck. Through glazed fish-eyes he saw the faces of Michael Leigh and Doctor Yamada. Torches in hand, they were entering the cave.
Dean knew what they would do, and he no longer cared. He closed in on the human body that housed the soul of the sea-beast; closed in with the beast’s own flailing flippers; seized it in its own arms and menaced it with its own teeth near the creature’s white, human neck.
From behind him he heard shouts and cries at his very back, but Dean did not care. He had a duty to perform; an atonement. Through the comer of his eye, he saw the barrel of a revolver as it glinted in Yamada’s hand.
Then came two bursts of stabbing flame, and the oblivion Dean craved. But he died happy, for he had atoned for the black kiss.
Even as he sank into death, Graham Dean had bitten with animal fangs into his own throat, and his heart was filled with peace as, dying, he saw himself die . . .
His soul mingled in the third black kiss of Death.
RAIDER OF THE SPACEWAYS
A startling weird-scientific story, about the fantastic and horrible entity that lay like a cosmic vampire on the hideous Night Side of Venus
1. The Raider Strikes
DAL KENWORTH was collecting the nectar from his elysia plants and swearing quietly as he sacked. He was perspiring in spite of fee rain, for it was the steady warm drizzle that falls constantly on the sunward side of Venus. Thank heaven, he would be free to return to earth when the collection ship came to pick up his elysia—but the ship was not due for a week. He bent the tiny dead-white cup of a bell-shaped elysia flower, and a single drop fell into the transparent tube he held ready to receive it.
Kenworth had scarcely a gill of the fluid to show for a year’s toil on Venus, but it was a good yield, and would be worth seven work-units when placed on the market in N’yok—fifteen thousand dollars, by ancient reckoning. The almost magical properties of elysia as a super-nerve-tonic made it invaluable, for It could be grown only on the scattered islands of the Great Sea of Venus.
The televisor whistled shrilly from the dome-shaped building that was Kenworth’s home. He screwed the top on tire tube of elysia and went to the house, swung in through the door. He clicked the button that vacuum-sealed the room and released a welcome stream of pure, cold air. Then he touched the televisor switch.
On the screen a face sprang out in sharp detail—paper-white, streaked with crimson. The boyish features were twisted with pain, the dark eyes torture-filled.
“Dal!” a voice croaked from the receiver. “Dal—the Raider!”
Ice gripped Kenworth’s heart as he recognized the boy—Jene Trenton, who, with his sister, farmed an elysia garden thirty miles away. The—Raider? Scourge of the spaceways, ruthless pirate of three planets and their moons—why was the Raider on Venus? What was Jene whispering into his transmitter?
“He—he’s seized the collection ship! I—didn’t know—gave him my elysia—then——” The boy coughed blood, clutched at his throat. He went on swiftly, weakly. “He saw Thona! Took her—he——”
The boy toppled. His face came rushing up at the screen, eyes blankly shut. Kenworth was suddenly aware that he was shouting into the transmitter, mouthing frantic questions. The boy’s eyes opened, stared into Kenworth’s.
“Save her—Ken——”
His eyes closed. Blood seeped from his mouth as his jaw fell.
Kenworth saw that he was dead.
A warning throb came from the televisor. Kenworth sprang to the door, flung it open. Against the gray clouds, dim in the rain, a black oval grew larger—the collection ship, swiftly descending. And within it—Thona Trenton and the Raider!
Kenworth found a gas-pistol—a stubby, fiat weapon that was dangerously effective at close range—and a ray-tube, deadly, no longer than a pencil. He went back to the televisor and manipulated a dial. The screen went blank, was suddenly shot with a whirl of racing, blended colors.
He spoke quickly into the transmitter.
“Emergency ether-call! This is Dal Kenworth, son of President Kenworth of the Americas. The Raider is on Venus. He was seized the collection ship and is landing on my elysia farm. He has a hostage on board. Send fighting-ships at once. I’ll try to hold him here.”
Kenworth moved the dial, touched switch. Immediately the screen lighted up, showing his own face. His voice came from the transmitter.
“Emergency ether-call! This is Dal Kenworth——”
Satisfied, Kenworth shut off the televisor receiver. That message would continue to be sent out into the ether until the sending apparatus was shut off or destroyed. And as soon as the ships of the Interplanetary Patrol received it——
HE TURNED to the door. The collection ship, looking like a fat black cigar, was settling toward a cleared space beyond the elysia fields. As he watched it, a door in its side swung open, and a man appeared in the portal, beckoning. Ken worth hesitated. It would not do to cause suspicion—better to behave as though he suspected nothing. He moved toward the ship.
The warm, sticky rain was unpleasant after the brief respite of the air-cooled house. Anger was mounting within Kenworth. Jene—the poor kid—shot down without a chance! Well, the Raider would meet with a different reception here.
“Got your stuff?” the man in the portal hailed.
Ken worth nodded, scrutinizing him as he approached. He saw a clean-shaven face, strong-jawed, twinkling-eyed, burned almost black by the direct rays of am in airless space where even polaroid glass was insufficient protection. The full lips, twisted in a smile, betrayed a certain sardonic amusement. But this was not the Raider, not the hawk-faced, cold-eyed man whose portrait was on the newsboards of a thousand space-ships.
Kenworth decided to play a bold hand. This man would be as anxious to avoid suspicion as was Kenworth. The pirate stood blocking the doorway with his huge bulk, his hand extended. His voice was low, deep,
“Let’s have it,” he said.
Kenworth took a small flask from his pocket, and then, hesitating, thrust it bade. “Let’s get the other matter cleared up first,” he said.
The pirate’s cold eyes flickered.
Kenworth looked surprized. “Didn’t Lanna tell you?” he asked. “Isn’t Lanna here?”
“No. He—was called to N’yok on argent business.”
Kenworth nodded. “I see. Well, it’s about that unreported elysia farm. I’ve located it.”
He saw the other hesitate, and pressed his advantage swiftly. “Let me come in—I’ll show you the spot on your chart. And you can give me the receipt for my elysia.”
Taking his host’s assent for granted, he moved forward. The other stepped aside. Kenworth knew that his gas-pistol was hidden from view beneath his jacket, but he took pains to let his hands swing in plain sight. He had been in the ship before, knew the way to the control room. He went there swiftly, conscious of sharp eyes on his back.
Seated at a desk was a slender man, his hair iron-gray, dressed in the conventional flexible black leather of the spaceways. He stood up quickly as Kenworth entered.
Kenworth held himself rigidly in check, knowing that he dared not give the Raider a hint of anything amiss. He stared at the other briefly, and then nodded.
“I’m Dal Kenworth,” he said, and tossed his elysia vial on the desk. “I can show you where that lost elysia farm is—I spoke to Lanna about it.”
The other did not answer. His eyes probed into Kenworth’s, black and cold as glacial ice. His face was austerely handsome, tanned as black as his companion’s, and seamed with harsh lines. Kenworth had never seen a face so impassive, so capable of concealing all emotion.
At last he spoke. “Good. Lanna told me of it.” His voice was flat, toneless, yet with a curious crispness. He clipped his words oddly.
Kenworth nodded, turned to the chart table. He ran his finger over it as though searching.
“You may have a fight on your hands,” he said casually. “The chap’s been trying to smuggle Ids elysia off Venus. Only two men this trip? I’ll come along if you want.”
He examined the chart, his heart in his mouth. Behind him came the flat, cold voice of the Raider,
“That’s all—just two, Am and I. But we can handle it. Gas him out if necessary, or use the ship’s ray-tube. Thanks anyway.”
About to answer, Ken worth felt something touch his leg. He glanced down—and jumped back, suppressing a cry. The Raider chuckled, and the other man echoed him with a gusty laugh.
“Never seen an octan before? Guess you’ve never been on Mars.”
Kenworth grinned, although he felt a little thrill of repugnance go through him as he stared down at the octan—that strange hybrid of Mars, where so many originally submarine creatures had evolved to land-dwellers as the oceans shrank. Once, millions of years ago, the octan’s ancestors had dwelt in the Martian seas. Emerging on land, they had eventually becoming dwarfed to the size of small terriers. The thing’s round body was covered with a growth of short, reddish fur, and perched atop it was a globe of a head, with two unwinking, baleful eyes set above a parrot-like beak. Its limbs were tentacles—eight of them, furred, and lined with the atrophied remnants of suckers. Although Kenworth knew that the octan was tamed, not dangerous, he could not suppress an involuntary shudder.
THE octan moved toward him, scuttling like a spider on its tentacle-limbs, and then paused, as though sensing his dislike. It gave a shrill whistling cry and ran back, climbing a leg of the desk and crouching atop it.
Kenworth saw that the two men were watching the octan. His chance, then, had come, and if the Raider had spoken the truth, there were only two on the ship—besides the girl, who no doubt was a captive. He snatched the ray-tube from his jacket, drew the gas-pistol with his other hand.
“Up!” His voice cracked like a whiplash, peremptory, challenging.
The big man snarled a surprized oath, made a hasty gesture—and paused, lifting his hands. The Raider’s hands were already in the air. Frightened, the octan leaped from the desk and scuttled from the room. A little feeling of apprehension went through Kenworth. But what harm could the repulsive creature do?
The larger man said, “What’s this? You can’t——”
The Raider interrupted him. “Don’t bother, Arn. He knows who we are.” Yet Kenworth sensed puzzlement in the Raider’s eyes.
Kenworth said, “Where’s the girl? Thona Trenton?”
The Raider smiled slightly. “She’s safe, in a compartment aft. I took her because of Arn. He’s a faithful lieutenant, and deserves some reward—and he said that he wanted her.”
Kenworth felt rage rising within him, fought it down. He said coldly, “You’ll take——
The Raider interrupted. “You should not have let the octan go,” he smiled, amusement in his eyes. “Ruthlessness and logic are the only laws by which one can live. And it was not logical to let the octan go—the creatures are more intelligent than most people think. Surely you did not think I’d fall into your trap and tell you how many I had on this ship! Vakko—use half-strength only. There are things we must learn from our guest.”
And the Raider, his hands still held high, nodded, his eyes intent on some object beyond Kenworth!
2. Flight
KENWORTH was in a quandary. He dared not turn, for the Raider might be waiting for just that opportunity. On the other hand, if there was an enemy behind him.
He pivoted very slowly, keeping his weapons aimed at Am and the Raider. He caught a flicker of movement out of the comer of his eye—and leaped back, swinging the ray-tube.
He was too late. A paralyzing shock went through him—the half-strength energy of the ray-tube—and the weapons dropped from his nerveless hands. He crumpled, fully conscious, but unable to co-ordinate his movements—suffering, actually, from a severe electric shock. Am sprang forward, snatched up tire gas-pistol and the tube.
The Raider chuckled. Another man came into view—a Martian, seven feet tall, huge-chested, with arms and legs thin as pipe-stems, his round face, with its tiny mouth and bulging eyes, like some ludicrous mask.
“Good!” the Raider said. “Good, Vakko. As for you, Am—you would do well to learn from Vakko.”
The Martian giggled shrilly, apparently delighted. He piped something Kenworth could not understand, and at the Raider’s nod lifted Kenworth easily and laid him on a leather couch. There was surprizing strength in those slender, brittle-seeming arms, with their thick growth of red fur.
The Raider gave a command, and Am hurried away, Kenworth tried to move, but there was no feeling in his body. The effects of the ray, he knew, took some time to wear off. The Raider came close, staring down into Kenworth’s eyes.
He said slowly, “You should be thankful I told Vakko—half-strength!”
Am returned, and at his side was a girl—gray-eyed, dark-haired, whose beauty was scarcely marred by the traces tears had left on her cheeks. As Kenworth recognized Thona Trenton he made an effort to speak, managed only an inarticulate croak. The girl flew to his side.
“Dal! What’s—are you——”
“A little ray treatment,” the Raider said gently.
