Time Travel Omnibus, page 467
Into the sphere the butterflies came, fluttering and dancing toward him. The piece that had fallen was a circle of metal, cut cleanly through. He did not have time even to notice it; he snatched up the blowtorch and snapped it on. The flame sucked and gurgled. As the butterflies came toward him he pressed the handle and held the spout up. The air burst alive with burning particles that rained down all over him, and a furious odor reeked through the sphere.
He closed the last switches. The indicator lights flickered, the floor chugged under him. He threw the main lever. More butterflies were pushing in, crowding each other eagerly, struggling to get through. A second circle of metal crashed to the floor suddenly, emitting a new horde. Hasten cringed, backing away, the blowtorch up, spouting flame. The butterflies came on, more and more of them.
Then sudden silence settled over everything, a quiet so abrupt that he blinked. The endless, insistent scratching had ceased. He was alone, except for a cloud of ashes and particles over the floor and walls, the remains of the butterflies that had got into the sphere. Hasten sat down on the stool, trembling, he was safe, on his way back to his own time; and there was no doubt, no possible doubt that he had found the lethal factor. It was there, in the heap of ashes on the floor, in the circles neatly cut in the hull of the car. Corrosive secretion? He smiled grimly.
His last vision of them, of the swelling horde had told him what he wanted to know. Clutched carefully against the first butterflies through the circles were tools, tiny cutting tools. They had cut their way in, bored through; they had come carrying their own equipment.
He sat down, waiting for the Time Car to complete its journey.
DEPARTMENT guards caught hold of him, helping him from the Car. He stepped down unsteadily, leaning against them. “Thanks,” he murmured.
Wood hurried up. “Hasten, you’re all right?”
He nodded. “Yes. Except my hand.”
“Let’s get inside at once.” They went through the door, into the great chamber. “Sit down.” Wood waved his hand impatiently, and a soldier hurried a chair over. “Get him some hot coffee.”
Coffee was brought. Hasten sat sipping. At last he pushed the cup away and leaned back.
“Can you tell us now?” Wood asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Wood sat down across from him. A tape recorder whirred into life and a camera began to photograph Hasten’s face as he talked. “Go on. What did you find?”
WHEN he had finished the room was silent. None of the guards or technicians spoke.
Wood stood up, trembling. “God. So it’s a form of toxic life that got them. I thought it was something like that. But butterflies? And intelligent. Planning attacks. Probably rapid breeding, quick adaptation.”
“Maybe the books and newspapers will help us.”
“But where did they come from? Mutation of some existing form? Or from some other planet. Maybe space travel brought them in. We’ve got to find out.”
“They attacked only human beings,” Hasten said. “They left the cows. Just people.”
“Maybe we can stop them.” Wood snapped on the vidphone. “I’ll have the Council convene an emergency session. We’ll give them your description and recommendations. We’ll start a program, organize units all over the planet. Now that we know what it is, we have a chance. Thanks to you, Hasten, maybe we can stop them in time!”
The operator appeared and Wood gave the Council’s code letter. Hasten watched dully. At last he got to his feet and wandered around the room. His arm throbbed unmercifully. Presently he went back outside, through the doorway into the open square. Some soldiers were examining the Time Car curiously. Hasten watched them without feeling, his mind blank.
“What is it, sir?” one asked.
“That?” Hasten roused himself, going slowly over. “That’s a Time Car.”
“No, I mean this.” The soldier pointed to something on the hull. “This, sir; it wasn’t on there when the Car went out.”
Hasten’s heart stopped beating. He pushed past them, staring up. At first he saw nothing on the metal hull, only the corroded metal surface. Then chill fright rushed through him.
Something small and brown and furry was there, on the surface. He reached out, touching it. A sack, a stiff little brown sack. It was dry, dry and empty. There was nothing in it; it was open at one end. He stared up. All across the hull of the Car were little brown sacks, some still full, but most of them already empty.
Cocoons.
I HEAR YOU CALLING
Eric F. Russell
A frightened town, dark and deadly. A minor name on a vast map. Formerly noteworthy for nothing save the idle rumour that a flying saucer had landed nearby. That had been a month ago and proved baseless. Police and pressmen scoured the outskirts. No saucer.
This event faded, lost significance as hunters took off in pursuit of something else, something weightier and more urgent that cleared the streets by night. On the main stem a few dusty, neglected neons glowed over empty bars while cops lurked in shadowy doorways, watched cats playing leapfrog and jumping low.
Widgey Bullock knew nothing of this. To him the town had its virtues. That was why he had just arrived there. It was forty miles from port, devoid of naval patrols, officers, pickpockets and the same old bunch of painted trollops. A new landfall. A place where a naval stoker first-class could roll the boat without getting tossed into the brig.
Entering a likely bar, he shoved his pork-pie on to the back of his head, said, ‘I’m in the mood, Mac. Give me an Atom bomb.’
‘What might that be?’ inquired the barman. He was a fat simple, pasty-faced with too little sun, too little sleep.
‘I should have to tell you?’ Widgey hitched his lean bulk on a stool, rubbed blue jowls. ‘Equal parts rum, tequila and vodka. Add a pinch of red pepper and shake.’
‘God!’ said the other. He slopped it together, vibrated it, slid it across. Then he watched warily as if awaiting the mushroom cloud.
Widgey poured some down. He twitched his scalp and the cap jerked with it.
‘What a joint,’ he commented, staring around. ‘No juke-box, no dames, no company, nobody but you and me. Where’s everybody?’
‘Home,’ said the barman. He nodded toward the wall-clock. ‘Ten thirty and it’s dark.’
‘Mean to say the town’s closed down?’ Widgey tipped the cap over his eyes, stared incredulously. ‘Ten thirty’s the time for things to start livening up. The police should get jumping around midnight.’
‘Not here,’ said the barman. His gaze drifted toward the door, came back. He didn’t seem to know what might enter next but obviously didn’t want it, not at any price.
‘What’s wrong with here?’ demanded Widgey, ignoring the door.
‘Folk are getting themselves killed.’
‘How’s that? Somebody feuding?’
“They just lie around dead,’ said the barman. ‘Dead and empty.’
’empty?’
‘No blood,’ said the barman.
‘Give me another,’ Widgey ordered, poking his glass. He got it, took a deep gulp, coughing with the fire of it. ‘Now let’s have this straight. Who’s being killed?’
‘One here, one there,’ the other said. ‘Mostly strangers.’
‘I’m a stranger myself,’ Widgey pointed out. ‘Does that put me on the list?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘What a dump!’ Widgey complained. ‘Forty miles I come for bright lights and freedom. What do I get? A hick town heading for bed and a barkeep measuring my corpse.’
‘Sorry,’ said the other, ‘But you might as well know.’ He waves a hand to emphasize the sheer emptiness of the place. ‘This is just the way it’s been every night for the last three weeks. When I go home I keep close by the wall and wear my eyes in my pants the whole way. I keep my door locked twice over.’
‘What are the cops doing about it?’
‘Looking,’ said the barman. ‘What else can they do?’
‘This sounds like a bar-yarn to me,’ observed Widgey, suspiciously. ‘Are you figuring on getting rid of me and shutting shop early?’
‘Dead wrong,’ the barman told him. ‘It’s all in the papers. A dry stiff every other night.’ He eyed the door again. ‘Besides, I can’t close up when I like and I need the company.’
‘I’ll say you do.’ Widgey assured. ‘Fellow your weight will have buckets of blood. You’re a major target.’
‘Shut up!’ said the barman, looking sick.
‘I’m not worrying,’ Widgey went on. ‘Just one night here and back to the ship tomorrow. After that, you can have this lousy town and welcome.’ He took a long swig, smacked his lips. ‘Know of any other joint where there’d be more than two of us?’
‘No. Not at this time.’
‘Well, d’you know of an address where I can knock three times and ask for Mabel?’
‘Think I’m a pimp?’ asked the barman, frowning.
‘I think you ought to know your way around seeing this is your own stamping ground.’
‘It isn’t mine. I’ve been here only a couple of months.’ He wiped the back of his neck, peered towards the street. ‘That’s what scares me. I rank as a stranger too.’
‘Take it easy,’ Widgey advised. ‘When you’re dead and empty you won’t know it even if you look like a slack sack.’ He poked the glass again. ‘Make it a double. If you can’t give me an address I’ll have to do without. Maybe I can drink myself beyond what I have in mind.’
The barman said, ‘Any more you’d better take with you. This is where I shut shop.’
Widgey pointed to a yellow bottle. ‘I’ll take that.’ He fumbled clumsily in a pocket, dug out money and paid. A couple of coins fell to the floor. He teetered as he picked them up.
‘It’s working on you,’ said the barman.
‘Which is all that is,’ said Widgey.
Pocketing the bottle he rolled out with a decided list to starboard. The street was a mess of greys and blacks, the neons gone. A thin sliver of moon rode above bulging clouds.
He headed uncertainly for the crummy hotel where he’d booked a room. A leering tomcat slunk across his path, wanting the same as he did. Hidden in the dark entrance to an alley a policeman watching his passing, made no sound to betray his presence. On the other side of the road a woman hurried along, wary and fearful.
‘Hi, Babe!’ he hoarsed across, not caring whether she were hot or cold, young or old.
She broke into a near-run, her heels making a fast and urgent clip-clop. Widgey stood watching her and swearing under his breath. The policeman emerged from the alley, kept an eye on both of them. The woman stopped two hundred yards down, frantically stabbed a key at a door, went into a house. The slam of the door sounded like the crack of doom.
‘Bet they say their prayers, too,’ scoffed Widgey.
Alcoholically aggrieved, he lurched onward, found the hotel, climbed upstairs. Savagely he flung his cap across the room, pulled off his jacket and shied it the same way, kicked his shoes under the bed. He spent a minute examining himself in the mirror over the washbasin, pawing his ears and making faces at himself. Then he went to the window and looked out at the night.
There was another woman on the road below. She drifted along in a strange unhurried manner, an undulating glide like that of a column of grey smoke wafted by a gentle breeze. She was blurry as if draped and veiled. A lot of things look blurry when a man has heavy cargo under the hatches.
But a woman is a woman. One who travels late and without haste is always a good prospect, thought Widgey. Slipping the catch, he opened the window and leaned out. No cops were visible. Nobody but the vague figure.
‘Yoohoo!’
It achieved nothing. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.
‘Yoohoo!’
The figure stopped. Moonlight was too poor to show which way she was looking but at least her halt was encouraging.
‘YOOHOO!’ bawled Widgey, bending farther out and throwing discretion to the winds. He waved an energetic arm.
The figure made a vague gesture, crossed the road towards the hotel. Closing the window, Widgey delightedly tried a slow soft shoe routine but his balance had gone to pot. Seas were rough tonight.
He left his door a couple of inches ajar so she would know which room was which. Hurriedly he cleaned a couple of glasses by sloshing water around them, put them on the bedside table along with the yellow bottle.
A timid knock sounded.
‘Come in!’ He spat on his hands, used them to brush back his hair, fixed a welcoming grin on his face.
The knocker came in.
Widgey backed away fast, then more slowly as strength flowed out of his legs. His grin had vanished and he’d gone cold sober in one-fifth of a second. He wanted to yell bloody murder but couldn’t emit a squeak.
The edge of the bed caught behind his retreating knees. He flopped backward, lay on the bed with chest and throat exposed. He couldn’t do a thing to save himself, not a damn thing.
It glided soundlessly to the bedside, bent over and looked at him with eyes that were black pinheads set deeply in green fluff. Its long, elastic mouth came out and pouted like the nozzle of a fire-hose. The last that Widgey heard was a whisper from a million miles away.
‘I am Yuhu. You called me.’
OURSELVES OF YESTERDAY
T.D. Hamm
Time travel to the days of the caveman can be fun—if you remember to take along a blueprint of the future!
THE wide, dark eyes that Mera Blake turned on the squat black cube in the center of the room held horror in their depths, but the look she turned on her companion lost nothing of its resolution.
“I’m going with you,” she said steadfastly. “And don’t try to be reasonable!”
John Cameron looked at his determined fiancé with an expression compounded of admiration and exasperation.
“But, Mera, we still don’t know what happened. All we do know for certain is that your father went in, the cube disappeared—and when we set the dial for the exact moment he specified, the cube reappeared. With nothing inside, but . . . that.”
He returned fascinated eyes to the enigmatic heap of dust lying in the center of the cube.
“Isn’t that enough to know?” she demanded fiercely. “We can’t leave him stranded back there.”
“There’s no question of leaving him; I’m going back myself.”
“And what if you go . . . and don’t come back? I’ve still got the plans. I’d have another cube made and go alone. And . . .” her voice broke, “I’d be afraid to go . . . alone.”
He spread his hands in a gesture of unwilling capitulation.
“It’s going to be rather cramped, “John said, Ins eyes going worriedly abort the small interior of the cube. “But, I don’t see what we can leave out.”
“Details—details!” gibed Mera goodnaturedly. “If you are afraid of being uncomfortable, I know two or three other boys who wouldn’t mind at all!”
“You little demon!” He grabbed at her.
There was a brief interval of “John!—you idiot! . . . Put me—down.” before he set her down, dabbing at short, black curls with an expression which tried to be indignant and succeeded only in dimpling into irresistible laughter.
“This is a fine way for two serious scientists to behave,” she said tartly, “and I warn you I don’t intend to put up with it.”
“You can always walk back! But, seriously,” his grin faded, “I don’t see what we can leave out. There’s just ourselves and the clothes we have on and a few food concentrates.”
She peered into the cube doubtfully. “Unless we take out the guns . . .”
His face set sternly. “No! Don’t forget the professor didn’t take any weapons, and . . .”
“And he didn’t come back,” she finished unhappily. “Well, anyway, it won’t actually take very long will it? To get there, I mean?”
“According to our calculations it should be practically an instantaneous interval.”
Mera creased her brows doubtfully. “Who will set the return dial for us?”
“I think a clock arrangement keyed to the dial will do it. See, a couple of wires run from here to this connection.” He picked up his tools with frowning concentration. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to do it that way and go with the Professor, but, he was determined to see it through alone.”
An hour later he stood back with a grunt of satisfaction. “There she is, ready to go. Well, shall we go now . . . or would you rather wait for tomorrow?”
“Right now; before I have a chance to get really scared.” She lifted a suddenly pale face. “Kiss me once . . . for luck?
He kissed her lingeringly and then broke the tension with a brisk pat that bounced her protesting into the cube.
He closed the door with it’s complicated lever mechanism and forced a laugh of excitement. “Cavemen, here we come!”
Mera smiled waveringly.
“In a minute we’ll realize old Omar’s lines . . . ‘Ourselves with Yesterday’s seven thousand years . . .’ ”
They were unprepared for the pain. Pain which wrenched and gripped them till every atom of every cell was a nucleus of soul-shattering agony as their body-structure was almost instantaneously reversed through ten thousand years of cellular memory. Fortunately, the pain-threshold of the civilized human-being is low; as it reached its crescendo both mercifully blacked out.
And the two squat, subhuman beings who came back to consciousness Lad no memory of the pain. Nor of Mera Blake or of John Cameron.
Crouching half-erect, hairy and heavy-jawed, they rent and tore each other savagely, as they fought uncomprehendingly the final enemies of starvation and suffocation, battering themselves against the steel walls, frantic for escape.
