All the same, he could see now that the ice was not ice. It was more like plate glass, thick and cold. There was another sheet of it far below him and another below that. Also a strong wire grille fronting the lot.

  He tried to come erect but his back was stiff and refused to bend. His legs wouldn’t obey his will. What a thumper he must have caught! Still on all fours, he edged nearer the imprisoning grille, doing it with some sort of lethargic ponderousness. Voices sounded somewhere nearby but out of sight.

  “She insists on a telepathic saluki and that’s what it’s got to be.”

  “It will take ten days,” answered the little man’s tones.

  “Her birthday is a week from Saturday. Sure you can have it ready for then?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “That’s fine. Go ahead with it. I’ll bring you a fat one when I come to collect.”

  Jensen screwed up his eyes and squinted myopically through the grille at a shiny surface opposite. More glass fronting another row of wired-in but empty shelves. There were vague, elusive shadow pictures on it. Something like a distant window with words across. The words were reversed and none too clear. It took him quite a time to spell them out: Mutants for Sale.

  His gaze lowered to his own level, saw something else reflected a good deal more clearly. He moved to one side. It moved likewise. He shook his head. So did the other. He opened his mouth and the mirage opened with him.

  Then he screamed bloody murder—but only a tiny snort came forth. The reflection also snorted.

  It was pale blue, seventeen inches long, and had a horn on its ugly nose.

  Theodore Sturgeon

  THE LOVE IF HEAVEN

  I wonder…could this story be classed as another example of Lamarckism? (See David Grinnell’s story earlier in this book) Have the predecessors of humanity about whom Mr. Sturgeon writes changed because the inhospitable environment of their far home forced them to acquire characteristics in order to survive? Or is it strictly a matter of natural selection? It isn’t easy to say. All we know is that the author has written a remarkably bitter-sweet story of a very strange sort of exile from Eden.

  According to the record, Mr. Sturgeon’s first appearance in the science-fiction and fantasy magazines was in Unknown, back in 194o with the unforgettable “It.” Life so many other top writers in the field, he is equally a master at science fiction and at fantasy and horror stories, and a prolific one at that. (He, along with Murray Leinster, has appeared in fifteen of my sixteen anthologies—see my introductory note to Leinster’s story in this book-)

  Mr. S. is at present a resident of Congers, New York, where he lives with his beautiful wife and his two equally beautiful children.

  WARNER stepped over the moonwashed outcropping and cast about for the Danby Trail. Fellow trotted past him, stood and sniffed the hot, dark air, and looked up and back at Warner.

  He leaned down and clapped the collie’s shoulder. “You know where it is, dogface,” he grinned. “Quit stalling. Let’s go!”

  The dog waited, and when he took a step forward, ran ahead to the black mouth of the forest trail. “Half hound, half homing pigeon,” muttered Warner, and followed.

  He stepped into the shadows and hesitated a moment, blinking, shifting the strap of his carbine to let his sticky shoulder breathe. “Fellow!”

  Fellow’s rumbling growl answered him.

  Warner was quite familiar with Fellow’s vocabulary; there were barks, yaps, whimpers, and growls, and variations of all. He had heard this growl before—not often, but not to be ignored. Once it was a wildcat flattened on a limb above him. Once it was an impending ice slide. And once it was a man, crouched in the shadows of his porch, waiting for him after one of these night hunts. All three were killers. Warner was still very much alive.

  Eyes wide, pupils round in the velvet dark, Warner stepped forward with the sliding, silent stride of the forester. His toe touched the dog. Slowly he half knelt and ran his hand over Fellow’s quivering back. The collie was tense, low on the ground. Warner’s hand felt the flattened ears, the curled lips.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Again there was the ominous rumble. Warner strained his eyes in the direction indicated by the dog’s straining, sensitive nose. There was nothing to be seen but blackness, and a faint oval of moonlight somewhere off the trail.

  Fellow inched forward, then was still again. Warner looked uselessly down at him and, because it was the only thing to look at, back at the patch of light.

  It moved.

  Warner’s back hair prickled. His tongue drove against his lower teeth, his nostrils flared, and a cold ball of terror nestled below his heart.

  Moonlight has no face. Moonlight does not move toward you silently, taking shapes as it passes underbrush. Moonlight does not stand before you, looking like a naked man.

  It stood looking at him, glowing softly. It was six and a half feet tall, too wide at the shoulders, too narrow at the hips, with arms and legs too thin and a head not too large, but too high.

  But its face…

  It wore an expression of indescribable grief. Its face spoke of loss too great to bear, of the incontrovertible end of some great, sustaining hope. The despair was lined and underlined by the strength of that face. It was the face of a conqueror and of a sage, molded of the clay of power and understanding. And it was utterly defeated.

  Warner was not an imaginative man, and he was schooled to danger. His frozen mind broke free almost instantly and told him: It’s a ghost! —for there was no time for any careful analysis, any testing of improbabilities.

  “Control it,” said the ghost, and pointed at Fellow, who snarled.

  Warner’s mind was freer than his tongue. His mind formed a demanding question, and his mouth managed only an interrogative grunt. And before he could lick his lips and reform them, Fellow was away from him and in midair, his long jaws hungry for the phantom’s throat.

  The apparition turned easily, bent backwards from the hips, and Fellow hurtled by, his teeth castanetting together. He squirmed around and landed facing the ghost, which watched calmly. Fellow snarled softly—it was like a purr—and bunched his feet together. The ghost braced its legs, ready for another spring. But Fellow did not spring. Close to the ground, he charged at the long, slender legs. The ghost dodged the dog’s teeth, but could not move quite fast enough to avoid the furry flank, which thumped the calf of its leg.

  Fellow spun to attack again—and kept spinning. He yelped and snapped viciously at his side. Close enough to the glowing figure to be visible by its strange light, Fellow bent like a caterpillar with a fire ant in its side, and crabbed away into the darkness, biting himself with teeth afroth in sudden foam; and he whimpered like a sick and pain-racked child.

  “Fellow l”

  The dog cried, somewhere in the darkness. Warner leaped toward the sound, caught his foot in a root, and fell heavily. Oddly, his right hand turned under him and was driven into his solar plexus as he fell on it. The breath rushed out of him, and for seconds he lay helpless, frightened, and furious, saying “Uh! Uh!” through his knotted windpipe.

  Then he could see again, because the specter had moved between him and the dog. Fellow was on his back, kicking feebly. The dog turned on his side once more, bit again at his quarter, and suddenly lay still. His eyes were open and rolled up, his tongue out, bloody, bitten half through.

  Warner got to his knees.

  “Do not touch it,” said the ghost warningly.

  Warner looked up at it. “You killed him,” he whispered, and in one smooth motion shouldered out of the strap of his carbine and raised it.

  The ghost disappeared.

  I’ve gone blind, thought Warner. He stood up, knees flexed, head low, the carbine at the ready, prepared to snap a bullet at anything or the sound of anything.

  His chest began to hurt, and he remembered to breathe.

  There was silence, and blackness, fear and fury, and the warm barrel on the heel of his left thumb, the formed grip of the stock embracing each of three right fingers. He turned his head slowly, turned from the waist, from the ankles, around and back, waiting, tense. The blackness was too much, too close. He raised his eyes up, and farther up, until he could see the ghostly second reflection of moonlight on the roof of leaves above. The dim, elusive light was good.

  There was a faint sound to his right. The carbine breech came up to his cheek. Silence.

  He blew from his nostrils. “Move, damn you!”

  Something moved. Something whirred and thrashed in the underbrush. Warner fired three times, the gun snuggling more affectionately to shoulder and cheek each time.

  Silence again. He lowered the gun to be free to turn his head. It was wrenched out of his unsuspecting fingers. He grabbed wildly at it, clutching nothing, and staggered. He whirled, whirled again, all but seeing the certain flash, feeling the inevitable thump of his own lead into his body. He dropped, then, and lay still, the way he had done at Tulagi.

  There was light behind and above him. He cringed from it, gasping, dived for a dimly seen trunk and crouched behind it, not looking at the light until he had cover.

  The ghost was standing twenty feet away, holding his carbine easily, watching him. He ducked back. Nothing happened. The light did not waver.

  He peeped out again. The ghost stood there watching him with its tragic, wise eyes. It held the carbine at its hip, not aiming directly at him, certainly not aiming away. He knew it saw him, but it made no move. Looking at the strange, sad figure, Warner felt that it would wait there all night—all week. Time seemed to have nothing to do with that not-old, not-young, infinitely patient face.

  Warner pressed his lips together, cleared his throat.

  “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

  The ghost answered, “I am—” It paused, searching Warner’s face, hesitating, as if choosing exactly the right word. “I am—regret.”

  “Regret?” Wild, extraneous references tumbled through Warner’s brain. “I am the ghost of Christmas Past”—the masks of Comedy and Tragedy painted on the proscenium of his college auditorium. Mister Coffee-Nerves. What mummery was this?

  The ghost was trying again. Warner could sense the effort for accuracy. “Not regret. I am—sorry. I am sorry your dog is death. Your dog is dead.”

  “Who are you?” barked Warner.

  The ghost again searched his face. “I am you,” it said, and waited. “No,” it said, and muttered to itself, “I, you, he. It.” It looked at Warner. “It is I,” and it struck its chest with the carbine barrel.

  Warner licked his lips. He could not know what this glowing thing was, but it was obviously demented. He asked: “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Shoot,” said the ghost. “Shoot me.” It looked suddenly at the carbine, as if it had just understood the reference. “Not shoot. Not you dead. Not…shoot…you…dead.”

  That’s nice to know, thought Warner sardonically. It’d be even nicer if he put the gun down.

  “Yes,” said the ghost. It turned, leaned the carbine carefully against a tree, and walked a pace or two away. “Now you—” and it pointed to the ground in front of Warner’s tree.

  “You want me to come out?”

  “Come out.”

  Warner considered carefully. He had no idea of the capabilities of this weird creature, but it seemed human, or near enough to being human that it might be possible to fool it. If he could keep it in conversation long enough he might be able to edge over and get his hands on the carbine and, in two senses, put an end to this nightmare. He came out.

  “You not. You not…cannot…get gun, get the gun. A, an, the, some, them, those,” said the ghost. “What those? What are those?”

  “What?”

  “A, an, the, and those.”

  “Oh. Articles, I guess you mean. You don’t speak much English?”

  The creature made that strange search of his face again. “Specific,” it said suddenly. “Make general. What are ‘a, an, the, dog, gun?”

  “Words,” said Warner after a puzzled pause.

  “Words,” said the ghost. “Good. Words. Say me…say to me…tell…teach words to me.”

  Warner looked briefly at the carbine leaning against the tree. Fifteen, sixteen feet…a sudden lunge might do it. He might have to grapple for a second, but—

  “Do not touch gun,” said the ghost.

  In spite of himself, Warner almost grinned. “What are you—a mind reader?”

  “I read. I hear-see-read. Mind, yes. I read mind. I read your mind. You make…make—” He gazed at Warner’s face. “You think, I read. Yes.”

  “Telepathy,” said Warner informatively.

  “Yes. Telepathy. You send, I…I—”

  “Receive?”

  “Yes. You send, I receive. I send, you not receive.”

  “Why?”

  “You not…not…you cannot. I can. You…man? Yes. You are a man. I are…am…I am not a man.”

  Warner’s unquenchable humor curled to the surface. “You’re kidding,” he said, and to his astonishment the creature laughed uproariously.

  “Give me general word, man.”

  “Gen…oh. ‘Human.’”

  “Yes. You are human. I am not human.”

  “What are you?”

  Again one of those searches. “Different,” it said finally. “Human, but different…kind.” It turned suddenly and pulled up a shrub, deftly stripping it down to a stem and a fork. It searched him again—the process was quite without sensation to Warner—and, pointing to the stem, said: “This is primate.” One long luminous finger ran up a side branch. “This is human, you.” Indicating the other branch, “This human, me.”

  “Oh. You’re a mutation.”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe. Maybe you are a mutation.”

  “I don’t undersand.”

  The creature put its finger on the crotch of the stick. “Fifteens—Fifteen hundreds generations past…back…ago.”

  “You mean the race branched fifteen hundred generations ago?”

  “Yes. My generations. Long ones. One of me is three of you.” Warner translated this for himself: “Forty-five hundred generations ago the human race branched into your kind and my kind. That right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then where on earth have you been all this time?”

  “Not on earth.”

  “Oh, ho! The man from Mars!”

  “Not Mars,” said the specter seriously. “Not a planet of this sun. Human cannot live on this sun’s planets except this one.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  It tried; he could see it trying. Suddenly he understood the searching process; the creature could get a word, or an idea, more easily if he brought it up to the surface of his mind. He visualized a star map; the ghost made an impatient sound. Warner’s lips twitched; he had always had a very bad memory. He visualized the night sky.

  “Yes,” said the glowing man.

  Warner thought of constellations; of the Cross, and Lyra, Scorpio, Sirius, and the Hyades. And when he visualized the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades, the ghost exclaimed. Warner could not remember how the Pleiades were placed, exactly, but he knew that five of the major stars were easily visible, the sixth fainter, and the seventh invisible except to the very best eyesight.

  “Yes. Faint one,” said the ghost. “But is not one star. Is many. In not one group of stars; you see through stars near a line from here to there. My planet is not of faint Pleiades Sister; is through it, far away on other side. You are thinking about the gun again. Do you touch it.”

  Warner swore.

  “Your dog is dead,” said the glowing man. “I did not want to dead…to kill your dog. You are the first man for me here. I not…did not know you can…could not hear-receive me. I heard you. I talked-thought to you. I told you to meet me. I told you not to touch me. Your dog flew to me. I not…did not want your dog to touch me. He would dead himself if he touch me. You will dead yourself if you touch me. Your dog is dead. I am sorry. I do not want you to be dead. I will be too sorry if you are dead. When I understand that you cannot hear me except me…I speak, I went…dark and took away gun. Human with weapon never think.”

  Now I get sociological truths, thought Warner wryly. “Why will you kill me if I touch you?” he asked.

  “Kill,” said the other, and looked at his face. “Kill, die, murder, execute, slaughter. No. I will not kill you if you touch me. Kill is what you do with…with desire, yes. I say a different thing. I say if you touch me you will die. I am sorry your dog is dead. I am more sorry if you are dead. I do not desire you dead. My…me…I am—”

  “Poison?”

  “Yes, poison. Poison. Almost all Earth things I poison. Very…fast.” And again came that surge of tragedy across the strange, tall face. “All things of Earth. All living things—” It still held the forked twig; it looked at it sadly and, without throwing it, with a gesture of will-lessness, let it slip from between its fingers to the ground. “That would be dead now, without…even…even if I did not break and pull away leaves. Just to touch it—My…my feet…footprints are dead places.”

  “But why? Why do you do it?”

  “Why? I do not do it! I do not make and spread poison! I am poison!”

  “I don’t understand. What are you doing here? Why stay here if you kill everything you touch?”

  “I will…try. If you do not understand, tell me to…to stop.

  “We are different humans, and this is our place where we began…this, this planet, this…Earth of you. We grew fast and got…gained—”

  “Evolved?”

  “Evolved very fast, yes. We made a…tools…machines…Think of men building. Think of what men must have to build. Yes! Yes. Intelligence. Logic. Intuition? Yes, intuition too. We understood each other well. You do not understand each other. You work with you, he works with he. If you work together, you will build, but you are…important. Or he is important. With us, the building was important. Thirty generations made us free from…from things outside us.”

 

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