Collected fiction, p.54
Collected Fiction, page 54
“Please, Neal!”
“Think of the publicity!” Mackay said ironically. “I’ll go with you, Miss Gregg.”
“Publicity has nothing to do with it,” Baker said with dignity, suppressing the expression that had come into his face at mention of the word. “You’re needed here. Of course, I’ll go.” He gulped again, and shot Kathleen a glance of utter loathing.
She was worshipping him with her eyes.
THE car flashed along the roadway, Blaze Argyle at the controls, two guns hanging ready at his thighs. His gray hair was bristling, and there was a happy grin on the scarred, weathered face. Perhaps he was thinking of other days, long past, when he had fought similar perils.
The poisonous splendor of the shining forest was all around them. Now the distant noises of life were louder, more menacing. Uncontrolled life, alien and—hungry.
Hope was beginning to grow within Kathleen when the catastrophe occurred. A serpentine body flowed into view from the jungle, and the equine head of a Plutonian devil towered above them. Argyle wrenched at the controls, sent the car whirling sideward in a desperate endeavor to pass the monster. But the backlash of the thing’s tail crashed against the side of the vehicle. The three were hurtled out of the car, sent rolling over and over along the road, bruised but unhurt. Neal Baker arose and departed hastily into the forest.
Argyle helped the girl to her feet, eying the Plutonian devil sharply. The creature was investigating the car, prodding it, with its tubular muzzle.
Abruptly it drew back, sent a spray of glistening liquid at the unfamiliar object. Argyle snatched up a knapsack that had fallen near by, and, gripping Kathleen’s arm, hurried after Baker.
“Car’s no good now,” he grunted. “Those damn toxins! Kenilworth told me he left out the poisons when he built the animated robots, but I guess they developed ’em themselves from their food. He told me nobody could analyze the toxic qualities, anyway—like snake venom.”
Breathless, Kathleen could not answer. A short distance away they came upon Baker standing at the edge of a small clearing, eying a tree uncertainly.
“Better not climb it,” Argyle told him, and the star jumped guiltily. “The devil can climb, too. If it comes after us we’ll just have to shoot our way out. See if your gun’s loaded.”
A low rustling told them that the monster had finished with the car and was in pursuit of more palatable food. It’s horselike head was poked into view, and the single eye gleamed dully as it saw the three.
Argyle sent a bullet at it which glanced off the armorlike scales and tore down a tree.
“One way to kill it,” he said. “Kenilworth told me—keep dodging it, Kathleen. Once it charges, it has to complete the charge. Can’t swerve. Look out for the tail, though.”
There was no time for more. The stumpy legs sprang into action, and the ten-foot monster sprang forward.
Kathleen leaped aside, but Baker was apparently frozen with terror. Only Argyle’s push saved him from the devil. The creature flowed past, drew to a halt at the edge of the clearing, and turned slowly, its eye questing.
Argyle sent another useless bullet at it.
“If it stays still for a while, watch its eye,” he called. Kenilworth had told him the almost incredible habit that made the Plutonian devil so terrible, but Argyle had no time to tell the others what he knew. The monster charged again, and for a little time they were kept busy dodging, watching the deadly backlash of the creature’s armored tail.
LUCKILY the creature was not invulnerable, though none of Argyle’s dozen shots had pierced the scales, each of them nearly six inches in diameter. But there were charred spots on the armored hide, and presently the devil hesitated, paused, and glared at the three humans. A little shudder ran through its sinuous body, and it sank lower until all its length touched the ground.
“Watch it!” Argyle said. But he was not looking at the monster. His quick stare was covering all the clearing, looking for the disturbance of earth he knew was coming.
Yet he almost missed it. The devil charged again, and simultaneously, almost at Kathleen’s side, the ground heaved and split, and out of it came a white, wormlike, horrible thing that spat venom from its tubular muzzle.
The girl sprang back, was sent spinning by the sweep of the Plutonian devil’s tail. She hit a tree, folded up and lay there unmoving. Argyle got in front of her, sent bullet after bullet smashing into the white worm. It spouted poison at him, and the next minute disintegrated into a chaos of twitching, bleeding flesh.
The armor-plated creature, its charge spent, lay on the ground, spasmodically quivering. Curiously its belly seemed to be split open, and nothing was visible within.
Argyle caught up the girl and carried her staggering, to a safe distance. Baker came out from behind a tree, looking pale and sick.
“Is it—are they dead?” he asked.
Argyle collapsed on the ground beside the girl.
“My knapsack,” he said hoarsely. “Get it—quick!”
Baker found the pack and brought it to Argyle, who hastily dug out a syringe and injected a greenish solution into Kathleen’s arm. That done, he repeated the operation with himself and lay back, breathing harshly.”
“What’s the matter? Can I—”
“Keep guard,” Argyle told Baker. “I’ll be all right in a minute. That damn poison—it breaks down the blood vessels, destroys the blood’s coagulability. Kenilworth gave me this—” He touched the syringe. “Formula based on calcium chloride. Builds up the blood cells with calcium—”
Apparently Kenilworth’s treatment was effective, for within five minutes the three were examining the dead monsters. The white creature looked like an undeveloped specimen of a Plutonian devil. The devil itself was now nothing but a skin.
“Sheds its skin, like a snake,” Argyle said. “When the hide’s badly damaged, it simply splits down the belly and digs into the ground. Every scale acts like a little shovel. Then it can come up behind its victim and kill it with the poison. The nerves in the skin automatically make it charge, though it dies right afterward. The devil itself—that white thing—gradually grows into its former shape.”
Argyle shouldered the knapsack.
“Feel okay now, Kathleen?”
The girl nodded. “We’re not far from the camp, are we? Good. Let’s get started.”
They turned back toward the road.
CHAPTER IV
EXTERIOR: Quade’s camp in the Plutonian set. Long shot. Noon.
THE creature sat on the ground and looked at them with interest. Quade and Peters, the gaunt, hollowcheeked cameraman, returned the gaze. “It’s a frog,” Peters said.
“Frogs don’t sing,” Quade objected. “They come pretty near it.”
“But—words!” Quade said. “Listen.” He caroled untunefully, “Where the Martian moons ride over—” and completed the first verse.
No, it wasn’t a frog. It looked like one, although it was covered with curly ringlets of silvery hair. Its forelimbs were curiously anthropoid, with tiny little hands at the end. Its face was a frog’s, though its mouth was mobile for all its size. Under its throat a pouch swelled, and as Quade paused the creature clasped its hands, sat up on its hind legs, and started to sing.
Quade’s voice came out of the thing’s mouth. It sang like a phonograph record, exactly duplicating Quade’s tones, even to the off-key quaver at the end of the third line. When it had finished, it deflated the pouch, bobbing a little, and sat watching. “It even bows,” Peters said in amazement.
“It’s a mutation,” Quade said. “Maybe. Parrots can do it, but—I’ve a hunch this is a bit different. Looks like a conditioned reflex to me.”
“That clears up everything.”
“Well—look. Suppose this little jigger simply imitates the cries of animals. Maybe it eats—Plutonian snakes. It hears a Plutonian shake hissing, or whatever it is they do, and imitates the cry. The snake hears it, thinks he’s listening to a rival, or maybe a girl friend, and comes in a hurry, right down Caruso’s throat.”
“Sounds plausible,” Peters admitted. “Is his name Caruso, though?”
“Name it and you can have it,” Quade said, chuckling. The froglike Caruso chuckled with him, but broke off to scratch among its curls with a limber hind leg.
“I think we’ll take it back with us,” Quade went on. “The film’s finished.” He patted a disc-shaped metal container on a nearby table. “Wonder what’s wrong with the televisor, though? Those things don’t usually get out of whack.”
Peters didn’t answer, but turned to gather together the equipment. In a few minutes they were ready, and the car, carrying the two men and Caruso, glided out on the road.
They stopped very soon because a large animal sat up in the middle of the road and glared at them. Quade and Peters started to laugh. The creature looked like a turtle, but its head was flat and snakelike. The appearance of ferocity was entirely spoiled by the fact that the thing’s tongue stuck out for almost a foot.
“I can’t help laughing at those Tanks,” Quade grinned, reaching for a control keyboard, “I know they use their tongues as a sensory organ, but they look so darned silly!” Caruso joined in the laughter. The monster got up and aimed a blow at the car with one stumpy forefoot. Quade pressed a button.
NOTHING happened. Quade and Peters stopped laughing, but the inane chuckles of Caruso kept on. The creature’s foot continued to descend.
Quade and Peters got out of the car just in time. They took a keyboard and the precious can of film with them, and Caruso hopped after them, still giggling. The gigantic foot came down on the car and crushed it into a twisted wreck of metal.
“Oh, Lord!” Quade muttered, fingering the keyboard desperately. “What’s wrong? Is—” A startling thought struck him. “Maybe Kenilworth’s generator’s stopped! That means—”
“It means we’ve got a comet by the tail,” Peters said, looking sick. The Tank turned to them, very slowly, and its tongue quivered, picking up the vibrations that told it where its prey were. The snaky head moved down with slow deliberation.
“No danger,” Quade said. “We can dodge it.” He stepped back; the head continued its sweep until it bumped against a tree trunk. For several seconds the creature remained unmoving, apparently amazed at the disappearance of its lunch. Then the head lifted again, and once more began to descend.
“Let’s get back to camp,” Quade said. “We’ll be safe there. The power’s sure to come on pretty soon.”
They departed, while the monster remained still staring at the spot where they had been. Some minutes later it realized that it was looking at nothing but trees, and vainly began to explore the air with its delicate tongue. But Quade and Peters, accompanied by Caruso, were already far away.
Muffled roars and crashings came from the forest. As they passed by a boulder half embedded in the ground Caruso paused to investigate. There was a hole in the rock, and just above it dangled a round, pinkish object that sent forth an enticing odor. The curly frog hopped closer, interested.
He put a tentative paw up toward the pink thing. It was apparently a fruit of some kind. It smelled good; probably it would taste better. Caruso licked his lips with an expectant tongue.
Quade turned around just in time to see the hole in the rock close with a vicious snap, while Caruso bounded back yelping in horror. The stone suddenly arose on six legs and pounced forward, but the woolly frog was already disappearing in the distance.
Quade and Peters watched alertly until the thing settled back and resumed the appearance of a boulder. Again the fruitlike object dangled temptingly.
“That’s not new,” Peters said. “The angler fish does it on Earth. Funny how much similarity there is on all the planets.”
“Very,” Quade agreed drily. “I’ll feel safer at camp. Let’s hurry.”
Tragedy struck before they reached safety. A whiplike, slim form flashed down from a tree, struck at Peters, and darted away. The gaunt cameraman was left staring at a tiny puncture in his forearm.
“Just a scratch,” he began—and suddenly collapsed. Quade caught him as he fell. Hastily he improvised a tourniquet, carried Peters the few remaining steps to camp, and found a suction pump. But his first-aid methods were useless.
THE form of Peters, prone on a cot, began to twitch and jerk. The man’s eyes opened wide, blind and unseeing. A spasm of muscular contortion jerked him to the ground, and Quade tried in vain to save him.
Peters’ head jerked and rolled grotesquely. He seemed to have lost all control of his neck muscles. There was a sudden ghastly contortion, a brittle cracking sound—and the man went limp. He was dead.
Quade’s lips were tight as he looked down at his friend. He was remembering an experience in Honduras, on Earth, with Ciotalus durissus—a rattlesnake whose poison, apparently, was similar in its effect to that of the creature which had attacked Peters. The venom is a neurotoxin, which possesses a selective quality that affects only the muscles of the neck. Sometimes, in the spasmodic contortions of the victim, the spinal column is snapped.
Not for the first time Quade cursed Von Zorn’s ruthlessness. The Chief would risk dozens of lives if he saw a chance of getting a hit picture. Yet, somehow, few objected. Something of the old theatrical tradition, “the show must go on!” had survived in a queer, wry fashion in the film industry. Hollywood on the Moon laughed at duty—outwardly. But a subconscious traditional loyalty and pride made men go uncomplaining to almost certain death, because the Titan film industry is rooted in the great days of the theatre—the days of Booth and Drew and Barrymore—and such a heritage is not easily forgotten.
Knowing this, Quade smiled a little, but not happily. Peters had died with his boots on. And the audiences viewing Doom World would neither know nor care.
A cry came from the left. Quade glanced up, turned toward the gate in the electrified barrier. He flung it open and started to run in the direction from which Kathleen’s voice had come.
CHAPTER V
EXTERIOR: The Plutonian set, near Quade’s camp. Afternoon.
CARUSO was pleased with himself.
The singing frog sat in the middle of the road, the pouch in his throat pulsing rhythmically. He was eying Kathleen and Argyle and Baker. Here were more of these hideous but kind-hearted two-legged monsters. The other two-legged things had given him food and jabbered at him. Perhaps these new ones would do the same. True, they were very ugly—much too elongated and whitish, and bald in the wrong places—but they couldn’t help that.
Caruso bowed, clasped his hands and sat up on his hind legs. Through some quirk of memory—perhaps the conditioned reflex Quade had suggested—he began to sing. Kathleen gave a soft little cry as the furry frog caroled cheerfully.
“Where the Martian moons ride over—”
Ignoring the girl’s laughter and the chuckles of Argyle, Caruso continued on to the bitter end. Then he opened his mouth to its widest expanse and chuckled companionably.
“Somebody stealing your thunder,” Argyle said to Baker, who was not pleased. “Wonder what it is?”
“Lord knows,” Kathleen said for him. She knelt and gingerly stroked Caruso’s head. He looked puzzled, nibbled at the girl’s fingers, and giggled in an inane fashion. With great haste he began to wash Kathleen’s hand with his mobile tongue.
“Likes the salt,” Argyle said. “All animals do, even radioactive ones, I suppose. Let’s get going, Kath. The sooner we reach Quade—”
She got up hastily, her face shadowed.
“Yes. Let’s hurry!”
They kept on, trailed by Caruso, who occasionally made frantic leaps in an attempt to reach Kathleen’s hand with, his tongue. It was not long before they rounded a curve in the road and found themselves facing the gigantic snake-headed, turtlelike creature that Quade had encountered. It was still wondering what had happened to Quade, and pondering over the advisability of searching for him.
“Look out,” Argyle said softly. “That’s a Tank—dunno the Latin name, but it’s bad medicine. Kenilworth told me it has—uh—variable metabolism.”
Caruso gazed at the Tank with undisguised horror, and rapidly departed through the shining trees. Baker turned white and looked around quickly. Kathleen said, “Variable—what?”
The monster’s dangling tongue lifted as the Tank tested the air for sensory vibrations. The snaky eyes focused on the three. It moved forward ponderously.
“Metabolism,” Argyle told the girl. “I don’t remember just what Kenilworth said, but it’s like the terrestrial sloth—sometimes. Moves very slowly—low metabolism. But it isn’t constant. Sometimes the metabolism gets speeded up for while when one or two of its glands get into action. Same principle as the human adrenal glands—peps us up for a little while. Food stimulates the—”
HE had been edging the girl from the road. “Kathleen,” he said quickly, with a side glance at the Tank. “See that hollow tree? It can’t reach you in there. If the thing comes to life, duck for that hole. I’ll lead it away.” He didn’t mention what Kenilworth had told him of the Tank’s phenomenal speed when its metabolism was increased by the secretions of certain of its glands.
Luckily, the exciting hormones that were pouring into the; Tank’s blood stream automatically released chalones—a depressive internal secretion which had just the opposite effect. This made the monster look sillier than ever, but provided one of nature’s check-and-balance systems. Otherwise the Tank would have eaten up every other form of life on Pluto.
The snaky head suddenly moved faster. Without warning it flashed down for a few feet—and as abruptly stopped, continue its slow descent toward the humans. The chalones were momentarily stronger than the hormones.
“In you go,” Argyle snapped, and pushed Kathleen toward the hollow tree. She was sent sprawling as Neal Baker, white-faced, shouldered her aside and made for the refuge. Argyle snarled, “Cut it out, Baker!” He tried to pull the film star back.
