Mrs. Rahlo's Closet and Other Mad Tales Page 15

  “Damn! I missed one.”

  “Fire steadily. Get them all. And keep talking.”

  “Why do we bother with this one sector when we got a whole damn planet to settle on? Are these bugs everywhere?”

  “Possibly. Maybe there are worse things in other places.”

  “There couldn’t be anything worse; they give me the willies. Gad, their carcasses are piled up like a wall. Still they keep coming.”

  “I told you. They’re stupid. Ah, but you have to watch out for them. They play tricks sometimes. There’s supposed to be a major nest somewhere around here; looks like we found it. Buck up, I’m probably wrong. They seem to be petering out.”

  “They’re not coming as thick or as fast—it’s getting hard to see. Can they see in the dark?”

  “They can do everything in the dark. They’re much smarter at night. I don’t know why; no one can figure them out.”

  “I can’t see any more of them.”

  “I can’t either.”

  “Reckon we got them all?”

  “Look around you and shoot anything that looks like a verm. Don’t shoot me. I’m going to toss some coglights.”

  George slung his Lancer onto his back and reached into his carry-all.

  “Here,” he said. “It’ll be bright at first. Don’t look directly at the lights.” He twisted the tops off four cylinders and flung each cylinder a dozen yards in a different direction. The desert shone as with daylight.

  “This is more like it.” Steve laughed. “Yes sir, now a body can see to Kingdom Come.”

  Beyond the daylight square prowled the desert, a solid wall of hostile blackness. Within the square lay several crumpled bodies. The light gleamed dully off the polished shells.

  “I move we set up the tent and call it an evening,” George said. “Tomorrow we’ll mop up whatever remains and move on. Did they tell you about the tents?”

  “They said nothing could come through one.”

  “Not even a Lancer beam. Let’s get it pegged down.”

  They stretched the bright orange fabric tautly over its hollow metal frame, then hammered eight spikes two feet into the ground to anchor the flooring, made of the same material.

  The two men climbed inside. George switched on the lamp and sealed the entrance. Their world shrank to a six-foot cube.

  “The coglights used to keep them away,” George said, “but they’re bolder now. They may come around in a bit and scratch at the tent. They can’t get in. They can’t knock it over. They can’t tunnel up. You’ll know they’re here because they’ll push against the sides. You won’t hear them because the tent is soundproof. The reason it is soundproof—I don’t think they told you this—”

  “They didn’t tell me anything.”

  “The reason it is soundproof is so we won’t hear them talk.”

  “They talk? You’re pulling my leg!”

  “Have it your own way.” George smiled. “Say, you hungry?” He distributed an assortment of food packets. Like all their equipment it weighed practically nothing.

  “Not another bite till breakfast,” George said. “You know that at this season the nights are ten hours long?”

  Steve nodded between mouthfuls.

  “And that the days are only six hours?”

  Steve nodded again.

  “To help us sleep away the long hours we use a Somnex Timer; it’s a clock that emits a little resonance that lulls you to sleep. All you do is close your eyes and listen.”

  “We have them on Earth.”

  “Really? I didn’t know.”

  “I use one because I wake up a lot and can’t get back to sleep again.”

  “If you wake up here, remember what I told you. The verms may push against the tent, but they can’t get in. Don’t panic and start shooting. You use a Lancer, and the fabric will deflect the beam so it’ll bounce around the walls and fry us. Whatever happens—don’t use the Lancer. If you get scared, wake me.”

  “I’m not scared of them, George. I killed bunches. You saw me.”

  “So did they. The verms have it in for you now, and they’re not above playing tricks.”

  “They’re just a bunch of dumb bugs.”

  “Dumb? Yes, by day. But at night they think. That’s when they’re most dangerous. They play tricks. You wouldn’t believe some of the gruesome tricks they’ve played. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow while we’re hunting.”

  George yawned. “I’m setting the Timer so it will tell us when it’s time to get up; the tent won’t admit any daylight. I—where’s your Lancer, Steve?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s your Lancer?”

  “My—oh, hell!”

  “Where is it?”

  “Damn! I set it down while we were putting up the tent.”

  “You unplugged it from the pack?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything? You’re never supposed to unplug it when you’re outside. Your supposed to sling it over your shoulder so it will be ready at all times. I don’t even unplug mine when I sleep.”

  “I’ll go and get it.”

  “With what? Phooey. You’ve messed up enough. Here, I’ll go and get it—if the verms haven’t carried it away. With one Lancer between us we’d be in fine shape.”

  George knelt by the tent flap, his Lancer poised to shoot.

  “Now unseal the door—just a little; let’s see if we have any visitors.” He peered out into the square of light surrounding the tent.

  “See anything?”

  “No, we’re lucky. Now listen. When I say the word, unzip the flap and let me out; then close it fast—except for one little chink—and wait for my call. When you hear it, open up in a hurry and stand aside.”

  “You don’t have to do this, George. I left it there.”

  “All right, here I go.”

  George stepped outside. Steve drew the zipper.

  “Damned stupid rookie dumbness,” Steve murmured. “Why in hell don’t I have any brains? I have to make this up to George.” He paced nervously back and forth.

  George was taking a long time. Steve peered through the few inches of open flap.

  “George, where are you? You all right?”

  There was no answer.

  “George?”

  “Be quiet. I found it. It was farther away than we thought. I’ll—oh, hell. Hell.”

  There was a bright flash and a crackling.

  “George.”

  “Open the flap.”

  Steve had just enough time to pull the zipper and step back as George staggered in with the Lancer. Blood flowed from his neck. He laid Steve’s Lancer down.

  “Disinfectant and bandages quick. Antitoxin pills.”

  “Wait.” Steve fumbled inside his carry-all. “Here, here. What happened?” He began to clean and dress the wound.

  “One of them bit me; it was hiding behind the tent—a big one. I killed it.” He swallowed two capsules.

  “Does it hurt bad?”

  “It burns like a Lancer beam. Ow! Yes, it really hurts bad.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Nothing. The cruiser will be back day after tomorrow. I guess I can hold on till then. Help me into my sleeping bag.”

  “Does it feel any better?”

  “I’m sleepy. I’m very sleepy.”

  “George, I’m really sorry this happened. George, can you forgive me?”

  George was asleep with his mouth open. His breathing was heavy.

  “That’s right, George. You sleep now. You’ll feel better tomorrow. I’m really sorry this happened.”

  Steve made sure of the tent flap before he switched off the light. Everything became solid black and silent, except for George’s breathing.

  He climbed into his own bag. The lining felt thin but soft and comfortable. The coglights would burn the ten hours until dawn. He tried to picture the bright square surrounding the tent. Beyond that waited the desert, savage
and sightless. He thought of home and listened to the hum of the Timer.

  He sat up. Was it morning? He looked at the Timer’s glowing dial. He had been asleep a little over two hours. Eight to go. He shifted his position. Too bad the tent was soundproof; he would have welcomed a friendly night sound. He remembered George’s joke about the verms talking. The only sound he heard was the rasping of George’s breath. He leaned back against the tent wall.

  The wall bulged inward. He scrambled out of his sleeping bag, stood up, and felt with his palms. The entire side stretched tight into an inward curve. He felt around to the adjoining wall. It protruded, too. “They’re massing all around us,” he said aloud. He reached for his Lancer.

  No. Better wake George.

  He snapped on the light.

  George looked horrible. His neck—swollen like a cushion—had turned black and shiny. His eyes were opening and closing, opening and closing. His breathing was frenzied.

  “You want water? You want anything? Dear God!”

  George’s eyes focused on Steve.

  “Turn off the light,” he said in a whisper.

  “You look bad. You look really bad.”

  “I’m getting better. Turn off the light.”

  Steve shifted his gaze. “George, those things are right up against the tent.”

  “Turn off the light,” came the whisper. The breathing slowed.

  “All right, George.” Steve switched off the light and crawled back into his sleeping bag.

  He was just being stupid. Those verms couldn’t break in. Tomorrow, at first light, he would open the flap just a little and point the Lancer outside and shoot any that were still there. Who knows? Maybe George would be all better by then. He listened intently. George’s breathing sounded normal—in and out, in and out. The medicine must be taking effect.

  He dreamed he was shooting verms, one by one, as each reared up to attack him. The Lancer cut cleanly, leaving each one a crackling black husk. But, oh, the smell. The smell they made when they came at him was disgusting. He began to cough.

  He opened his eyes and focused on the glowing dial. Still it was not morning. He had hours to go.

  The smell was still there. It was inside the tent.

  He dove for the light and rubbed his eyes against the glare.

  No, nothing had got in. George was in his sleeping bag, his face turned away.

  George’s body began to stir inside the sleeping bag. The verm smell grew stronger.

  Suddenly George began to kick. Once. Twice. Steve watched wide-eyed as George’s body writhed beneath the covers.

  “Wake up!” Steve shouted. “Please wake up!” The writhing ceased.

  George’s head rolled around.

  “What is it, Steve?” he whispered.

  George’s head was black and shiny; he kept darting it around; the head never kept still. The sleeping bag began to move again.

  “What is it, Steve?”

  “Oh, Gawd, George. You look so—you look so—Oh, Gawd, I can’t stand to watch!”

  “The light hurts my eyes, Steve. Turn it off. Turn off the light, Steve.”

  Steve snapped off the light.

  “Steve,” came the whisper from the other sleeping bag. “What you see happening is the poison working its way out. I’m getting better. I’m nearly well now. Only let me sleep.”

  “You’re really sick.”

  “It’s the poison leaving my body. Sleep, Steve. Listen to the Timer.”

  “No, I’d better—”

  “Let the Timer catch you.”

  “I think I’d—”

  “Let it catch you.”

  Steve closed his eyes. This time he dreamed of home, where there were no verms, no George—no Lancers, coglights, carry-alls or orders to exterminate—only rich, green fields and warm smiles of people who mattered.

  “Steve?” A whispered voice like an expulsion of breath. “Steve?”

  He rubbed his eyes. His home slowly faded.

  “Wake up, Steve.”

  “Is it morning, George? I’ll get the light.”

  “I don’t like the light, Steve. Steve? This is their planet. We don’t belong here.”

  Steve felt for the light switch.

  “What are you doing, Steve?”

  Steve turned on the light. Then he dove for his Lancer.

  “No,” the voice whispered. “Don’t shoot George.”

  “You’re not George anymore.” He aimed at the triangular head.

  “If you shoot, the beam will rebound and kill you, too.”

  He lowered the weapon.

  The body began to emerge from the sleeping bag.

  “I’m going out to them, Steve. I must complete my growth.”

  “All right, George. Just don’t touch me; don’t brush against me.” He undid the tent flap.

  George crawled out, his Lancer strapped grotesquely to his misshapen back.

  “Good-bye, Steve.”

  Steve sealed the tent and threw himself on his bedroll. He pleaded for the Timer to take effect.

  • • •

  The alarm chirped gently, melodiously, persistently.

  It was time to get up.

  For a moment Steve thought of breakfasting with George. Then he clicked on the light and saw the empty sleeping bag and took his head in both his hands. Is this what happened when they bit you? Why the whole thing was such a secret? Why they had to be exterminated? He began to moan. Anything was better—than this.

  He sat up abruptly.

  Or maybe it was a trick.

  That was it. What a fool he’d been, what a stupid, green-livered, brainless jackass.

  George hadn’t changed at all—it was an illusion, hypnosis, one of their gruesome tricks.

  And he let George go to them. George was dead now. He had helped him die.

  Or maybe George had changed.

  Steve readied his Lancer and opened the flap a few inches. Then he unsealed it all the way. Sunlight poured in. Lancer poised, he stepped outside.

  There was nothing to shoot. Only the empty, metallic-looking husks that littered the gray dust. These and the burned-out coglights.

  “What am I going to do now?” he asked the desert. With George gone, how could he continue the mission? The cruiser would be along tomorrow; maybe he should sit tight till then. He stared at the tent.

  “No,” he said. “I have to do what I was sent to do. And I have to find George.”

  He made a scratch meal and checked the contents of his carry-all.

  “I have to travel light in this thin atmosphere.” One by one, he unloaded each superfluous item and laid it in the tent. “Won’t be needing my flashlight, because I’ll be working in the bright sun. Won’t need the extra power packs, because George is not here to share them with me. I’ll take a few coglights to serve as grenades in case I find any holes full of them.”

  He surveyed the black carcasses; then he checked the gauge on his power pack. It read FULL.

  “One way or another I’m going to find George,” he told the desert. “And I’m going to kill as many verms as I’ve got rounds of ammunition. Then I’m coming back to wait for the cruiser.”

  He made a circuit of the tent and saw nothing but more empty carcasses. He began to move toward the rocks.

  Two of the creatures crawled over a flat boulder. The Lancer flame licked at their shells.

  Two less to worry about, he thought. Something had happened to him during the night. He felt more sure of himself.

  Among the rocks he found shallow empty caves. Here and there deep fissures penetrated the ground. The widest crack had a particularly strong verm smell. He dropped a coglight in and held the Lancer poised. A sharp crackling below told him he must have got whatever was there. He moved off across the desert.

  He wandered for hours, searching the rocks and the cracks in the desert floor. Now and then he found a small nest of five or six and left them face up, their legs kicking at the sun. Occasionally he met lo
ne travelers and dispatched them quickly. There was no sign of George.

  He drank copiously from his canteen. So far he had killed maybe fifty. Once he saw a nest of baby verms worrying the carcass of one of the larger ones. Odd, it never occurred to him to ask what they ate. He shot them all.

  Halfway to the horizon loomed a big hill. From the top of the hill he should be able to see the whole desert floor. Maybe he would find George. He checked his power pack and saw it was nearly full.

  Getting to the hill took longer than he’d expected. He had thought it fairly close and low. Now as he stood sweating beneath the towering mass of gray boulders, he cursed the planet and the thin air and the confusion that made far-off things seem nearby.

  Carefully he scanned the pile of stone. No verms. He slung his Lancer and began to climb, using both hands to grip the rocks and propel his body upward. He moved steadily toward the summit, glancing all around him as he climbed. Once he looked back to see the outline of the tent standing against the bright sky.

  Eventually he found the top—a wide, flat surface—and stood up to survey the ground beneath him.

  Beyond the mound lay a great bowl-shaped depression, crawling with verms pouring like black beads from a rift in its center. He rubbed his eyes. This must be the major nest George told him about.

  George. Poor George. He unslung his Lancer.

  “Damned bugs,” Steve muttered. “Damned, tricky, murdering black bugs. I’m going to damage every last one of you.”

  They made superb targets as he pointed and squeezed, pointed and squeezed, wiping out rows, bunches, battalions of them. It was not Steve who shot; it was the brain of the Lancer, the eye of the Lancer. Steve grinned, intoxicated with the straight, clear beams and the way each scurrying bead dropped still.

  “Every last one,” he whispered. “Every last one.”

  The Lancer spat flame till he had to strain his eyes to make out the few beads that still moved. He collapsed onto the hilltop and wiped his forehead.

  “I’ve been up here too long,” he said. “It’s beginning to get dark.”

  He shouldered his Lancer and headed down the way he came.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. After the shooting he’d done there couldn’t be many of them left. He should be able to get back to the tent in time.