Nightfall and Other Stories, Page 5

  Aton cried in a cracked voice, “The madmen from the city! They’ve come!”

  “How long to totality?” demanded Sheerin.

  “Fifteen minutes, but . . . but they’ll be here in five.”

  “Never mind, keep the men working. We’ll hold them off. This place is built like a fortress. Aton, keep an eye on our young Cultist just for luck. Theremon, come with me.”

  Sheerin was out the door, and Theremon was at his heels. The stairs stretched below them in tight, circular sweeps about the central shaft, fading into a dank and dreary grayness.

  The first momentum of their rush had carried them fifty feet down, so that the dim, flickering yellow from the open door of the dome had disappeared and both above and below the same dusky shadow crushed in upon them.

  Sheerin paused, and his pudgy hand clutched at his chest. His eyes bulged and his voice was a dry cough. “I can’t . . . breathe . . . Go down . . . yourself. Close all doors -- “

  Theremon took a few downward steps, then turned.

  “Wait! Can you hold out a minute?” He was panting himself. The air passed in and out his lungs like so much molasses, and there was a little germ of screeching panic in his mind at the thought of making his way into the mysterious Darkness below by himself.

  Theremon, after all, was afraid of the dark!

  “Stay here,” he said. I’ll be back in a second.” He dashed upward two steps at a time, heart pounding -- not altogether from the exertion -- tumbled into the dome and snatched a torch from its holder. It was foul-smelling, and the smoke smarted his eyes almost blind, but he clutched that torch as if he wanted to kiss it for joy, and its flame streamed backward as he hurtled down the stairs again.

  Sheerin opened his eyes and moaned as Theremon bent over him. Theremon shook him roughly. “All right, get a hold on yourself. We’ve got light.”

  He held the torch at tiptoe height and, propping the tottering psychologist by an elbow, made his way downward in the middle of the protecting circle of illumination.

  The offices on the ground floor still possessed what light there was, and Theremon felt the horror about him relax.

  “Here,” he said brusquely, and passed the torch to Sheerin. “You can hear them outside.”

  And they could. Little scraps of hoarse, wordless shouts.

  But Sheerin was right; the Observatory was built like a fortress. Erected in the last century, when the neo-Gavottian style of architecture was at its ugly height, it had been designed for stability and durability rather than for beauty.

  The windows were protected by the grillwork of inch-thick iron bars sunk deep into the concrete sills. The walls were solid masonry that an earthquake couldn’t have touched, and the main door was a huge oaken slab rein -- forced with iron. Theremon shot the bolts and they slid shut with a dull clang.

  At the other end of the corridor, Sheerin cursed weakly. He pointed to the lock of the back door which had been neatly jimmied into uselessness.

  “That must be how Latimer got in,” he said.

  “Well, don’t stand there,” cried Theremon impatiently. “Help drag up the furniture -- and keep that torch out of my eyes. The smoke’s killing me.”

  He slammed the heavy table up against the door as he spoke, and in two minutes had built a barricade which made up for what it lacked in beauty and symmetry by the sheer inertia of its massiveness.

  Somewhere, dimly, far off, they could hear the battering of naked fists upon the door; and the screams and yells from outside had a sort of half reality.

  That mob had set off from Saro City with only two things in mind: the attainment of Cultist salvation by the destruction of the Observatory, and a maddening fear that all but paralyzed them. There was no time to think of ground cars, or of weapons, or of leadership, or even of organization. They made for the Observatory on foot and assaulted it with bare hands.

  And now that they were there, the last flash of Beta, the last ruby-red drop of flame, flickered feebly over a humanity that had left only stark, universal fear!

  Theremon groaned, “Let’s get back to the dome!”

  In the dome, only Yimot, at the solarscope, had kept his place. The rest were clustered about the cameras, and Beenay was giving his instructions in a hoarse, strained voice.

  “Get it straight, all of you. I’m snapping Beta just before totality and changing the plate. That will leave one of you to each camera. You all know about . . . about times of exposure -- “

  There was a breathless murmur of agreement.

  Beenay passed a hand over his eyes. “Are the torches still burning? Never mind, I see them!” He was leaning hard against the back of a chair. “Now remember, don’t. . . don’t try to look for good shots. Don’t waste time trying to get t-two stars at a time in the scope field. One is enough. And . . . and if you feel yourself going, get away from the camera.”

  At the door, Sheerin whispered to Theremon, “Take me to Aton. I don’t see him.”

  The newsman did not answer immediately. The vague forms of the astronomers wavered and blurred, and the torches overhead had become only yellow splotches.

  “It’s dark,” he whimpered.

  Sheerin held out his hand. “Aton.” He stumbled forward. “Aton!”

  Theremon stepped after and seized his arm. “Wait, I’ll take you.” Somehow he made his way across the room. He closed his eyes against the Darkness and his mind against the chaos within it.

  No one heard them or paid attention to them. Sheerin stumbled against the wall. “Aton!”

  The psychologist felt shaking hands touching him, then withdrawing, a voice muttering, “Is that you, Sheerin?”

  “Aton!” He strove to breathe normally. “Don’t worry about the mob. The place will hold them off.”

  Latimer, the Cultist, rose to his feet, and his face twisted in desperation. His word was pledged, and to break it would mean placing his soul in mortal peril. Yet that word had been forced from him and had not been given freely. The Stars would come soon! He could not stand by and allow -- And yet his word was pledged.

  Beenay’s face was dimly flushed as it looked upward at Beta’s last ray, and Latimer, seeing him bend over his camera, made his decision. His nails cut the flesh of his palms as he tensed himself.

  He staggered crazily as he started his rush. There was nothing before him but shadows; the very floor beneath his feet lacked substance. And then someone was upon him and he went down with clutching fingers at his throat.

  He doubled his knee and drove it hard into his assailant. “Let me up or I’ll kill you.”

  Theremon cried out sharply and muttered through a blinding haze of pain. “You double-crossing rat!”

  The newsman seemed conscious of everything at once. He heard Beenay croak, “I’ve got it. At your cameras, men!” and then there was the strange awareness that the last thread of sunlight had thinned out and snapped.

  Simultaneously he heard one last choking gasp from Beenay, and a queer little cry from Sheerin, a hysterical giggle that cut off in a rasp -- and a sudden silence, a strange, deadly silence from outside.

  And Latimer had gone limp in his loosening grasp. Theremon peered into the Cultist’s eyes and saw the blankness of them, staring upward, mirroring the feeble yellow of the torches. He saw the bubble of froth upon Latimer’s lips and heard the low animal whimper in Latimer’s throat.

  With the slow fascination of fear, he lifted himself on one arm and turned his eyes toward the blood-curdling blackness of the window.

  Through it shone the Stars!

  Not Earth’s feeble thirty-six hundred Stars visible to the eye; Lagash was in the center of a giant cluster. Thirty thousand mighty suns shone down in a soul-searing splendor that was more frighteningly cold in its awful indifference than the bitter wind that shivered across the cold, horribly bleak world.

  Theremon staggered to his feet, his throat, constricting him to breathlessness, all the muscles of h
is body writhing in an intensity of terror and sheer fear beyond bearing. He was going mad and knew it, and somewhere deep inside a bit of sanity was screaming, struggling to fight off the hopeless flood of black terror. It was very horrible to go mad and know that you were going mad -- to know that in a little minute you would be here physically and yet all the real essence would be dead and drowned in the black madness. For this was the Dark -- the Dark and the Cold and the Doom. The bright walls of the universe were shattered and their awful black fragments were falling down to crush and squeeze and obliterate him.

  He jostled someone crawling on hands and knees, but stumbled somehow over him. Hands groping at his tortured throat, he limped toward the flame of the torches that filled all his mad vision.

  “Light!” he screamed.

  Aton, somewhere, was crying, whimpering horribly like a terribly frightened child. “Stars -- all the Stars -- we didn’t know at all. We didn’t know anything. We thought six stars in a universe is something the Stars didn’t notice is Darkness forever and ever and ever and the walls are breaking in and we didn’t know we couldn’t know and anything -- “

  Someone clawed at the torch, and it fell and snuffed out. In the instant, the awful splendor of the indifferent Stars leaped nearer to them.

  On the horizon outside the window, in the direction of Saro City, a crimson glow began growing, strengthening in brightness, that was not the glow of a sun.

  The long night had come again.

  ---

  In 1948, I woke up one morning to read in the New York Times that Street & Smith Publications had discontinued all its pulp magazines.

  Since Astounding Science Fiction was one of the Street & Smith pulps, everything went black before my eyes. You see, during the six-year period from 1943 to 1948 inclusive, I had sold and published thirteen science fiction stories, every single one of them to Astounding. During that period I had labored constantly with the feeling that I was not a writer at all, but merely a person who happened to click it off with one particular market, and that if anything happened to Astounding or to Mr. Campbell, its editor, I was through.

  With great difficulty I finished the article and found, near the end, the utterly casual statement (almost as an afterthought) that Astounding was the one exception. It was the only pulp magazine Street & Smith was going to retain.

  I was retrieved, but I still felt in a most fragile situation. Something might still happen to either Astounding or to Mr. Campbell. (Nothing did! At least so far! At this moment of writing, more than twenty years after that article, Astounding still flourishes, although it has a different publisher and has changed its name to Analog. And the durable Mr. Campbell is still its editor.)

  I sold four more stories to Astounding in 1949 and 1950 before breaking the string. Then, in 1950, a new science fiction magazine came into sudden, vigorous life under the energetic leadership of its editor, Horace L. Gold.

  Mr. Gold searched strenuously for stories while the new magazine was being formed and he asked me if I would submit some. I hesitated, for I was not at all sure that Mr. Gold would like them and I was wondering whether I could bear rejections that would serve as “proof” that I was not a real writer but only a one-editor author.

  Mr. Gold was, however, persuasive. I wrote two stories and he took them both. The first story, I felt, might have been a forced sale; he needed it for the maiden issue in a big hurry. The second story, which appeared in the second issue, did not have to be bought, it seemed to me. I accepted the sale as deserved and a more-than-seven-year agony of self-doubt was relieved. It is this second story which follows.

  But one thing--editors have the frequent urge to change the titles of stories. Heaven knows why! Some editors have it worse than others and Mr. Gold had a rather acute case.

  My own title for this story was “Green Patches” for reasons that will seem perfectly clear when you read the story. For some obscure reason, Mr. Gold didn’t like it and when the story appeared, it bore the name “Misbegotten Missionary.” Except for the alliteration, I could see no reason why this new title should appeal to any rational person.

  So I am seizing the opportunity now to change the title back to what it had been. I don’t think I’m being unduly hasty in doing so. I have been waiting eighteen years for a chance.

  First appearance--Galaxy Science Fiction, November 1950, under the title “Misbegotten Missionary.” Copyright, 1950, by World Editions, Inc.

  Green Patches

  He had slipped aboard the ship! There had been dozens waiting outside the energy barrier when it had seemed that waiting would do no good. Then the barrier had faltered for a matter of two minutes (which showed the superior­ity of unified organisms over life fragments) and he was across.

  None of the others had been able to move quickly enough to take advan­tage of the break, but that didn’t matter. All alone, he was enough. No others were necessary.

  And the thought faded out of satisfaction and into loneliness. It was a terribly unhappy and unnatural thing to be parted from all the rest of the unified organism, to be a life fragment oneself. How could these aliens stand being fragments?

  It increased his sympathy for the aliens. Now that he experienced frag­mentation himself, he could feel, as though from a distance, the terrible isolation that made them so afraid. It was fear born of that isolation that dictated their actions. What but the insane fear of their condition could have caused them to blast an area, one mile in diameter, into dull-red heat before landing their ship? Even the organized life ten feet deep in the soil had been destroyed in the blast.

  He engaged reception, listening eagerly, letting the alien thought saturate him. He enjoyed the touch of life upon his consciousness. He would have to ration that enjoyment. He must not forget himself.

  But it could do no harm to listen to thoughts. Some of the fragments of life on the ship thought quite clearly, considering that they were such primi­tive, incomplete creatures. Their thoughts were like tiny bells.

  Roger Oldenn said, “I feel contaminated. You know what I mean? I keep washing my hands and it doesn’t help.”

  Jerry Thorn hated dramatics and didn’t look up. They were still maneu­vering in the stratosphere of Saybrook’s Planet and he preferred to watch the panel dials. He said, “No reason to feel contaminated. Nothing hap­pened.”

  “I hope not,” said Oldenn. “At least they had all the field men discard their spacesuits in the air lock for complete disinfection. They had a radia­tion bath for all men entering from outside. I suppose nothing happened.”

  “Why be nervous, then?”

  “I don’t know. I wish the barrier hadn’t broken down.”

  “Who doesn’t? It was an accident.”

  “I wonder.” Oldenn was vehement. “I was here when it happened. My shift, you know. There was no reason to overload the power line. There was equipment plugged into it that had no damn business near it. None whatso­ever.”

  “All right. People are stupid.”

  “Not that stupid. I hung around when the Old Man was checking into the matter. None of them had reasonable excuses. The armor-baking cir­cuits, which were draining off two thousand watts, had been put into the barrier line. They’d been using the second subsidiaries for a week. Why not this time? They couldn’t give any reason.”

  “Can you?”

  Oldenn flushed. “No, 1 was just wondering if the men had been”--he searched for a word--”hypnotized into it. By those things outside.”

  Thorn’s eyes lifted and met those of the other levelly. “I wouldn’t repeat that to anyone else. The barrier was down only two minutes. If anything had happened, if even a spear of grass had drifted across it would have shown up in our bacteria cultures within half an hour, in the fruit-fly colonies in a matter of days. Before we got back it would show up in the hamsters, the rabbits, maybe the goats. Just get it through your head, Oldenn, that noth­ing happened. Nothing.”

  Oldenn tu
rned on his heel and left. In leaving, his foot came within two feet of the object in the comer of the room. He did not see it.

  He disengaged his reception centers and let the thoughts flow past him unperceived. These life fragments were not important, in any case, since they were not fitted for the continuation of life. Even as fragments, they were incomplete.

  The other types of fragments now--they were different. He had to be careful of them. The temptation would be great, and he must give no indication, none at all, of his existence on board ship till they landed on their home planet.

  He focused on the other parts of the ship, marveling at the diversity of life. Each item, no matter how small, was sufficient to itself. He forced himself to contemplate this, until the unpleasantness of the thought grated on him and he longed for the normality of home.

  Most of the thoughts he received from the smaller fragments were vague and fleeting, as you would expect. There wasn’t much to be had from them, but that meant their need for completeness was all the greater. It was that which touched him so keenly.

  There was the life fragment which squatted on its haunches and fingered the wire netting that enclosed it. Its thoughts were clear, but limited. Chiefly, they concerned the yellow fruit a companion fragment was eating. It wanted the fruit very deeply. Only the wire netting that separated the fragments prevented its seizing the fruit by force.

  He disengaged reception in a moment of complete revulsion. These frag­ments competed for food!

  He tried to reach far outward for the peace and harmony of home, but it was already an immense distance away. He could reach only into the noth­ingness that separated him from sanity.

  He longed at the moment even for the feel of the dead soil between the barrier and the ship. He had crawled over it last night. There had been no life upon it, but it had been the soil of home, and on the other side of the barrier there had still been the comforting feel of the rest of organized life.