Takeoff. Part 18

The lamp swayed with my every step, casting inadequate illumination on the pillars that lined my path, and causing fearsome shadows to billow out into the blankness beyond them. I could see symbols on the pillars: unintelligible. weird carvings which were somehow utterly repulsive, and from which looked quickly away. Now and then the nether regions of the room would catch a ray of light and reveal drifts of dust, all that remained of wooden furniture or fabric wall-hangings. A part of me still stubbornly mourned the loss and surmised that the originals had been perfectly preserved until the advent of fresh air had accelerated their long-delayed decomposition. But that objective, scientific interest was almost totally submerged in a great relief that I was spared the scenes depicted in those ancient tapestries.

If those aspects of the huge room which I could see in the glow of my lantern contributed to a sense of apprehension, consider the effect of the vast areas which remained concealed. I began to fill the darkened corners with fancy. What lurked there, just beyond the light, watching me? Did I hear whispering in the gloom above me, or was it only the sea breeze becoming reacquainted with these aged stones? Surely the latter was true, for I could smell afresh, with sharpened senses, the foetid odour of the "beach." Or was this scent original within the temple, caused by the same sudden decay of once-living flesh as had struck the objects which had been reduced to dust?

For the first time in my young life, I cursed the imagination which had always enriched physical experience for me. If I persisted in conjuring spectres to satisfy my straining senses...

I saw the altar.

It rested atop a long, shallow stairway which stretched the whole width of the aisle. From where I was, I could see three steps, a long platform, and another set of three steps. At the end of that second platform stood a ma.s.sive block, only a rectangular shape at the edge of the light.

I recognized that it functioned as an altar because I could now sense the exact focus of the energies which had drawn me across the room. On the wall above and behind the altar was an idol. Not even its vaguest outline was visible to me, yet I knew it was there, and that when I looked upon it, I would know the truth.

At that moment I looked back across the blackness at the patch of grey gloom that was the only doorway, the only way in...or out. I knew that I had reached the only remaining moment of choice. To mount the first step toward the altar was to commit myself unremittingly to viewing what waited beyondit. I could turn back now, escape this dark and horrid place, return to the honest sunlight, however obscure.

But with my goal in sight, the hard stone step at the toe of my boot, I was shamed by the memory of my terrifying phantasies. I could not quite scoff at them, standing as I was almost within reach of what I could think of only as a sacrificial altar. But I argued with valid logic that the truth, whatever it might be, would dispel forever the lingering trauma of that fancy-ridden trek. So, with a grand and foolish determination, I turned and stepped upward.

As the altar loomed into the circle of light I carried with me, I could not repress a shudder of horror. Here was not the indestructible grey stone I had seen throughout the temple, but a giant block of scabrous white marble. Once smooth and gleaming, it had been etched and scarred by the elements of the air confined for-how long?-within these walls. The pattern of the marbled surface was lost beneath scattered patches that reflected an unhealthy white, as though some thin and pallid fungus were feeding on the evil, glistening stone.

I looked down at last upon the entire altar, and try as I did to resist, I was swept up in another eddy of phantasy. For what blasphemous rituals had this hideous altar been used? I could not shake the impression that living sacrifice had been offered here. In my mind's eye I could see a razor-sharp spearblade hovering ever nearer a terrified victim whose outline was blurred and unclear. And who-or what-held that threatening blade? Was this really only phantasy, or was I seeing a scene so often repeated that its impression had remained these countless thousands of years?

I knew the moment had come. I lifted high my lantern and looked upon the thing to which the ancient sacrifice had been made.

The carven image on that wall was never meant for our eyes. I am the only person who has ever seen it, and time has not yet erased my sense of utter revulsion when the light of my lantern exposed it at last. Numbed by the horror of it, I stood as if paralyzed for what seemed an interminably long time; then, driven nearly mad by that ghastly visage, I threw the lamp at it with all my strength, as though I could destroy the sight of it. I must have screamed, but I can remember only the echoing of my boots as I ran back to the welcoming gloom of the still-dark day, fled for my soul's sake from that revolting and nauseous vision.

Past that, my memory is unclear. I retain an impression still of the total panic in my mind, as my body ran back across the sandy level to the noxious sea-scudded rocks. Some thankful instinct guided me toward the White Moon. The joy that surged through me when I saw her masts above the slimy crest that marked the edge of the '"beach" is totally indescribable. Those masts represented safety, refuge, security. To my unbalanced mind they represented wholesomeness. All I need do, so my mind ran, was reach the White Moon-there I would find forgetfulness. It would be as though I had never set foot in that gruesome temple; it would never have happened at all. And how I longed to escape the memory of that place, of the indescribable horror that ruled over that dishonourable altar!

I ran for the White Moon's masts, slipping and falling, heedless of the dangerous coral which cut repeatedly at my extremities. With a soulfelt sob of relief, I ran straight over the edge of the crest and plummeted to the beach below.

I do not remember the pain; all I remember is the shock of the blow that knocked the breath out of me. And then, gratefully, I gave myself up to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

I was told later that I was unconscious for two days, and thus did not experience the second volcanic eruption and the resulting quake which allowed the merciful sea to flood over and cover again that horrid island and its tomb-like temple.

Some infection from the coral cuts must have invaded my body, for I was in a fevered delirium for the next five days.

But, delirium or no, I did not imagine that carven figure above that gruesome altar. No living thing has that much imagination, even in delirium.

I can still see it clearly in my mind's eye, although I would far rather forget it. It tells too much about the horrible and blasphemous rites which must have been performed in that evil place, rites practiced by monstrous beings that ruled this planet a quarter of a million or more years ago. The hideous thing was almost indescribable, and I cannot, will not, bring myself to draw it. It was thin and emaciated-looking, with two tiny, deep-sunken eyes and a small mouth surrounded by some kind of bristles or antennae. The muscles were clearly visible, as though its flesh were all on the outside. It had only two arms, and these were flung wide. The horrible, five-fingered hands and the five-toed feet were nailed firmly to a great stone cross!

LOOK OUT! DUCK!.

By Randall Garrett

This one is due primarily to Peg Campbell, John's lovely wife. She read a story in The New Yorker by Peter de Vries, and in it was one line that tickled her fancy, It is the last line of Look Out! Duck!

But both she and John objected to what Mr. de Vries had to say about "pulp" writers, and wanted me to prove him wrong, I don't know whether I did or not, but I enjoyed writing the story, You wouldn't believe the research it took to find out about ducks, By the way, all the names of the characters and the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps are taken from the New Yorker story-with the exception of the hero's.

And one other,

There were four men aboard the cargo s.h.i.+p Constanza when she made the voyage to Okeefenokee, Three of them were her regular crew: Joseph Dumbrowski, the captain; Donald MacDonald, the engineer; and Peter Devris, the astrogator .

The fourth man didn't show up until the Constanza was almost fully loaded and ready to take off.

Dumbrowski was definitely reaching the peevish stage when the panel truck came rolling up towards the loading pit that housed the interstellar vessel.

Inside the truck, the driver pointed toward the shaft of silver that speared up from the pit. "That's the Constanza, ahead," he said.

Rouen Drake, M.D., D.V.M., looked at it, nodded, and looked back through the gla.s.s panel at the remaining cargo in the rear of the truck. "You can't see it, children," he said, "but your new home is just ahead, At least it will be your home for a while,"

The cargo did not reply, The truck driver grinned. "You like

them ducks, eh, Doc?"

The doctor grinned back. "In a way. They're the product of ten years of genetic engineering.

Besides being proud of them, I think they're kind of cute."

The truck pulled up beside the ramp of the Constanza and braked to a halt. "Here comes Captain Dumbrowski," the driver said. Dr. Drake climbed out and offered his hand to the man in the striking crimson-and-gold of the Interstellar Service. The officer took it in a bone-crus.h.i.+ng grip.

"Dr. Drake? I'm Captain Dumbrowski. Where have you been?"

The captain was a thickset man with beetling brows, and a voice like a bellowing bull.

"I got here as soon as possible, captain," Drake said stiffly. "I'm sorry if I'm late."

"We're overdue now," the captain said. "MacDonald will help you get loaded." He turned to another crimson-and-gold clad man nearby. "MacDonald, here's our last entry. One Drake and a harem of ducks." And with that, he turned and went into the s.h.i.+p.

Drake's jaw muscles set a little, and his face flamed crimson under his blond complexion. The truck driver smothered a snicker, and MacDonald seemed to be trying to offer a friendly smile instead of an impish grin. He didn't quite succeed.

"Section Five has been set up for your...uh ...ducks, Doctor," he said.

"Excellent," said Drake evenly. "Let's get them aboard as soon as possible." Then he added: "I'll check the rest of the cargo later."

Twenty minutes later, fifty ducks were safely ensconced in the specially rebuilt Section Five of the Constanza's hold. MacDonald leaned against a bulkhead and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief."Hoo!" he said. "I'm worn out."

"It isn't very comfortable, is it?" Drake asked rhetorically. He, too, was streaming with perspiration, and his arms felt heavy as lead.

"Temperature, one hundred degrees Fahrenheit," MacDonald said in a dry voice. "Humidity, eighty-five per cent. Gravity, one point five. Why...if I may ask?"

Drake stuck a soggy handkerchief in his pocket. "We have to reproduce the environment of the surface of Okeefenokee as closely as possible," Drake explained. "That's what the ducks are bred for."

"What's this planet like?" MacDonald wanted to know. His eyes warily followed a duck that flapped its way through the hot, muggy air with apparent unconcern.

"Something like Earth was a few hundred million years ago. Mostly swamps and shallow seas.

Plant life is pretty highly evolved-wind pollinated, though; there aren't any insects. Animals haven't gotten much above the crustacean stage. Oh, there are a few chordates, I understand, but no true vertebrates.

There are some things that look like fish, but they're more closely related to the mollusks.

"That wouldn't be so bad, but it means the colonists wouldn't have the proper proteins. We've got to change the ecological setup. Therefore, the ducks."

"Why ducks?"

"Don't ask me; I'm not an ecologist."

"They're sure queer looking," MacDonald said as one of them waddled unconcernedly toward him.

"They're mutations," Drake told him. "Had to be. The surface gravity of Okeefenokee is half again as great as Earth's, and the air pressure and temperature are higher-as you've noticed. That necessitated modification of the duck's flying apparatus. And there were other changes; their diet isn't quite the same as that of ordinary Terrestrial ducks. They're still members of the Anatidae, but they aren't like any other duck on Earth."

The duck waddled closer and looked at the two men with apparent interest.

"What are you along for, Doc?" MacDonald asked. "Are you a veterinarian?"

"Yes. I also have an M.D. degree."

The duck looked him straight in the eye. "Quack!" it said distinctly.

MacDonald almost gagged.

Dr. Rouen Drake was a scholarly man who had the unfortunate luck to look like a scholar is supposed to look. He was lean and somewhat shorter than average height. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and his eyes had the faint telltale glitter which betrayed the lenses that corrected his myopia. His hair was blond and straight and had a p.r.o.nounced widow's peak. Even his soft, measured, somewhat pedagogical voice betrayed him. It was the first time he had ever been aboard a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p in his life, and he felt somewhat out of place among the s.p.a.cemen.

But he had a job to do, and he was determined to do it well.

After he and MacDonald left Section Five, they went back and checked over the other cargo. Item: One electric incubator, five thousand egg capacity. Item: Fifty electric brooders, one hundred duckling capacity. Item: Two hundred and thirty thousand pounds duckling rations, Types A and B. Item: Three thousand pounds adult duck rations, normal feeding. Item: Three thousand pounds adult duck breeding rations.

And, Item: Five thousand crash-frozen fertile duck eggs.

All in order.

Satisfied, Drake went up to the control blister in the nose to report to Captain Dumbrowski.

He was in a somewhat better mood now, possibly because there were still ten minutes until the scheduled take-off time. If Drake had been late- "I'm all set, captain," Drake said. "The cargo is in excellent shape, and the live ducks are all taken care of."

"Good," said Dumbrowski. He turned to the other man who had been in the control blister with him. "Lieutenant Devris, this is Dr. Drake. Doctor, this is Devris, our navigator."

Devris was a good-looking man, quiet, efficient, and intelligent. His handshake was warm andfriendly.

"All right, men," Dumbrowski said, "let's get settled. Take-off in eight minutes. MacDonald, show the doctor to his cabin."

Eight minutes later, the sixty-five meter long Constanza lifted her huge ma.s.s gently and easily from her pit and accelerated toward the sky. As she left the atmosphere, her course changed slightly, aiming her nose at a point near Shaula in Scorpio. Then the ma.s.s-time converters s.h.i.+fted in and the s.h.i.+p vanished. She was moving towards her destination at nearly ten thousand times the velocity of light.

Okeefenokee was eighteen weeks away.

Time plodded on. The operation of the vessel was largely automatic, requiring only occasional human judgment. Once every twenty-four hours, the ma.s.s-time converters were cut and the s.h.i.+p returned to normal s.p.a.ce so that Devris could take positional readings.

Twice a day, Dr. Drake went down to Section Five to feed and care for his ducks.

Between times, the men read, played cards, or watched the new movies that had been brought along. And each night, Captain Dumbrowski issued each man a ration of two bottles of beer.

Dumbrowski himself was a storyteller of no mean ability, although the subject matter was rather monotonous.

"And then there was that time on Tripha," he would say, pouring himself a foaming gla.s.s. "Some disease had wiped out nine-tenths of the male population. They'd whipped it finally, but even the men who were left were in pretty sad condition. Naturally"-he chuckled knowingly-"we had to do our duty. There was one little blonde who had four sisters-good lookers, all of 'em. Well, they seemed to take a s.h.i.+ne to me, so..."

Or: "I remember a red-headed dancer in Lunar City; she did a strip that was out of this world!

What technique! Anyway, I was in this dive, and-"

And so on. MacDonald would try to top him, but he always came off second best. Neither of them ever repeated himself exactly, but after a few weeks there developed an overhanging pall of similarity about the tales.

Drake noticed that Devris usually listened to Dumbrowski for a while, and then got up and strolled quietly to the astronomical dome. One evening, he walked out as usual, but as soon as he was out in the corridor, he turned and made signals with his hands and fingers.

Drake realized the signals were for him, since neither the captain nor the engineer could see Devris from where he sat.

Drake nodded imperceptibly, and got up a few minutes later. He walked quietly out, mumbling something about his ducks. Behind him, Dumbrowski was saying: "...Could be picked up without any trouble. So I..."

Drake headed for the astronomy dome. Devris was pouring a colorless liquid into a couple of gla.s.ses. He added ice and fruit juice and said: "I thought you might like to get away from Joe 'One-Note'

Dumbrowski for a while. Here; have a drink." He handed one of the gla.s.ses to the doctor.

Drake sipped at the drink. It was smooth, but with a strange aura of power. "Isn't this against regulations?" he asked.

"Not exactly." Devris' smile was that of the triumphant loophole-seeker. ,. 'Articles of Interstellar Commerce,...'" he quoted, " 'Section VIII, Paragraph 4: No beverage alcohol shall be permitted aboard Service vessels except regulation five per cent beer, which shall be rationed to personnel at the rate of twenty-four fluid ounces per day, such rations not to be c.u.mulative.' " He paused for a moment, then went on: " .Section IX, Paragraph 3: Intoxication of personnel shall be punished by the commanding officer of the s.h.i.+p according to Section II, Paragraphs 7 and 8, dealing with endangering the lives and/or property aboard service vessels' "

"Then what's this?" Drake asked, holding up his gla.s.s.

"Lens cleaning fluid," Devris said candidly. "I find absolute alcohol to be an excellent lens cleaner.

"Naturally," he continued virtuously, "no one in his right mind could consider lens cleaning fluid abeverage."

"Which proves," said Drake, taking another sip, "that I am not in my right mind."

"I'll drink to that," said Devris. They drank.

"Very neat," Drake said. " As long as you do not become intoxicated and do not have alcoholic beverages aboard, you are not disobeying the regulations. Does the captain know about this?"

"Probably. But we don't mention it. We have a tacit agreement. He doesn't check on my lens cleaner, and I don't ask him why he has an extra foot locker aboard."

"I see. No one checks on the captain. What about MacDonald?"