The Future Makers (v1.0), page 9
It was long before he noticed the strange new radiation pulsing far off in the darkness—radiation of a kind he had never experienced before. Sluggishly he turned his mind towards it, considering what it might be and whence it came. It was closer than he had thought, for its movement was clearly visible and now it was climbing into the sky, approaching the Sun itself. But this was no second sun, for the strange illumination was waxing and waning, and only for a fraction of a cycle was it shining full upon him.
Nearer and nearer came that enigmatic glare; and as the throbbing rhythm of its brilliance grew fiercer he became aware of a strange, tearing resonance that seemed to shake the whole of his being. Now it was beating down upon him like a flail, tearing into his vitals and loosening his last hold on life itself. He had lost all control over the outer regions of his compressed but still enormous body.
The end came swiftly. The intolerable radiance was directly overhead, no longer pulsing but pouring down upon him in one continuous flood. Then there was neither pain nor wonder, nor the dull longing for the great golden world he had lost for ever…
From the streamlined fairing beneath the great flying-wing, the long pencil of the radar beam was sweeping the Atlantic to the horizon’s edge. Spinning in synchronism on the Plan Position Indicator, the faintly visible line of the timebase built up a picture of all that lay beneath. At the moment the screen was empty, for the coast of Ireland was more than three hundred miles away. Apart from an occasional brilliant blue spot—which was all that the greatest surface vessel became from fifty thousand feet—nothing would be visible until, in three hours’ time, the eastern seaboard of America began to drift into the picture.
The navigator, checking his position continually by the North Atlantic radio lattice, seldom had any need for this part of the liner’s radar. But to the passengers, the big skia-tron indicator on the promenade deck was a source of constant interest, especially when the weather was bad and there was nothing to be seen below but the undulating hills and valleys of the cloud ceiling. There was still something magical, even in this age, about a radar landfall. No matter how often one had seen it before, it was fascinating to watch the pattern of the coastline forming on the screen, to pick out the harbours and the shipping and, presently, the hills and rivers and lakes of the land beneath.
To Edward Lindsey, returning from a week’s leave in Europe, the Plan Position Indicator had a double interest. Fifteen years ago, as a young Coastal Command radio observer in the War of Liberation, he had spent long and tiring hours over these same waters, peering into a primitive forerunner of the great five-fodt screen before him. He smiled wryly as his mind went back to those days. What would he have thought then, he wondered, if he could have seen himself as he was now, a prosperous accountant, travelling in comfort ten miles above the Atlantic at almost the velocity of sound? He thought also of the rest of S for Sugar’s crew, and wondered what had happened to them in the intervening years.
At the edge of the scan, just crossing the three-hundred-mile range circle, a faint patch of light was beginning to drift into the picture. That was strange: there was no land there, for the Azores were further to the south. Besides, this seemed too ill-defined to be an island. The only thing it could possibly be was a storm-cloud heavy with rain.
Lindsey walked to the nearest window and looked out. The weather was extraordinarily fine. Far below, the waters of the Atlantic were crawling eastward towards Europe; even down to the horizon the sky was blue and cloudless.
He went back to the P.P.I. The echo was certainly a very curious one, approximately oval and as far as he could judge about ten miles long, although it was still too far away for accurate measurement. Lindsey did some rapid mental arithmetic. In twenty-five minutes it should be almost underneath them, for it was neatly bisected by the bright line that represented the aircraft’s heading. Track? Course? Lord, how quickly one forgot that sort^of thing! But it didn’t matter the wind could make little difference at the speed they were travelling. He. would come back and have a look at it then, unless the gang in the bar got hold of him again.
Twenty minutes later he was even more puzzled. The tiny blue oval of light gleaming on the dark face of the screen was now only fifty miles away. If it were indeed a cloud, it was the strangest one he had ever seen. But the scale of the picture was still too small for him to make out any details The main controls of the indicator were safely locked away beneath the notice which read: passengers are requested NOT TO PLACE EMPTY GLASSES ON THE SKIATRON. However, one control had been left for the use of all comers. A massive three-position switch—guaranteed unbreakable—enabled anyone to select the tube’s three different ranges: three hundred, fifty, and ten miles. Normally the three-hundred-mile picture was used, but the more restricted fifty-mile scan gave much greater detail and was excellent for sightseeing overland. The ten-mile range was quite useless and no one knew why it was there.
Lindsey turned the switch to 50, and the picture seemed to explode. The mysterious echo, which had been nearing the screen’s centre, now lay at its edge once more, enlarged sixfold Lindsey waited until the afterglow of the old picture had died away; then he leaned over and carefully examined the new.
The echo almost filled the gap between the forty- and fifty-mile range circles, and now that he could see it clearly its strangeness almost took his breath away. From its centre radiated a curious network of filaments, while at its heart glowed a bright area perhaps two miles in length. It could only be fancy—yet he could have sworn that the central spot was pulsing very slowly.
Almost unable to believe his eyes, Lindsey stared into the screen. He watched in hypnotized fascination until the oval mist was less than forty miles away; then he ran to the nearest telephone and called for one of the ship’s radio officers. While he was waiting, he went again to the observation port and looked out at the ocean beneath. He could see for at least a hundred miles—but there was absolutely nothing there but the blue Atlantic and the open sky.
It was a long walk from the control room to the promenade deck, and when Sub-Lieutenaht Armstrong arrived, concealing his annoyance beneath a mask of polite but not obsequious service, the object was less than twenty miles away. Lindsey pointed to the skiatron.
“Look!” he said simply.
Sub-Lieutenant Armstrong looked. For a moment there was silence. Then came a curious, half-strangled ejaculation and he jumped back as if he had been stung. He leaned forward again and rubbed at the screen with his sleeve as if trying to remove something that shouldn’t be there. Stopping himself in time, he grinned foolishly at Lindsey. Then he went to the observation window.
“There’s nothing there. I’ve looked,” said Lindsey.
After the initial shock, Armstrong moved with commendable speed. He ran back to the skiatron, unlocked the controls with his master key, and made a series of swift adjustments. At once the timebase began to whirl round at a greatly increased speed, giving a more continuous picture than before.
It was much clearer now. The bright nucleus was pulsating, and faint knots of light were moving slowly outward along the radiating filaments. As he stared, fascinated, Lindsey suddenly remembered a glimpse he had once of an amoeba under the microscope. Apparently the same thought had occurred to the Sub-Lieutenant.
“It—it looks alive!” he whispered incredulously.
“I know,” said Lindsey. “What do you think it is?”
The other hesitated for a while. “I remember reading once that Appleton or someone had detected patches of ionization low down in the atmosphere. That’s the only thing it can be.”
“But its structure! How do you explain that?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t,” he said bluntly.
It was vertically beneath them now, disappearing into the blind area at the centre of the screen. While they were waiting for it to emerge again they had another look at the ocean below. It was uncanny: there was still absolutely nothing to be seen. But the radaf could not lie. Something must be there—
It was fading fast when it reappeared a minute later, fading as if the full power of the radar transmitter had destroyed its cohesion. For the filaments were breaking up, and even as they watched the ten-mile-long oval began to disintegrate. There was something awe-inspiring about the sight, and for some unfathomable reason Lindsey felt a surge of pity, as though he were witnessing the death of some gigantic beast He shook his head angrily, but he could not get the thought out of his mind.
Twenty miles away, the last traces of ionization were dispersing to the winds. Soon eye and radar screen alike saw only the unbroken waters of the Atlantic rolling endlessly eastwards as if no power could ever disturb them.
And across the screen of the great indicator, two men stared speechlessly at one another, each afraid to guess what lay in the other’s mind.
THE HOUR OF BATTLE
By Robert Sheckley
Of all the bright new talents to emerge in S.F. in recent years, few show a wider promise than the youthful American, Robert Sheckley. In the space of a few years his short stories and novels—in particular the revolutionary “The Status Civilisation”—have created a lasting impression on readers throughout the world. Sheckley contributes extensively to the various top publications in the genre and frequently mingles some strong shades of horror with his work—this is probably seen to best advantage in “Untouched By Human Hands”. In the story reprinted here the tension of galactic warfare is steadily built to a magnificent climax. More, Sheckley, more!
“That hand didn’t move, did it?” Edwardson asked, standing at the port, looking at the stars.
“No,” Morse said. He had been staring fixedly at the Atti-son Detector for over an hour. Now he blinked three times rapidly, and looked again. “Not a millimetre.”
“I don’t think it moved either,” Cassel added, from behind the gunfire panel. And that was that. The slender black hand of the indicator rested unwaveringly on zero. The ship’s guns were ready, their black mouths open to the stars. A steady hum filled the room. It came from the Attison Detector and the sound was reassuring. It reinforced the fact that the Detector was attached to all the other Detectors, forming a gigantic network around Earth.
“Why in hell don’t they come?” Edwardson asked, still looking at the stars. “Why don’t they hit?”
“Aah, shut up,” Morse said. He had a tired, glum look. High on his right temple was an old radiation burn, a sunburst of pink scar tissue. From a distance it looked like a decoration.
“I just wish they’d come,” Edwardson said. He returned from the port of his chair, bending to clear the low metal ceiling. “Don’t you wish they’d come?” Edwardson had the narrow, timid face of a mouse; but a highly intelligent mouse. One that cats did well to avoid.
“Don’t you?” he repeated.
The other men didn’t answer. They had settled back to their dreams, staring hypnotically at the Detector face.
“They’ve had enough time,” Edwardson said, half to himself.
Cassel yawned and licked his lips. “Anyone want to play some gin?” he asked, stroking his beard. The beard was a memento of his undergraduate days. Cassel maintained he could store almost fifteen minutes worth of oxygen in its follicles. He had never stepped into space unhelmeted to prove it.
Morse looked away, and Edwardson automatically watched the indicator. This routine had been drilled into them, branded into their subconscious. They would as soon have cut their throats as leave the indicator unguarded.
“Do you think they’ll come soon?” Edwardson asked, his brown rodent’s eyes on the indicator. The men didn’t answer him. After two months together in space their conversational powers were exhausted. They weren’t interested in Cassel’s undergraduate days, or in Morse’s conquests.
They were bored to death even with their own thoughts and dreams, bored with the attack they expected momentarily.
“Just one thing Yd like to know,” Edwardson said, slipping with ease into an old conversational gambit. “How far can they do it?”
They had talked for weeks about the enemy’s telepathic range, but they always returned to it.
As professional soldiers, they couldn’t help but speculate on the enemy and his weapons. It was their shop talk.
“Well,” Morse said wearily, “Our Detector network covers the system out beyond Mars’ orbit.”
“Where we sit,” Cassel said, watching the indicators now that the others were talking.
“They might not even know we have a detection unit working,” Morse said, as he had said a thousand times.
“Oh, stop,” Edwardson said, his thin face twisted in scorn. “They’re telepathic. They must have read every bit of stuff in Everset’s mind.”
“Everset didn’t know we had a detection unit,” Morse said, his eyes returning to the dial. “He was captured before we had it.”
“Look,” Edwardson said, “They ask him, ‘Boy, what would you do if you knew a telepathic race was coming to take over Earth? How would you guard the planet?’”
“Idle speculation,” Cassel said. “Maybe Everset didn’t think of this.”
“He thinks like a man, doesn’t he? Everyone agreed on this defense. Everset would, too.”
“Syllogistic,” Cassel murmured. “Very shaky.”
“I sure wish he hadn’t been captured,” Edwardson said.
“It could have been worse,” Morse put in, his face sadder than ever. “What if they’d captured both of them?”
“I wish they’d come,” Edwardson said.
Richard Everset and C.R. Jones had gone on the first interstellar flight. They had found an inhabited planet in the region of Vega. The rest was standard procedure.
A flip of the coin had decided it. Everset went down in the scouter, maintaining radio contact with Jones, in the ship.
The recording of that contact was preserved for all Earth to hear.
“Just met the natives,” Everset said. “Funny looking bunch. Give you the physical description later.”
“Are they trying to talk to you?” Jones asked, guiding the ship in a slow spiral over the planet.
“No. Hold it. Well I’m damned! They’re telepathic! How do you like that?”
“Great,” Jones said. “Go on.”
“Hold it. Say, Jonesy, I don’t know as I like these boys. They haven’t got nice minds. Brother!”
“What is it?” Jones asked, lifting the ship a little higher. “Minds! These bastards are power-crazy. Seems they’ve hit all the systems around here, looking for someone to—”
“Yeh?”
“I’ve got that a bit wrong,” Everset said pleasantly. “They are not so bad.”
Jones had a quick mind, a suspicious nature and good reflexes. He set the accelerator for all the G’s he could take, lay down on the floor and said. “Tell me more.”
“Come on down,” Everset said, in violation of every law of space-flight. “These guys are all right As a matter of fact, they’re the most marvellous—”
That was where the recording ended, because Jones was pinned to the floor by twenty G’s acceleration as he boosted the ship to the level needed for the C-jump.
He broke three ribs getting home, but he got there.
A telepathic species was on the march. What was Earth going to do about it?
A lot of speculation necessarily clothed the bare bones of Jones* information. Evidently the species could take over a mind with ease. With Everset, it seemed that they had insinuated their thoughts into his, delicately altering his previous convictions. They had possessed him with remarkable ease.
How about Jones? Why hadn’t they taken him? Was distance a factor? Or hadn’t they been prepared for the suddenness of his departure?
One thing was certain. Everything Everset knew, the enemy knew. That meant they knew where Earth was, and how defenseless the planet was to their form of attack.
It could be expected that they were on their way.
Something was needed to nullify their tremendous advantage. But what sort of something? What armour is there against thought? How do you dodge a wavelength?
Pouched-eyed scientists gravely consulted their periodic tables.
And how do you know when a man has been possessed? Although the enemy was clumsy with Everset, would they continue to be clumsy? Wouldn’t they learn?
Psychologists tore their hair and bewailed the absence of an absolute scale for humanity.
Of course, something had to be done at once. The answer, from a technological planet, was a technological one. Build a space fleet and equip it with some sort of a detection-fire network.
This was done in record time. The Attison Detector was developed, a cross between radar and the electroencephalograph. Any alteration from the typical-human brain wave pattern of the occupants of a Detector-equipped ship would boost the indicator around the dial. Even a bad dream or a case of indigestion would jar it.
It seemed probable that any attempt to take over a human mind would disturb something. There had to be a point of interaction, somewhere.
That was what the Attison Detector was supposed to detect Maybe it would.
The spaceships, three men to a ship, dotted space between Earth and Mars, forming a gigantic sphere with Earth in the centre.
Tens of thousands of men crouched behind gunfire panels, watching the dials on the Attison Detector.
The unmoving dials.
“Do you think I could fire a couple of bursts?” Edwardson asked, his fingers on the gunfire button. “Just to limber the guns?”
“Those guns don’t need limbering,” Cassel said, stroking his beard. “Besides, you’d throw the whole fleet into a panic.”
“Cassel,” Morse said, very quietly. “Get your hands off that beard.”
