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    Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack
    Ebook1,281 pages19 hours

    Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack

    By Philip K. Dick, H. B. Fyfe, Henry Kuttner and

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    About this ebook

    Planet Stories was an American pulp science fiction magazine, published between 1939 and 1955. It featured interplanetary adventures, both in space and on other planets, and managed to obtain work from well-known names, including Isaac Asimov and Clifford Simak.
    In 1952 Planet published Philip K. Dick's first sale, and went on to print more of his stories over the next years.
    This Super Pack features 31 of the very best stories from the magazine, and is guaranteed to give you many hours of reading pleasure and excitement. Included here are:
    • “The Gun” by Philip K. Dick;
    • “Solar Stiff” by Chas. A. Stopher;
    • “Narakan Rifles, about Face!” by Jan Smith;
    • “Lord of a Thousand Suns” by Poul Anderson;
    • “Bride of the Dark One” by Florence Verbell Brown;
    • “The Man Who Staked the Stars” by Charles Dye;
    • “What Hath Me?” by Henry Kuttner;
    • “Master of the Moondog” by Stanley Mullen;
    • “One Purple Hope!” by Henry Hasse;
    • “Black Amazon of Mars” by Leigh Brackett;
    • “The Wealth of Echindul” by Noel Loomis;
    • “Asteroid of Fear” by Raymond Z. Gallun;
    • “Zero Data” by Charles Saphro;
    • “The Woman-Stealers of Thrayx” by Fox B. Holden;
    • “Out of the Iron Womb!” by Poul Anderson;
    • “The Golden Amazons of Venus” by John Murray Reynolds;
    • “Captives of the Thieve-Star” by James H. Schmitz;
    • “B-12's Moon Glow” by Charles A. Stearns;
    • “Star Ship” by Poul Anderson;
    • “George Loves Gistla” by James Mckimmey, Jr.;
    • “The Eyes of Thar” by Henry Kuttner;
    • “Big Pill” by Raymond Z. Gallun
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateSep 30, 2016
    ISBN9781515411253
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack
    Author

    Philip K. Dick

    Over a writing career that spanned three decades, PHILIP K. DICK (1928–1982) published 36 science fiction novels and 121 short stories in which he explored the essence of what makes man human and the dangers of centralized power. Toward the end of his life, his work turned to deeply personal, metaphysical questions concerning the nature of God. Eleven novels and short stories have been adapted to film, notably Blade Runner (based on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), Total Recall, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly, as well as television's The Man in the High Castle. The recipient of critical acclaim and numerous awards throughout his career, including the Hugo and John W. Campbell awards, Dick was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2005, and between 2007 and 2009, the Library of America published a selection of his novels in three volumes. His work has been translated into more than twenty-five languages.

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      Fantastic Stories Presents the Planet Stories Super Pack - Philip K. Dick

      The Gun

      by Philip K. Dick

      Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent, dead. Only the gun showed signs of life ... and the trespassers had wrecked that for all time. The return journey to pick up the treasure would be a cinch ... they smiled.

      THE Captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly.

      It was an atomic fission we saw, all right, he said presently. He sighed and pushed the eyepiece away. Any of you who wants to look may do so. But it’s not a pretty sight.

      Let me look, Tance the archeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. Good Lord! He leaped violently back, knocking against Dorle, the Chief Navigator.

      Why did we come all this way, then? Dorle asked, looking around at the other men. There’s no point even in landing. Let’s go back at once.

      Perhaps he’s right, the biologist murmured. But I’d like to look for myself, if I may. He pushed past Tance and peered into the sight.

      He saw a vast expanse, an endless surface of gray, stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water but after a moment he realized that it was slag, pitted, fused slag, broken only by hills of rock jutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent, dead.

      I see, Fomar said, backing away from the eyepiece. Well, I won’t find any legumes there. He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others.

      I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show, Tance said.

      I think I can guess, the Captain answered. Most of the atmosphere is poisoned. But didn’t we expect all this? I don’t see why we’re so surprised. A fission visible as far away as our system must be a terrible thing.

      He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room.

      As the Captain closed the door the young woman turned. What did the telescope show? Good or bad?

      Bad. No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned, water vaporized, all the land fused.

      Could they have gone underground?

      The Captain slid back the port window so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. The two of them stared down, silent and disturbed. Mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out, blackened slag, pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock.

      Suddenly Nasha jumped. Look! Over there, at the edge. Do you see it?

      They stared. Something rose up, not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round, a circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city? Buildings of some kind?

      Please turn the ship, Nasha said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. Turn the ship and let’s see what it is!

      The ship turned, changing its course. As they came over the white dots the Captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. Piers, he said. Piers of some sort of stone. Perhaps poured artificial stone. The remains of a city.

      Oh, dear, Nasha murmured. How awful. She watched the ruins disappear behind them. In a half-circle the white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked, like broken teeth.

      There’s nothing alive, the Captain said at last. I think we’ll go right back; I know most of the crew want to. Get the Government Receiving Station on the sender and tell them what we found, and that we—

      *

      HE STAGGERED.

      The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it around. The Captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him. As he started to his feet the second shell struck. The ceiling cracked open, struts and girders twisted and bent. The ship shuddered, falling suddenly down, then righting itself as automatic controls took over.

      The Captain lay on the floor by the smashed control board. In the corner Nasha struggled to free herself from the debris.

      Outside the men were already sealing the gaping leaks in the side of the ship, through which the precious air was rushing, dissipating into the void beyond. Help me! Dorle was shouting. Fire over here, wiring ignited. Two men came running. Tance watched helplessly, his eyeglasses broken and bent.

      So there is life here, after all, he said, half to himself. But how could—

      Give us a hand, Fomar said, hurrying past. Give us a hand, we’ve got to land the ship!

      It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet.

      Dorle peered out, frowning. What a place to be stuck in. He resumed his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He was wearing a pressure suit; there were still many small leaks, and radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way into the ship.

      Nasha and Fomar were sitting at the table in the control room, pale and solemn, studying the inventory lists.

      Low on carbohydrates, Fomar said. We can break down the stored fats if we want to, but—

      I wonder if we could find anything outside. Nasha went to the window. How uninviting it looks. She paced back and forth, very slender and small, her face dark with fatigue. What do you suppose an exploring party would find?

      Fomar shrugged. Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and there. Nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to this environment would be toxic, lethal.

      Nasha paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still red and swollen. "Then how do you explain—it? According to your theory the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams. But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decision, aimed a gun."

      And gauged distance, the Captain said feebly from the cot in the corner. He turned toward them. That’s the part that worries me. The first shell put us out of commission, the second almost destroyed us. They were well aimed, perfectly aimed. We’re not such an easy target.

      True. Fomar nodded. Well, perhaps we’ll know the answer before we leave here. What a strange situation! All our reasoning tells us that no life could exist; the whole planet burned dry, the atmosphere itself gone, completely poisoned.

      The gun that fired the projectiles survived, Nasha said. Why not people?

      It’s not the same. Metal doesn’t need air to breathe. Metal doesn’t get leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn’t need food and water.

      There was silence.

      A paradox, Nasha said. Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep on trying to get the ship in condition for the trip back.

      It’ll be days before we can take off, Fomar said. We should keep every man working here. We can’t afford to send out a party.

      Nasha smiled a little. We’ll send you in the first party. Maybe you can discover—what was it you were so interested in?

      Legumes. Edible legumes.

      Maybe you can find some of them. Only—

      Only what?

      Only watch out. They fired on us once without even knowing who we were or what we came for. Do you suppose that they fought with each other? Perhaps they couldn’t imagine anyone being friendly, under any circumstances. What a strange evolutionary trait, inter-species warfare. Fighting within the race!

      We’ll know in the morning, Fomar said. Let’s get some sleep.

      *

      THE sun came up chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below.

      What a day, Dorle said grumpily. I said how glad I’d be to walk on firm ground again, but—

      Come on, Nasha said. Up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us, Tance?

      Tance nodded gloomily. Dorle caught up with Nasha. They walked together, their metal shoes crunching the ground underfoot. Nasha glanced at him.

      Listen. The Captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day-period of this planet he’ll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost sixty, you know.

      Dorle nodded. That’s bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be captain in his place, of course. Since you’re vice-captain now—

      No. I prefer to see someone else lead, perhaps you or Fomar. I’ve been thinking over the situation and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you, whichever of you wants to be captain. Then I could devolve the responsibility.

      Well, I don’t want to be captain. Let Fomar do it.

      Nasha studied him, tall and blond, striding along beside her in his pressure suit. I’m rather partial to you, she said. We might try it for a time, at least. But do as you like. Look, we’re coming to something.

      They stopped walking, letting Tance catch up. In front of them was some sort of a ruined building. Dorle stared around thoughtfully.

      Do you see? This whole place is a natural bowl, a huge valley. See how the rock formations rise up on all sides, protecting the floor. Maybe some of the great blast was deflected here.

      They wandered around the ruins, picking up rocks and fragments. I think this was a farm, Tance said, examining a piece of wood. This was part of a tower windmill.

      Really? Nasha took the stick and turned it over. Interesting. But let’s go; we don’t have much time.

      Look, Dorle said suddenly. Off there, a long way off. Isn’t that something? He pointed.

      Nasha sucked in her breath. The white stones.

      What?

      Nasha looked up at Dorle. The white stones, the great broken teeth. We saw them, the Captain and I, from the control room. She touched Dorle’s arm gently. That’s where they fired from. I didn’t think we had landed so close.

      What is it? Tance said, coming up to them. I’m almost blind without my glasses. What do you see?

      The city. Where they fired from.

      Oh. All three of them stood together. Well, let’s go, Tance said. There’s no telling what we’ll find there. Dorle frowned at him.

      Wait. We don’t know what we would be getting into. They must have patrols. They probably have seen us already, for that matter.

      They probably have seen the ship itself, Tance said. They probably know right now where they can find it, where they can blow it up. So what difference does it make whether we go closer or not?

      That’s true, Nasha said. If they really want to get us we haven’t a chance. We have no armaments at all; you know that.

      I have a hand weapon. Dorle nodded. Well, let’s go on, then. I suppose you’re right, Tance.

      But let’s stay together, Tance said nervously. Nasha, you’re going too fast.

      Nasha looked back. She laughed. If we expect to get there by nightfall we must go fast.

      *

      THEY reached the outskirts of the city at about the middle of the afternoon. The sun, cold and yellow, hung above them in the colorless sky. Dorle stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking the city.

      Well, there it is. What’s left of it.

      There was not much left. The huge concrete piers which they had noticed were not piers at all, but the ruined foundations of buildings. They had been baked by the searing heat, baked and charred almost to the ground. Nothing else remained, only this irregular circle of white squares, perhaps four miles in diameter.

      Dorle spat in disgust. More wasted time. A dead skeleton of a city, that’s all.

      But it was from here that the firing came, Tance murmured. Don’t forget that.

      And by someone with a good eye and a great deal of experience, Nasha added. Let’s go.

      They walked into the city between the ruined buildings. No one spoke. They walked in silence, listening to the echo of their footsteps.

      It’s macabre, Dorle muttered. I’ve seen ruined cities before but they died of old age, old age and fatigue. This was killed, seared to death. This city didn’t die—it was murdered.

      I wonder what the city was called, Nasha said. She turned aside, going up the remains of a stairway from one of the foundations. Do you think we might find a signpost? Some kind of plaque?

      She peered into the ruins.

      There’s nothing there, Dorle said impatiently. Come on.

      Wait. Nasha bent down, touching a concrete stone. There’s something inscribed on this.

      What is it? Tance hurried up. He squatted in the dust, running his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone. Letters, all right. He took a writing stick from the pocket of his pressure suit and copied the inscription on a bit of paper. Dorle glanced over his shoulder. The inscription was:

      FRANKLIN APARTMENTS

      That’s this city, Nasha said softly. That was its name.

      Tance put the paper in his pocket and they went on. After a time Dorle said, Nasha, you know, I think we’re being watched. But don’t look around.

      The woman stiffened. Oh? Why do you say that? Did you see something?

      No. I can feel it, though. Don’t you?

      Nasha smiled a little. I feel nothing, but perhaps I’m more used to being stared at. She turned her head slightly. Oh!

      Dorle reached for his hand weapon. What is it? What do you see? Tance had stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth half open.

      The gun, Nasha said. It’s the gun.

      Look at the size of it. The size of the thing. Dorle unfastened his hand weapon slowly. That’s it, all right.

      The gun was huge. Stark and immense it pointed up at the sky, a mass of steel and glass, set in a huge slab of concrete. Even as they watched the gun moved on its swivel base, whirring underneath. A slim vane turned with the wind, a network of rods atop a high pole.

      It’s alive, Nasha whispered. It’s listening to us, watching us.

      The gun moved again, this time clockwise. It was mounted so that it could make a full circle. The barrel lowered a trifle, then resumed its original position.

      But who fires it? Tance said.

      Dorle laughed. No one. No one fires it.

      They stared at him. What do you mean?

      It fires itself.

      They couldn’t believe him. Nasha came close to him, frowning, looking up at him. I don’t understand. What do you mean, it fires itself?

      Watch, I’ll show you. Don’t move. Dorle picked up a rock from the ground. He hesitated a moment and then tossed the rock high in the air. The rock passed in front of the gun. Instantly the great barrel moved, the vanes contracted.

      *

      THE rock fell to the ground. The gun paused, then resumed its calm swivel, its slow circling.

      You see, Dorle said, it noticed the rock, as soon as I threw it up in the air. It’s alert to anything that flies or moves above the ground level. Probably it detected us as soon as we entered the gravitational field of the planet. It probably had a bead on us from the start. We don’t have a chance. It knows all about the ship. It’s just waiting for us to take off again.

      I understand about the rock, Nasha said, nodding. The gun noticed it, but not us, since we’re on the ground, not above. It’s only designed to combat objects in the sky. The ship is safe until it takes off again, then the end will come.

      But what’s this gun for? Tance put in. There’s no one alive here. Everyone is dead.

      It’s a machine, Dorle said. A machine that was made to do a job. And it’s doing the job. How it survived the blast I don’t know. On it goes, waiting for the enemy. Probably they came by air in some sort of projectiles.

      The enemy, Nasha said. Their own race. It is hard to believe that they really bombed themselves, fired at themselves.

      Well, it’s over with. Except right here, where we’re standing. This one gun, still alert, ready to kill. It’ll go on until it wears out.

      And by that time we’ll be dead, Nasha said bitterly.

      There must have been hundreds of guns like this, Dorle murmured. They must have been used to the sight, guns, weapons, uniforms. Probably they accepted it as a natural thing, part of their lives, like eating and sleeping. An institution, like the church and the state. Men trained to fight, to lead armies, a regular profession. Honored, respected.

      Tance was walking slowly toward the gun, peering nearsightedly up at it. Quite complex, isn’t it? All those vanes and tubes. I suppose this is some sort of a telescopic sight. His gloved hand touched the end of a long tube.

      Instantly the gun shifted, the barrel retracting. It swung—

      Don’t move! Dorle cried. The barrel swung past them as they stood, rigid and still. For one terrible moment it hesitated over their heads, clicking and whirring, settling into position. Then the sounds died out and the gun became silent.

      Tance smiled foolishly inside his helmet. I must have put my finger over the lens. I’ll be more careful. He made his way up onto the circular slab, stepping gingerly behind the body of the gun. He disappeared from view.

      Where did he go? Nasha said irritably. He’ll get us all killed.

      Tance, come back! Dorle shouted. What’s the matter with you?

      In a minute. There was a long silence. At last the archeologist appeared. I think I’ve found something. Come up and I’ll show you.

      What is it?

      Dorle, you said the gun was here to keep the enemy off. I think I know why they wanted to keep the enemy off.

      They were puzzled.

      I think I’ve found what the gun is supposed to guard. Come and give me a hand.

      All right, Dorle said abruptly. Let’s go. He seized Nasha’s hand. Come on. Let’s see what he’s found. I thought something like this might happen when I saw that the gun was—

      Like what? Nasha pulled her hand away. What are you talking about? You act as if you knew what he’s found.

      I do. Dorle smiled down at her. Do you remember the legend that all races have, the myth of the buried treasure, and the dragon, the serpent that watches it, guards it, keeping everyone away?

      She nodded. Well?

      Dorle pointed up at the gun.

      That, he said, is the dragon. Come on.

      *

      BETWEEN the three of them they managed to pull up the steel cover and lay it to one side. Dorle was wet with perspiration when they finished.

      It isn’t worth it, he grunted. He stared into the dark yawning hole. Or is it?

      Nasha clicked on her hand lamp, shining the beam down the stairs. The steps were thick with dust and rubble. At the bottom was a steel door.

      Come on, Tance said excitedly. He started down the stairs. They watched him reach the door and pull hopefully on it without success. Give a hand!

      All right. They came gingerly after him. Dorle examined the door. It was bolted shut, locked. There was an inscription on the door but he could not read it.

      Now what? Nasha said.

      Dorle took out his hand weapon. Stand back. I can’t think of any other way. He pressed the switch. The bottom of the door glowed red. Presently it began to crumble. Dorle clicked the weapon off. I think we can get through. Let’s try.

      The door came apart easily. In a few minutes they had carried it away in pieces and stacked the pieces on the first step. Then they went on, flashing the light ahead of them.

      They were in a vault. Dust lay everywhere, on everything, inches thick. Wood crates lined the walls, huge boxes and crates, packages and containers. Tance looked around curiously, his eyes bright.

      What exactly are all these? he murmured. Something valuable, I would think. He picked up a round drum and opened it. A spool fell to the floor, unwinding a black ribbon. He examined it, holding it up to the light.

      Look at this!

      They came around him. Pictures, Nasha said. Tiny pictures.

      Records of some kind. Tance closed the spool up in the drum again. Look, hundreds of drums. He flashed the light around. And those crates. Let’s open one.

      Dorle was already prying at the wood. The wood had turned brittle and dry. He managed to pull a section away.

      It was a picture. A boy in a blue garment, smiling pleasantly, staring ahead, young and handsome. He seemed almost alive, ready to move toward them in the light of the hand lamp. It was one of them, one of the ruined race, the race that had perished.

      For a long time they stared at the picture. At last Dorle replaced the board.

      All these other crates, Nasha said. More pictures. And these drums. What are in the boxes?

      This is their treasure, Tance said, almost to himself. Here are their pictures, their records. Probably all their literature is here, their stories, their myths, their ideas about the universe.

      And their history, Nasha said. We’ll be able to trace their development and find out what it was that made them become what they were.

      Dorle was wandering around the vault. Odd, he murmured. Even at the end, even after they had begun to fight they still knew, someplace down inside them, that their real treasure was this, their books and pictures, their myths. Even after their big cities and buildings and industries were destroyed they probably hoped to come back and find this. After everything else was gone.

      When we get back home we can agitate for a mission to come here, Tance said. All this can be loaded up and taken back. We’ll be leaving about—

      He stopped.

      Yes, Dorle said dryly. We’ll be leaving about three day-periods from now. We’ll fix the ship, then take off. Soon we’ll be home, that is, if nothing happens. Like being shot down by that—

      Oh, stop it! Nasha said impatiently. Leave him alone. He’s right: all this must be taken back home, sooner or later. We’ll have to solve the problem of the gun. We have no choice.

      Dorle nodded. What’s your solution, then? As soon as we leave the ground we’ll be shot down. His face twisted bitterly. They’ve guarded their treasure too well. Instead of being preserved it will lie here until it rots. It serves them right.

      How?

      Don’t you see? This was the only way they knew, building a gun and setting it up to shoot anything that came along. They were so certain that everything was hostile, the enemy, coming to take their possessions away from them. Well, they can keep them.

      Nasha was deep in thought, her mind far away. Suddenly she gasped. Dorle, she said. What’s the matter with us? We have no problem. The gun is no menace at all.

      The two men stared at her.

      No menace? Dorle said. It’s already shot us down once. And as soon as we take off again—

      Don’t you see? Nasha began to laugh. The poor foolish gun, it’s completely harmless. Even I could deal with it alone.

      You?

      Her eyes were flashing. With a crowbar. With a hammer or a stick of wood. Let’s go back to the ship and load up. Of course we’re at its mercy in the air: that’s the way it was made. It can fire into the sky, shoot down anything that flies. But that’s all! Against something on the ground it has no defenses. Isn’t that right?

      Dorle nodded slowly. The soft underbelly of the dragon. In the legend, the dragon’s armor doesn’t cover its stomach. He began to laugh. That’s right. That’s perfectly right.

      Let’s go, then, Nasha said. Let’s get back to the ship. We have work to do here.

      *

      IT WAS early the next morning when they reached the ship. During the night the Captain had died, and the crew had ignited his body, according to custom. They had stood solemnly around it until the last ember died. As they were going back to their work the woman and the two men appeared, dirty and tired, still excited.

      And presently, from the ship, a line of people came, each carrying something in his hands. The line marched across the gray slag, the eternal expanse of fused metal. When they reached the weapon they all fell on the gun at once, with crowbars, hammers, anything that was heavy and hard.

      The telescopic sights shattered into bits. The wiring was pulled out, torn to shreds. The delicate gears were smashed, dented.

      Finally the warheads themselves were carried off and the firing pins removed.

      The gun was smashed, the great weapon destroyed. The people went down into the vault and examined the treasure. With its metal-armored guardian dead there was no danger any longer. They studied the pictures, the films, the crates of books, the jeweled crowns, the cups, the statues.

      At last, as the sun was dipping into the gray mists that drifted across the planet they came back up the stairs again. For a moment they stood around the wrecked gun looking at the unmoving outline of it.

      Then they started back to the ship. There was still much work to be done. The ship had been badly hurt, much had been damaged and lost. The important thing was to repair it as quickly as possible, to get it into the air.

      With all of them working together it took just five more days to make it spaceworthy.

      *

      NASHA stood in the control room, watching the planet fall away behind them. She folded her arms, sitting down on the edge of the table.

      What are you thinking? Dorle said.

      I? Nothing.

      Are you sure?

      I was thinking that there must have been a time when this planet was quite different, when there was life on it.

      I suppose there was. It’s unfortunate that no ships from our system came this far, but then we had no reason to suspect intelligent life until we saw the fission glow in the sky.

      And then it was too late.

      Not quite too late. After all, their possessions, their music, books, their pictures, all of that will survive. We’ll take them home and study them, and they’ll change us. We won’t be the same afterwards. Their sculpturing, especially. Did you see the one of the great winged creature, without a head or arms? Broken off, I suppose. But those wings— It looked very old. It will change us a great deal.

      When we come back we won’t find the gun waiting for us, Nasha said. Next time it won’t be there to shoot us down. We can land and take the treasure, as you call it. She smiled up at Dorle. You’ll lead us back there, as a good captain should.

      Captain? Dorle grinned. Then you’ve decided.

      Nasha shrugged. Fomar argues with me too much. I think, all in all, I really prefer you.

      Then let’s go, Dorle said. Let’s go back home.

      The ship roared up, flying over the ruins of the city. It turned in a huge arc and then shot off beyond the horizon, heading into outer space.

      *

      DOWN below, in the center of the ruined city, a single half-broken detector vane moved slightly, catching the roar of the ship. The base of the great gun throbbed painfully, straining to turn. After a moment a red warning light flashed on down inside its destroyed works.

      And a long way off, a hundred miles from the city, another warning light flashed on, far underground. Automatic relays flew into action. Gears turned, belts whined. On the ground above a section of metal slag slipped back. A ramp appeared.

      A moment later a small cart rushed to the surface.

      The cart turned toward the city. A second cart appeared behind it. It was loaded with wiring cables. Behind it a third cart came, loaded with telescopic tube sights. And behind came more carts, some with relays, some with firing controls, some with tools and parts, screws and bolts, pins and nuts. The final one contained atomic warheads.

      The carts lined up behind the first one, the lead cart. The lead cart started off, across the frozen ground, bumping calmly along, followed by the others. Moving toward the city.

      To the damaged gun.

      Solar Stiff

      by Chas. A. Stopher

      Totem poles are a dime a dozen north of 63° ... but only Ketch, the lying Eskimo, vowed they dropped out of frigid northern skies.

      PROBOS FIVE gazed at the white expanse ahead, trying to determine where his ship would crash. Something was haywire in the fuel system of his Interstar Runabout. He was losing altitude fast, so fast that all five pairs of his eyes couldn’t focus on a place to land.

      Five pairs of arms, each pair about three feet apart on the loglike body, pushed buttons and rotated controls frantically, but to no avail. In a few short minutes it would all be over for Probos Five. Even if by some miracle he remained unhurt after crashing, he would die shortly thereafter. The frigid climatic conditions of the third planet were deadly to a Mercurian. He thought once of donning his space suit but decided against it. That would merely prolong the agony. From Planet Three, when one has a smashed space cruiser, there is no return. Probos Five knew that death was riding with him in the helpless ship. The situation did not unnecessarily dismay him; Mercurians are philosophers.

      Probos Five ceased to manipulate the unresponding controls. Stretching his trunklike torso to its full twenty feet, four heads gazed through observation ports at the four points of the compass while the remaining head desultorily watched the instrument panel.

      Since die he must, Probos Five would meet his end stoically, and five pairs of stumpy arms folded over five chests in a coordinated gesture of resignation.

      Probos Five thought fleetingly of his wife Lingua Four and remembered with some annoyance that she was the author of his present predicament. A social climber, Probos Five thought to himself, but aside from that a good wife and mother in addition to being a reigning beauty. Lingua Four was tall even for a Mercurian. Already she scaled seven dergs, or in Earth terms, fourteen feet and was beginning to show evidences of a fifth head. Five heads were rarely found on females and Probos Five was justly proud of his good fortune. In all Mercury at the present time, he knew of but two females possessing five heads and soon Lingua Four would be the third of her sex to be thus endowed.

      Yes, thought Probos Five, a woman to be proud of; for today after three vargs of marriage the memory of her trim trunk with four pairs of eyes laughing mischievously, filled his five brains with flame. Slim as a birch she stood in his memory, and eight eyes whispered lovers’ thoughts across space and time.

      Probos Five recalled his five minds from their nostalgic reverie and gazed at the contour of the Earth that was rushing up to meet him. White, blazing white reflecting the rays of the midnight sun covered the region as far as the eye could reach.

      Good, thought Probos Five, the Polar regions. That means the end will come quickly. One or two seconds at the most of that bitter cold would be enough.

      *

      TURNING away from the windows Probos Five let his thoughts return to Lingua Four, to Probos Two, his son, and his home on the first planet from the sun. Ah, that is the place to live, thought Probos, the temperature an unchanging 327°; just comfortably warm, where one could enjoy a life of warmth and ease. Too bad that he would not live to see it again. Thirty vargs, he reflected, is such a short time. With luck, perhaps he may have lived to see a hundred vargs slip by. And perhaps in time he may have added three more heads and five dergs in length to his towering trunk.

      He thought of Probos Two and wondered idly if his son would also visit the barbarian worlds to collect data for Lingua Four.

      He wished that he could have seen more of Probos Two. There’s an up-and-coming lad, he thought, not quite two vargs old and two heads already. Yes, indeed, he’s quite a boy, Probos Five remembered proudly; maybe his mother will keep him at home instead of running him all over the universe to get material for her committees.

      He wished that Lingua Four would settle down and be content as a housewife, but he doubted that she would. Social ambition was boring like a termite under her bark.

      Lingua Four was determined to be the first lady of Arbor, the capital city of Mercury. To this end Lingua Four had labored unceasingly. She was president of half the women’s clubs of Arbor. She could always be depended upon to furnish the best in new and diverting subjects.

      She headed almost all committees for aid or research on any type of problem. It was owing to Lingua Four being president of the Committee for Undernourished Arborians that Probos Five was making this ill-starred trip. His purpose was to capture a few of the upright, divided trunk animals that inhabited the third planet.

      They were to be transported to Mercury and given over to scientific study as to their edible qualities. If it were found that the divided trunk creatures were fit for Mercurian consumption, the problem of undernourishment would no longer exist since the supply of divided trunks was seemingly inexhaustible. Mercurians had made expeditions to the third planet before and every report concluded with—Divided trunk creatures increasing in number.

      Privately Probos Five doubted the possibility of using the divided trunks for food, since the last expedition once again reported a complete lack of captives due to the frail and tenuous bodies of the divided trunks. Then, too, transportation and preservation posed a tremendous problem, not to mention the difficulty of trying to eat something that might vaporize on your fork. But then these questions may never arise, he decided, for of all the reports perused by Probos Five not one expedition had succeeded in bringing a divided trunk to Mercury.

      All reports were read to the last letter by Probos Five before assembling equipment for his own trip. In the reports he had noted many of the difficulties of the earlier missions. Planet Three was impossible for a Mercurian without a heated space suit. The temperature of Planet Three was so low that it would literally freeze a Mercurian stiff in a matter of seconds.

      The casualties of the early expeditions had been numerous. Many Mercurians had succumbed to the bitter cold due to flaws in space suits and other accidents. A break in the suit meant instant death. The victims of such mishaps were invariably buried in the isolated, sparsely inhabited Polar regions to avoid alarming the divided trunk creatures.

      It was strange, mused Probos Five, that the divided trunks were seemingly unable to bear the slightest increase in temperature. Their bodies disintegrated upon contact with a Mercurian. Some were roped and dragged from a distance up to the doors of the space ships, but no inhabitant of Planet Three had been closer to Mercury than the air lock of the space cruisers. As the divided trunk people were dragged into the air lock, warm air from the ship would be pumped into the lock to dispel the frigid air of Planet Three. As the warmth of Mercury enveloped the divided trunks they became quite red, began to melt and finally dissolved into a gaseous state, leaving a small pile of ashes and a disagreeable odor in the air lock that sometimes lingered for days.

      Probos Five believed he had the solution for these obstacles in the path of scientific study of the divided trunks. He had decided to use guile in place of strength. For this reason he had come alone and in a small space runabout to put his solution to the test. But his solution now could never be tried, he remembered morosely.

      *

      IN THE aft compartment Probos Five had constructed a refrigeration plant. By maintaining a constant degree of frigidity he hoped to deliver a pair of each species of divided trunks to Mercury. He hoped especially to capture a complete set and perhaps a few over to make up for breakage and losses. As to what form of sustenance the divided trunks were accustomed to, he had no idea whatsoever. He had intended to bring samples of earth, vegetation and anything else that may have suggested a source of food for the divided trunks.

      The thought too had occurred to him that possibly the divided trunk creatures ate one another. On the possibility of this Probos Five had determined to capture three black ones, three white ones, three yellows, three browns and three reds, and three of any other color that he might find. He rather doubted that more colors or combination of colors existed. All previous expedition reports had mentioned only the five colors. However, Probos Five had determined to keep several eyes open on the off chance that he might find a new and different species.

      His refrigerator was modeled along the architectural lines of the dens of the divided trunks. The main room of the refrigerator opened to the outside of the ship by means of a small air lock. A Mercurian size air lock was not needed for the divided trunks, as few had been found to be much over three dergs in height.

      Winches and cables to pull the divided trunks into the refrigerator were installed in the refrigerator room itself to avoid burning the divided trunks with hot cables from other parts of the ship.

      In addition, Probos Five had cunningly devised a refrigerated trap. This too was designed to simulate the caves of the divided trunk creatures but was smaller. It was constructed with entrances readily seen and exits well hidden. Probos Five had expected great things of his trap. He had conceived the idea after reading the report of a Mercurian expedition that explored the dens of the divided trunks at some place marked Coney Island. According to the reports the divided trunks showed no hesitancy in entering these types of dens. In fact, the writer of the report gave it as his opinion that the divided ones perhaps played games in these types of caves. It also mentioned that some of the dens were equipped with flat shiny surfaces that cast reflections or images. Probos Five had incorporated the image-making surfaces into his trap design. A pity that all this effort must be wasted, thought Probos as he once more turned to the observation ports to check his remaining distance from the planet’s surface. Seeing that his time was short, Probos Five turned all five faces forward in the Mercurian gesture of disdain for death. A moment later came the shock.

      *

      A WEEK later the proprietor of a novelty shop in Fairbanks watched two natives with their dog team pulling something loglike through the snow toward the trading post. Turning to a customer he remarked,

      "Here comes Ketch and Ah Koo dragging in another Totem Pole. Guess that Ketch must be the biggest liar ever produced by the Eskimos. He tried to tell me that Totem Poles fall from the sky. Says he can always find one if he sees it fall because it’s so hot it melts the snow around it. Personally I think he should be elected president of the Liars’ Club, but I’ll buy the Totem Pole anyway. Those pesky tourists always whittle a chunk out of my Totem Pole for a souvenir.

      I’m glad he’s bringing me another one, the storekeeper concluded, the one he sold me last year is about whittled away.

      Narakan Rifles, about Face!

      by Jan Smith

      Those crazy, sloppy, frog-like Narakans ... all thumbs and six-inch skulls ... relics of the Suzi swamps. Until four-fisted Lt. Terrence O’Mara moved among them—lethal, dangerous, with a steady purpose flaming in his volcanic eyes.

      Terrence O’Mara lay flat on his back trying to keep his big body as still as possible. Despite the fact that he was stripped to his regulation shorts, a large pool of sweat had formed on the cot underneath him. The only movement he permitted himself was an occasional pursing of his lips as he dragged on a cigarette and sent a swirl of smoke upward through the heavy humid air. Then he would just lie there watching as the smoke crept up to mingle with the large drops of water that were forming on the concrete of the command post.

      Damn! Damn Naraka, anyway! Outpost of civilization! Who’d want the blasted place except the Rumi?

      At the words, Terrence moved his head just a fraction of an inch and his eyes only a little farther to look across the room to where Bill Fielding was twisting and turning on his cot. All he could see of the other man was the wet outline of his body under a once white sheet and a hand that every so often reached into a bucket of water on the floor and then replaced a soaking T-shirt over a red head.

      You’ll feel it less if you lie still, Terrence said, distressed at the necessity for talking.

      Feel it less! My God, listen to the man! What difference does it make if you lie still or move around or even run around in the suns like a bloody Greenback? Dust Bin will get you one way or another ... and if it doesn’t, the Rumi will.

      The visible hand lifted the T-shirt and began to pop salt tablets into an open mouth like they were so many peppermints.

      I wonder where Norton is. Out reviewing the troops?

      Reviewing, my eye. He’s up at Government House sitting in that cool living room drinking one of Mrs. Wilson’s icy drinks and admiring Mrs. Wilson’s shapely legs. From a discreet distance, of course. Being temporary Commanding Officer of even Dust Bin has its privileges!

      There was a rattle of drums and the blare of one or two off-key instruments from outside.

      Then why, asked Terrence, are those poor beggars marching up and down in this blasted heat?

      The Greenbacks? They love it! It would take more than a little heat to get under those inch-thick skins of theirs. They like to play soldier when it’s a hundred and thirty under water.

      There were a few more straggling notes and then the semblance of a march began.

      Listen to that, will you? Fielding moaned, They can’t even keep time with a drum! They can’t march, they can’t shoot, they can’t break down a Banning; they’re all thumbs and six-inch thick skulls. ‘Train local forces to take over’! Bah! Did those desk jockeys back in New Chicago ever see a Greenback? Did they ever try to teach a Narakan to fix a bayonet to the proper end of a rifle or to fire a blaster in the right direction?

      *

      Terrence was lighting another cigarette with as little exertion as possible. Yes, but they keep trying. Ten hours a day. You don’t have to drive those boys. They want to learn. Listen to O’Shaughnessy barking out orders.

      Sergeant Major O’Shaughnessy of the First Narakan Rifles! Fielding murmured sarcastically. A year ago he was squatting in a mud cocoon at the bottom of Suzi swamp with the rest of the frogs. Now he’s got a good Irish name and he’s strutting around like a Martian Field Marshal.

      I thought the names might give them a sense of self respect. Besides we couldn’t pronounce theirs and I was tired of hearing Norris yell ‘Hey, greenboy!’ at them.

      Well, they picked the right guy when they made you Training Officer. You and those damn frogs get along like you came from the same county!

      They aren’t any great shakes for brains but you can’t take anything away from me boys for willingness.

      Willingness! Hooray! They’re willing, so what? So is a Suzi Swamp lizard. What’ll it get them? A week after they pull the Terran forces out, the Rumi will gobble up the lot of them. Maybe they’ll gobble them and us before we pull out. Who could fight in this place? Who’d want to fight? I say, to hell with Naraka! It’s so near to hell already with those two blasted suns blazing sixteen hours a day. Let the Rumi have the stinking planet! Let them have the whole Centaurian System!

      Speaking of pulling out, I wouldn’t be surprised if Dust Bin wasn’t the next place we let go of....

      Fielding raised himself on one elbow, No kidding? Where did you hear that? His sunburned and blistered face was alight with excitement.

      Well, you know how it’s been. When we first came here twenty years back, we drove the Rumi out of all this country and more or less took their cat feet off the Narakan’s backs but now that so much of the Earth garrison has been pulled all the way back into the Solar System, the Rumi are acting up again. So much so that the dope I got is that we may be pulling everything back into the Little Texas peninsula to wait for reinforcements and it will take four years for those to come out from Mars.

      "Great! Great! But.... Ah, it’s too good to be true. Can’t you just picture Fielding and O’Mara parading down Dobi street in New Chicago with their first lieutenant bars on their collars? Say, you don’t suppose that’s why the Sun Maid is sticking around out here, do you? Imagine, free transportation! A two hour trip to New Chi!"

      I’d sure hate to march those two hundred miles at this time of year!

      March? Through those swamps? Every time we run a patrol through them....

      Fielding was interrupted by a knock on the door and a skinny young Terran with sergeant’s chevrons on his shorts stuck his head through from the other room and said, Major Chapelle’s on the voice radio, sir. He’s calling from battalion headquarters and wants Captain Norton.

      Tell him Norton’s up playing footsies with the Resident’s wife, Fielding said, You’d think those people down at the river would have enough to do without bothering us in the heat of the day, wouldn’t you?

      The sergeant looked shocked and started to withdraw his head. Terrence frowned Fielding into silence and called to the sergeant, Just a minute, Rogers. I’ll talk to the Major.

      Major Chapelle was a thickset, balding man in his late forties. Even the blazing suns of Naraka hadn’t succeeded in burning the sickly yellow color off his face. In the vision screen he looked like a man on his last legs. Whatever was wrong with him didn’t help his temper, Terrence thought as he lowered himself gently into a seat before the screen.

      O’Mara! Where in hell is Norton? he demanded.

      Well, sir, you see.... began Terrence.

      "Never mind! I’ve a pretty good idea where he is. A fine time to be chasing skirts! Well, get this straight, O’Mara. Orders have come through and we’re pulling the battalion out. We’re ordered back to Little Texas. We’re going to give up these positions along the river tonight and pull back into Dust Bin. The Sun Maid will stand by to evacuate us. You people are to come too. Everybody has to get out, both the military and civilians. All hell’s broken loose down river. The Rumi are across the Muddy in half a dozen places. They’ve cut the 5th to pieces. New Chicago thinks that those cats have been bringing troops in from space all along despite the agreement by both sides not to do so. And now they have us way outnumbered." The Major’s voice held a thin edge of hysteria.

      Is there any action along our front, Major? Terrence asked quickly, hoping to stop the flow of talk before Chapelle’s hysteria communicated itself to the enlisted men who were sitting or lying about the command post.

      "Not yet; just patrols across the river so far. We’ve got to get out, O’Mara, and get out fast. They’ll be all over us if we don’t. The Colonel says for Norton to have everything ready to go. He wants the depot destroyed. Everything’s got to go, everything we can’t take along. The Sun Maid won’t have time for more than one trip. He wants the HQ company and the civilians on board by tomorrow morning at the latest."

      What about the Rifles, sir?

      What? The what?

      The native troops, sir. The Narakan Rifles. Terrence grated.

      The Rifles? Good God, man! We haven’t time for nonsense. The Rifles are only Greenbacks, aren’t they? You get Norton started burning those stores.

      Terrence put down the microphone very carefully to keep from slamming it down and stalked back into his quarters. Angrily he began to take his radiation clothing from its hooks on the wall.

      What the devil is eating you? demanded Bill Fielding.

      We’re pulling out, lock, stock and barrel, Terrence told him.

      Pulling out? Whoweee! I knew Mrs. Fielding didn’t raise her boy to be a fried egg. Goodbye, Dust Bin! Hello, New Chi! Bill was up on his hands and knees pounding on his cot. But what’s the matter with you? You like this place?

      They’re leaving the Rifles, Terrence said, zipping up his protective coveralls as he left the room.

      II

      Stepping outside on Naraka with the full power of Alpha and Beta Centauri beating down was like stepping into a river of fire. Even with the cooling unit in his suit, Terrence was aware of the searing heat that filled the parade ground. Looking off across the makeshift native huts, he could see the bright sides of a huge space ship-like object. The big dirigible Sun Maid was lying in an open field. It’s a funny world, he thought to himself, where you have to use dirigibles for planetary travel. But a dirigible was the only practical aircraft when you had to use steam turbine engines because of the lack of gasoline and the economic impracticability of transporting it in the limited cargo holds of the occasional spacers that came out from Sol.

      The Narakan Rifles were marching toward him now, the band doing absolutely nothing for The Wearing of the Green. Three hundred big, green bodied, beady eyed, frog-like creatures were marching in the boiling heat with their non-coms croaking out orders in English which might have come out of Alice in Wonderland.

      As they marched by him, he snapped a salute. Watching them closely he tried to find two men who were in step with each other or one man who had his rifle at the right angle. Unable to find either, he stood there conscious of failure; failure which went beyond mere military precision however. Sloppiness at review could have been overlooked if he had been able to find that the Narakans had any ability as fighting men but after a year of training they seemed almost as hopeless as they had at first. It wasn’t that they were completely unintelligent. In fact, other than the Galactic traveling Rumi, they were the only extra-solar race of intelligent beings encountered by man so far. It was just, he thought, that the hundreds of years during which the Rumi had dominated their planet had reduced the Narakans to a state of almost complete ineptitude.

      He stood there as they passed in review three times because he knew that his presence pleased and encouraged them. Then he turned, and with dragging feet made his way down Dust Bin’s single street toward Government House.

      In a few minutes he was standing in the cool, air conditioned living room of the Wilsons. Wilson was seated at his desk rummaging through some papers while Norris and Mrs. Wilson were lounging in contour chairs admiring each other over tall, frosty drinks.

      They took the news just as he expected them to. Wilson ran his hand through his sparse, gray hair and murmured something about it being a shame to have to leave the natives on their own after having more or less dragged them out of their comfortable swamps. A glance from his wife silenced him.

      What the hell, Norris said, they’re only blasted thick witted Greenbacks.

      Mrs. Wilson yawned, It’ll be something of a bother packing but it’ll certainly be a pleasure to get back to New Chicago. Some women’s husbands get good posts in half-way civilized parts of the Universe. I don’t know why I should always have to be stuck in every backwater, hick town there is.

      Wilson smiled apologetically, Now, dear.... he began but was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the telephone on the table near Norris’ chair.

      Get that, will you, O’Mara? the captain said, making no attempt to reach for it, It’s probably the Command Post.

      Terrence put the phone to his ear angrily and growled into it. An excited Bill Fielding was on the line. Terry? Is that you? Fielding here. Hell’s breaking loose. There’s a bunch of blasted Rumi trying to force their way into town. They attacked the sentries down this way and may be heading for your end of town too.

      Terrence dropped the phone and headed for the door. "Rumi!" he shouted and there were shouts and cries from outside in answer. Then he heard the clack, clack, clack of Rumi spring guns. Windows of the room crashed in and Wilson collapsed across his desk. Norton grabbed Mrs. Wilson and pulled her down onto the floor. Terrence dropped to his hands and knees and continued toward the door as he drew his forty-five.

      *

      Somewhere, someone had cut loose with a Banning and its high whine drowned out the clack of the spring guns. With a quick look around, Terrence started at a run for the next building which was the native schoolhouse. He didn’t make it. There was a clack, clack from off to his left and he threw himself forward, skidding and sliding in the dust and gravel of the street. A warehouse across the square was on fire and three Rumi had darted from behind it. In one brief glance he saw those long barreled spring guns of theirs and the tall, graceful bodies and the feline faces under the plastic protective clothing.

      He snapped four shots at them and saw one fall. Then he began to slither along the ground raising enough dust to mask his movements. There were half a dozen of them in the square when he reached the rear door of the schoolhouse. Several gleaming plastic bolts smashed into the wooden outer door a second after he had raised up to open it and then had dropped back down.

      Norton fired from the residency and momentarily scattered the Rumi and Terrence was inside the school room and racing for the side window from which he could get a clear line of fire at the raiders. He had a brief glimpse of Joan Allen, the school teacher, standing in a corner of the room with the tiny green figures of native children huddled around her. Then he was at a window and had beaten out the heavy protective glass and was firing into a mass of the catmen, firing and cursing as his gun emptied. He cursed in a stream of Martian, English and Greenback profanity as he forced another clip into the gun.

      Lieutenant O’Mara, if you’ll be so kind as to restrain your language in front of these children, a voice said from over his shoulder.

      Terrence reached back and felt something soft and forced it over against the wall out of the line of the window. Then he risked a quick look which was almost his last. A spring gun bolt burned a groove in the windowsill next to his head and smashed into the blackboard across the room.

      Lieutenant O’Mara, would you mind telling me what this is all about? came the same calm determined woman’s voice from beside him. He fired again at a darting figure across the square and saw it stumble before he had to drop to his haunches as the window above him was smashed and scattered by bolts and glass rained down about his head.

      He put another clip into his gun and cursed because he had only two left. He turned his head briefly and had a quick glimpse of a white face framed in straight dark hair and a small, neat figure in a yellow dress.

      Rumi attack. One of their patrols must have gotten around the battalion.

      A husky, whimpering little sound made him look down. A native child or pollywog as the Terrans called them was clinging desperately to the teacher’s skirt. His tiny webbed feet clutched at the cloth as he buried his face against her leg. From behind her peered still another child, its baby frog face working spasmodically in the beginnings of a sob. Six or seven others were lying flat on the floor their bodies trembling in terror.

      Terrence took another look outside and what he saw sent him into another stream of cursing. The Narakan Rifles were hurrying to the scene of action. Down the middle of the street they came in a column of fours with their drums and bugles blaring out a poor imitation of The Wearing of the Green. Their standard bearer was running at the head of the column beside Sergeant Major O’Shaughnessy.

      Oh, my God! He wouldn’t...!

      Lieutenant, please!

      Teacher, will you shut up! he roared as he leaped across the room toward the front door. At the harsh tone of his voice, the whimpering sounds in the room suddenly burst forth in full volume as the ten pollywogs raised their hoarse voices into full throated croaks.

      Terrence braced his body against the wall and held his gun ready as he pulled open the door. In parade formation his men were moving up the street and in a moment they would be away from the buildings’ protection and directly in the Rumi line of fire.

      O’Shaughnessy, you idiot! he roared above the croaking from behind him and the rattle of firing outside.

      O’Shaughnessy came to a skidding halt almost directly in front of the schoolhouse but his men kept on going, their faces set and determined. O’Shaughnessy came to attention and snapped a salute.

      Yes, sir, Mr. Lieutenant.

      Halt! Damn it, HALT! Terrence yelled at the column of greenbacks. Their formation crumbled as they ran into each other, stepped on each other’s feet and pushed and shoved. But they halted.

      O’Shaughnessy! Break ranks ... take cover ... line of skirmishers! Terrence shouted and hit the dirt behind a sandbox in the schoolyard as the Rumi resumed firing. There was a mad scramble among the Narakans as they scattered behind walls and into buildings, moving with an incredibly rapid jumping motion which they used when in a hurry.

      Terrence was so glad to see only one sprawled figure in the dust of the street that he just lay there for a few seconds spitting dust before he realized that he had forgotten to close the face visor of his radiation clothing.

      *

      There was a slight clucking sound from beside

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