Takeoff! (22 page)

The lamp finally caught. and its cheerful yellow light was most welcome. Braced up by its dancing glow. shielded within it from the baleful grey of the day. I walked into that ancient, long-hidden temple.

How did I know. immediately, that the large. Shadow-shrouded room I entered had been a place of worship? I have tried, many times. to understand what I sensed when I stepped through that doorway. I can describe it only as a many-particular presence. a malignant energy which swelled and eddied around me. And that energy was not random or undirected. It was focussed far across the floor. against the far wall. The area was completely hidden from the brave little light of my oil lamp—to inspect it I would have to cross the great room.

Gone, now. was the brief impulse of bravado inspired by the lighting of the lantern. I moved across that endless room in the grip of a terror so profound that my mind was virtually paralyzed. I walked not through my own volition, but out of a reluctance to resist the pressure of that force which surrounded me, drawing me inexorably to the hidden area where I knew I would find an answer which I was becoming ever more certain
I did not want to find!

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 massive 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 beyond it. 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 spaceships are taken from the
New Yorker
story-with the exception of the hero’s.

And one other,

There were four men aboard the cargo ship
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 glass 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-crushing 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 ship.

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.