The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF (70 page)

Shrick hesitated.

He rarely ventured abroad without his personal guards, but then, Big-Ears was always one of them. And Big-Ears was gone.

He looked around him, decided that he could trust none of those at present in the Place-of-Meeting. The People had been shocked and horrified by his necessary actions in the case of those who had eaten of the food-that-kills and regarded him, he knew, as a monster even worse than the Giants. Their memories were short – but until they forgot he would have to walk with caution.

“Wesel is my mate. I will go alone,” he said.

At his words he sensed a change of mood, was tempted to demand an escort. But the instinct that – as much as any mental superiority – maintained him in authority warned him against throwing away his advantage.

“I go alone,” he said.

One Short-Tail, bolder than his fellows, spoke up.

“And if you do not return, Lord of the Outside? Who is to be—?”

“I shall return,” said Shrick firmly, his voice displaying a confidence he did not feel.

In the more populous regions the distinctive scent of Wesel was overlaid by that of many others. In tunnels but rarely frequented it was strong and compelling – but now he had no need to use his olfactory powers. For the terrified little voice in his brain – from outside his brain – was saying
hurry, HURRY
– and some power beyond his ken was guiding him unerringly to where his mate was in such desperate need of him.

From the door in the Barrier through which Wesel had entered the Inside – it had been left open – streamed a shaft of light. And now Shrick’s natural caution reasserted itself. The voice inside his brain was no less urgent, but the instinct of self-preservation was strong. Almost timorously, he peered through the doorway.

He smelled death. At first he feared that he was too late, then identified the personal odors of Four-Arms and Little-Head. That of Wesel was there too – intermingled with the acrid scent of terror and agony. But she was still alive.

Caution forgotten, he launched himself from the doorway with all the power of his leg muscles. And he found Wesel, stretched supine on a flat surface that was slippery with blood. Most of it was Four-Arms’, but some of it was hers.

“Shrick!” she screamed. “The Giant!”

He looked away from his mate and saw hanging over him, pale and enormous, the face of the Giant. He screamed, but there was more of fury than terror in the sound. He saw, not far from where he clung to Wesel, a huge blade of shining metal. He could see that its edge was keen. The handle had been fashioned for a hand far larger than his, nevertheless he was just able to grasp it. It seemed to be secured. Feet braced against Wesel’s body for purchase, he tugged desperately.

Just as the Giant’s hand, fingers outstretched to seize him, came down the blade pulled free. As Shrick’s legs suddenly and involuntarily straightened he was propelled away from Wesel. The Giant grabbed at the flying form, and howled in agony as Shrick swept the blade around and lopped off a finger.

He heard Wesel’s voice: “You are the Giant Killer!”

Now he was level with the Giant’s head. He swerved, and with his feet caught a fold of the artificial skin covering the huge body. And he hung there, swinging his weapon with both hands, cutting and slashing. Great hands swung wildly and he was bruised and buffeted. But not once did they succeed in finding a grip. Then there was a great and horrid spurting of blood and a wild threshing of mighty limbs. This ceased, but it was only the voice of Wesel that called him from the fury of his slaughter lust.

So he found her again, still stretched out for sacrifice to the Giant’s dark gods, still bound to that surface that was wet with her blood and that of her attendant. But she smiled up at him, and in her eyes was respect that bordered on awe.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, a keen edge of anxiety to his voice.

“Only a little. But Four-Arms was cut in pieces . . . I should have been had you not come. And,” her voice was a hymn of praise, “you killed the Giant!”

“It was foretold. Besides,” for once he was honest, “it could not have been done without the Giant’s weapon.”

With its edge he was cutting Wesel’s bonds. Slowly she floated away from the place of sacrifice. Then: “I can’t move my legs!” Her voice was terror-stricken. “I can’t move!”

Shrick guessed what was wrong. He knew a little of anatomy – his knowledge was that of the warrior who may be obliged to immobilize his enemy prior to his slaughter – and he could see that the Giant’s keen blade had wrought this damage. Fury boiled up in him against these cruel, monstrous beings. And there was more than fury. There was the feeling, rare among his people, of overwhelming pity for his crippled mate.

“The blade . . . it is very sharp . . . I shall feel nothing.”

But Shrick could not bring himself to do it.

Now they were floating up against the huge bulk of the dead Giant. With one hand he grasped Wesel’s shoulder – the other still clutched his fine, new weapon and kicked off against the gigantic carcass. Then he was pushing Wesel through the doorway in the Barrier, and sensed her relief as she found herself once more in familiar territory. He followed her, then carefully shut and barred the door.

For a few heartbeats Wesel busied herself smoothing her bedraggled fur. He couldn’t help noticing that she dare not let her hands stray to the lower part of her body where were the wounds, small but deadly, that had robbed her of the power of her limbs. Dimly, he felt that something might be done for one so injured, but knew that it was beyond his powers. And fury – not helpless now – against the Giants returned again, threatening to choke him with its intensity.

“Shrick!” Wesel’s voice was grave. “We must return at once to the People. We must warn the People. The Giants are making a sorcery to bring the End.”

“The great, hot light?”

“No. But wait! First I must tell you of what I learned. Otherwise, you would not believe. I have learned what we are, what the world is. And it is strange and wonderful beyond all our beliefs.

“What is Outside?” She did not wait for his answer, read it in his mind before his lips could frame the words. “The world is but a bubble of emptiness in the midst of a vast piece of metal, greater than the mind can imagine. But it is not so! Outside the metal that lies outside the Outside there is nothing.
Nothing!
There is no air.”

“But there must be air, at least.”

“No, I tell you. There is
nothing
.

“And the world – how can I find words? Their name for the world is –
ship
, and it seems to mean something big going from one place to another place. And all of us – Giants and People – are inside the ship. The Giants made the ship.”

“Then it is not alive?”

“I cannot say.
They
seem to think that it is a female. It must have some kind of life that is not life. And it is going from one world to another world.”

“And these other worlds?”

“I caught glimpses of them. They are dreadful, dreadful.
We
find the open spaces of the Inside frightening – but these other worlds are
all
open space except for one side.”

“But what are we?” In spite of himself, Shrick at least half believed Wesel’s fantastic story. Perhaps she possessed, to some slight degree, the power of projecting her own thoughts into the mind of another with whom she was intimate. “What are we?”

She was silent for the space of many heartbeats. Then: “
Their
name for us is –
mutants
. The picture was . . . not clear at all. It means that we – the People – have changed. And yet their picture of the People before the change was like the Different Ones before we slew them all.

“Long and long ago – many hands of feedings – the first People, our parents’ parents’ parents, came into the world. They came from that greater world – the world of dreadful, open spaces. They came with the food in the great Cave-of-Food – and that is being carried to another world.

“Now, in the horrid, empty space outside the Outside there is – light that is not light. And this light – changes persons. No, not the grown person or the child, but the child before the birth. Like the dead and gone chiefs of the People, the Giants fear change in themselves. So they have kept the light that is not light from the Inside.

“And this is how. Between the Barrier and the Far Outside they filled the space with the stuff in which we have made our caves and tunnels. The first People left the great Cave-of-Food, they tunneled through the Barrier and into the stuff Outside. It was their nature. And some of them mated in the Far Outside caves. Their children were –
Different
.”

“That is true,” said Shrick slowly. “It has always been thought that children born in the Far Outside were never like their parents, and that those born close to the Barrier were—”

“Yes.

“Now, the Giants always knew that the People were here, but they did not fear them. They did not know our numbers, and they regarded us as beings much lower than themselves. They were content to keep us down with their traps and the food-that-kills. Somehow, they found that we had changed. Like the dead chiefs they feared us then – and like the dead chiefs they will try to kill us all before we conquer them.”

“And the End?”

“Yes, the End.” She was silent again, her big eyes looking past Shrick at something infinitely terrible. “Yes,” she said again, “the End.
They
will make it, and
They
will escape it.
They
will put on artificial skins that will cover
Their
whole bodies, even
Their
heads, and
They
will open huge doors in the . . . skin of the ship, and all the air will rush out into the terrible empty space outside the Outside. And all the the People will die.”

“I must go,” said Shrick. “I must kill the Giants before this comes to pass.”

“No! There was one hand of Giants – now that you have killed Fat-Belly there are four of them left. And they know, now, that they can be killed. They will be watching for you.

“Do you remember when we buried the People with the sickness? That is what we must do to all the People. And then when the Giants fill the world with air again from their store we can come out.”

Shrick was silent awhile. He had to admit that she was right. One unsuspecting Giant had fallen to his blade – but four of them, aroused, angry and watchful, he could not handle. In any case there was no way of knowing when the Giants would let the air from the world. The People must be warned – and fast.

Together, in the Place-of-Meeting, Shrick and Wesel faced the People. They had told their stories, only to be met with blank incredulity. True, there were some who, seeing the fine, shining blade that Shrick had brought from the Inside, were inclined to believe. But they were shouted down by the majority. It was when he tried to get them to immure themselves against the End that he met with serious opposition. The fact that he had so treated those suffering from the sickness still bulked big in the mob memory.

It was Short-Tail who precipitated the crisis.

“He wants the world to himself!” he shouted. “He has killed Big-Tusk and No-Tail, he has killed all the Different Ones, and Big-Ears he slew because he would have been chief. He and his ugly, barren mate want the world to themselves!”

Shrick tried to argue, but Big-Ears’ following shouted him down. He squealed with rage and, raising his blade with both hands, rushed upon the rebel. Short-Tail scurried back out of reach. Shrick found himself alone in a suddenly cleared space. From somewhere a long way off he heard Wesel screaming his name. Dazedly, he shook his head, and then the red mist cleared from in front of his eyes.

All around him were the spear throwers, their slender weapons poised. He had trained them himself, had brought their specialized area of war into being. And now—

“Shrick!” Wesel was saying, “don’t fight! They will kill you, and I shall be alone. I shall have the world to myself. Let them do as they will with us, and
we
shall live through the End.”

At her words a tittering laugh rippled through the mob.

“
They
will live through the End! They will die as Big-Ears and his friends died!”

“I want your blade,” said Short-Tail.

“Give it to him,” cried Wesel. “You will get it back after the End!”

Shrick hesitated. The other made a sign. One of the throwing spears buried itself in the fleshy part of his arm. Had it not been for Wesel’s voice, pleading, insistent, he would have charged his tormenters and met his end in less than a single heartbeat. Reluctantly, he released his hold upon the weapon. Slowly – as though loath to leave its true owner – it floated away from him. And then the People were all around him almost suffocating him with pressure of their bodies.

The cave into which Shrick and Wesel were forced was their own dwelling place. They were in pitiable state when the mob retreated to the entrance – Wesel’s wounds had reopened and Shrick’s arm was bleeding freely. Somebody had wrenched out the spear – but the head had broken off.

Outside, Short-Tail was laying about him with the keen blade he had taken from his chief. Under its strokes great masses of the spongy stuff of the Outside were coming free, and many willing hands were stuffing this tight into the cave entrance.