The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04 Read online

  Barrows fired just as the dodecaped dissolved into the mist. The two men ran ahead and soon caught sight of him again, wavering weakly on very unsteady legs. And for the second time he rolled awkwardly onto his third set of legs and ambled off. Not so vigorously this time: the drug was already beginning to affect the last one-third. Strike finished the job with a final bullet. Twelve-legs lay quietly down to sleep.

  It was the work of a moment to slip the anti-gravity bands around him, adjust the power to the exact balance between gravitation and centrifugal force. The captive hung in the air, gently tugging on his leash, like a gigantic potato sprouting weirdly in every direction.

  Strike thrashed about in the undergrowth until he found Speak-No-Evil and See-No-Evil, then started back in the general direction of the plane. At once the duncerabbits seemed to understand, and frolicked ahead of the hunters with an uncanny sense of direction. They had nearly reached the clearing again when Barrows, who was leading, stopped so suddenly that Strike catapulted into him from behind. Twelve-legs also floated, up and gently nudged the two of them.

  "What the devil?" Strike wondered.

  Barrows pointed with a nervous finger. "It's a man, by Jupiter! It's a man!"

  Chapter VII.

  The Twin Race

  It wasn't a man, as closer inspection revealed. But anything that stands upright on Venus is easily mistaken for human in the eternal misty shroud. And the stranger certainly stood upright; he could scarcely do otherwise with his six legs. They grew at evenly spaced intervals from around his waist, long and slim. Two of them apparently served also as arms, judging from the way he scratched at his rounded abdomen, hanging like a ripe fruit inside the forest of legs.

  From the waist down he reminded Strike of an earthly octopus, or a spider. But from the waist up the creature was definitely manlike, with conventional torso, neck, and head.

  "That," said Barrows uneasily, "could be a dangerous customer. See those claws, and the armor-plate all over his body, and the fangs!"

  "Yes, but look at his face. He's bound to be peaceful because he's a congenital idiot. Just look at the expression!"

  Both men stared fascinated at the play of emotion across the thing's countenance. Expressions succeeded each other fleetingly with the rapidity of a motion picture-exhilaration, fear, surprise, anger, boredom, love, and sometimes just plain nothing. Like a ham actor trying to register everything he could in the shortest possible time.

  "Apparently he's prey to every emotion in the book," Barrows suggested. "No selectivity. No brains at all."

  Strike raised a palm in the universal gesture of friendship.

  "Hi, fella," he called tentatively. No result. The stranger was joined by three more of his kind, and they milled around in aimless curiosity.

  Strike tried a few syllables of the native lingo he had learned as a trader in the southern latitudes. No response. Presently the four creatures wandered off haphazardly through the fog. They fought, showed affection, sulked, and pranced in bewildering inconsistency.

  After about five minutes of random circling, the four beings suddenly raised their heads simultaneously, stood a moment as if listening intently, then loped off in a straight line. Strike scooped up the two duncerabbits and stuffed them inside his tunic so as not to lose them, and followed. Barrows tagged along perforce.

  "Funny how they all decided to go the same direction at once. I didn't hear anything, did you, Strike?"

  Strike grunted. This running around in the stifling Venusian atmosphere was making him pant like an ancient steam engine. He was also faintly concerned about getting entirely off the beam from The Ark. Already the steady tone faded down to an intermittent warning note. The duncerabbits might not be infallible, of course, and if they moved further to the side —

  Fortunately they did not. The four creatures led them only a short way, stopping soon before a structure with the appearance of a giant bee-hive punctured by numerous entrances. It seemed to be a sort of community igloo built of several individual mud huts joined in a cluster. There were perhaps a store of doorways, and before each opening sat the amazing counterparts of the six-legged morons. They were counterparts in physical structure, that is, but not in mental capacity. For their enormous brain cases and haggard expressions indicated obviously that here were beings whose sole aim in life was to cerebrate. As each of the original four took position beside a different one of the thinkers, Strike saw the; light.

  Strike cried out.

  'Twins again!" he exclaimed delightedly. "See? Each pair is twins. You can tell if you examine 'em feature by feature. One is entirely emotional. Get it, Barrows? Evolution's greatest experiment. Complete divorce between the intelligence and the emotions, so the former can work unhampered by the vestigial remnants we call emotions! It's what earthly philosophers have dreamed of for centuries!"

  "I'm going to dream of it for some time myself. It's a nightmare."

  "You don't see the beauty of it, Barrows. Look. The Intellectuals think things out to a perfect conclusion by pure, unadulterated reason, then instruct their emotional-counterparts to carry out their decision. The Emotionals must be the active, executive half of the combination, to be used only when there's work to be done. That's why they're so fully equipped, fang and claw, to do battle. It's their job to bring food, protect the home, reproduce.

  "See? If the Intellectuals decide something ought to be destroyed, they probably tell the Emotionals to generate a lot of hate and go out to do the job. If they reason it's time to mate, they pull out the love stops on the twins, who-er —"

  "Yes, but how does this communication take place? I haven't heard an audible syllable yet."

  "Telepathic control, of course. If any individuals are more nearly en rapport than others, it's twins."

  "Hm-m. It occurs to me we may be a little reckless, Captain. We don't have any idea what's going on in those brains until the action starts. And judging from the head size, some pretty potent thoughts may be boiling around in there."

  "I disagree, Barrows. Size doesn't necessarily mean brain-power! Venus is too young to permit any colossus of intellect to be developed yet. After a few more geologic ages, maybe, if the experiment is a success, our friends here will be the cosmic tops. But not now. Look at their — homes. Crude in the extreme. No evidence of mechanical development, or any kind of invention. No weapons, even."

  "Because naturally they have no emotional urge to develop. They don't care about progress, or appearance, eh?" Barrows asked.

  "Right. I'll wager they wouldn't care whether they lived or died if it weren't for an instinct for self-preservation. They respond only to simple nerve stimuli such as discomfort, weariness, hunger and so on."

  "Then what do they think about?"

  Strike shrugged.

  "Hard to say. Maybe to them the discovery that two plus two is four would be the finding of a great philosophic postulate." He stepped closer and tried his native Venusian on the Intellectuals without result. They simply sat staring at the Earthlings, sad eyed and mute.

  "Maybe we're not enough developed for their telepathic efforts," Barrows snickered.

  "No-o. It takes either a receptive mind or a mind easily controlled to make telepathic contact. I was wondering if we could take a pair of these along with us. We…"

  "Contrary to law, sir. No interference with life having an intelligence over a certain level. Eighth, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. You're right this time. Besides, it might stir up a fuss." And the two men stood there, watching the strange tribe of twins, wondering what to do next. That problem was taken from their hands by See-No-Evil and Speak-No-Evil. Annoyed by their confinement in Strike's tunic, they wiggled free and dropped to the ground. In an instant the village erupted in an astounding flurry of activity.

  It was like a well-rehearsed bit of continuity, smoothly presented, over in a flash. The duncerabbits scampered about to limber up cramped muscles. The Intellectuals promptly but calmly turned around on unsteady
legs and vanished inside their huts, to the last man. The Emotionals, momentarily blank-faced, suddenly burst into a hideous cacophony of squalling and yowling.

  Fear written in large letters on their faces, they scattered wildly into the shelter of the fog in all directions. The act was completed as the Intellectuals closed the entrances to their abode by swinging into place what appeared to be a shimmering shield of crimson tissue of some sort. The clamor died away to silence.

  "Well!" exclaimed Strike. "Would you. get a dish of that!"

  Barrows was definitely worried now.

  "Yes, sir. Perhaps they're allergic to duncerabbits. But wouldn't we be wise to leave —"

  But Strike was already marching up close, examining the doorways of the community house.

  "Say, Barrows! This red thing's a gullet. What they have in the door-ways here looks like a tropical fish, only his mouth is wide open all the time. He's as big around as he's long!"

  Strike poked and pried and finally learned the secret. The fishlike creature lived on the bacteria colonies and fungus spores that floated in the air, straining them out before passing the air on through the gills. Filling the aperture completely with its bulk, it thus cleaned the air before allowing it to pass into the interior.

  "Air-conditioning!" proclaimed Strike. "Venusian style!"

  "Yes, sir. Nature's check-and-balance again. I remember my grandmother once told me that her people years ago used to get water from holes in the ground, and they used to drop a pike in these wells so it'd eat all the worms and bugs and keep the water pure.

  "Same principle exactly. They hang these domesticated babies in the doorway 'til they get so big they no longer fit. The Intellectuals naturally aren't fitted to cope with disease, or anything physical-no resistance. And the reason they're so afraid of the duncerabbits is because the little beggars carry with them the seeds of madness. See?"

  Strike turned to gesture to Barrows, but saw only the sub-pilot's heels as the latter sprinted wildly away into the fog. Strike glanced about sharply, and saw the entire horde of Emotionals running at him with expressions of indescribable hate and ferocity. The Intellectuals had given the command to destroy.

  Strike's heat-beam hissed in a half circle. It had no effect whatsoever. He concentrated the beam to a narrow, stabbing bolt of flame; it barely blackened the flesh of his attackers. Too late he remembered: this was the gun he had used to clean off The Ark. Its charge was almost completely spent! With one motion he stuck the weapon back in his belt and dashed away after Barrows. Sudden death thundered at his heels.

  Earth-trained muscles easily out ran the pursuers, and a miracle of good luck led the two hunters straight to the big clearing, despite Barrows' loss of the electronic telescope in his flight. There was no time to stowaway their specimen, so Strike hurriedly fastened lead-rope and antigravity apparatus to the tail-skid.

  The weightless dodecaped shouldn't interfere with flying the plane; they could set down safely in the sea and do the job right later on. Quickly Strike scooped up See-No-Evil and Speak-No-Evil, tossed them in the plane. As he reached up to follow, the tail of the plane deliberately crawled away. Strike stumbled and cracked his chin.

  "What, again?" Strike risked a hasty look under the tail. "It's that Atlas crab! Probably a stowaway." He yanked the big crustacean out and tossed him into the cabin, too. "I wouldn't leave a mother-in-law in this hellhole!"

  Twenty wild-eyed Emotionals poured out of the mist and attacked the plane with an unbridled savagery that made even the hardened Strike gasp. He fired his gun at them again, futilely, then leaped in with Barrows and slammed the door.

  With absolute disregard of consequence the creatures ripped viciously at metal and glass with their claws, bit at them with hideous, drooling fangs. The whole plane rocked dangerously from the furious attack.

  "Good God, Captain!" quavered Barrows. "Let's get out of here!"

  "Right!" Strike turned on the ignition, stepped on the starter. The engine did not start. Again he tried, and again, with no result. Finally he looked at Barrows sideward.

  "That damn Circe plant! It probably ruined the wiring and ignition. And we can hardly step outside to make repairs."

  Barrows began to crack.

  "Then we-we're finished. No motor, no radio. I knew I shouldn't have disobeyed Miss Carlyle. She's always right. We never should have tried it alone."

  Strike simmered.

  "Never mind moaning about Gerry. We're a long way from being finished yet. Give me that cathode gun."

  He took the cumbersome pistol, lowered one window a slit to slip the barrel through, pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Strike began to curse bitterly. The cathode gun worked with a delicate "electrical trigger." It had been fastened in contact with the metal dashboard when the Circe plant's charge passed through, and the mechanism was blown out.

  "Perhaps the hypo rifles — " Barrows suggested without conviction.

  "Not a chance. Those hypodermic slugs are made to burst as soon as they enter soft flesh. They'll never penetrate these armor-plated devils." Strike tried, of course, seeking to put his shots in the enemy's eyes. But such marksmanship was impossible under the circumstances.

  Barrows' nerves were going rapidly, and his whole body shook in fear. He tried to conceal it in shame, but failed. Strike rallied him.

  "Now look, Barrows; don't get the wind up over nothing. Everything's under control. As long as I'm here you don't need to worry."

  "I wish The Ark were here. Then we'd have no worries."

  "You've just had that organization stuff pounded into you so long you can't believe a man's worth anything alone. I tell you I'm a match for anything this planet has got. Think I've showed all my aces yet? Not by a long shot. Remember my gag with the whiz bangs? You watch."

  Barrows' "Yes, sir," was not hearty.

  Strike pointed to Speak-No-Evil, who had retreated to the extreme rear of the compartment and was running about in tight little circles as fast as he could go, like a spinning mouse. Presently he fell down quivering and kicking pitifully like an epileptic, bumping his head blindly against the walls as he jerked around.

  "Periodic insanity," declared Strike. "I've been hoping for that. Remember what started this-the Intellectuals' fear of the duncerabbits? Well, suppose we toss Speak-No-Evil into the enemy's camp!"

  Barrows nodded slowly. "I see what you mean —"

  Strike gently captured the dying little creature, then turned on Barrows sharply. "What's the matter with you? Your lip's bleeding."

  "Nothing, sir. I was just thinking. One of us must leave the plane to carry the duncerabbit to the —"

  Strike laughed shortly, gazing keenly at this man he had considered a weakling.

  "So you were going to make the big, sacrifice, eh? Now, now, Barrows," he chided. "No melodramatics. I meant it when I said you needn't worry with me along. You just watch the old master strut his stuff."

  Strike swelled a trifle. He really had a pretty scheme this time. Opening a small trapdoor in the cabin floor, he dropped the stowaway Atlas crab through to the ground. Then he quickly drew in the landing gear until most of the plane's weight rested on the crab's back.

  With the trap still open, he thrust his nearly useless heat-gun down and played the weak beam in a half circle behind the crab, forcing it to move in the desired direction, and move the ship along with it. Using the beam to guide the crab, they slowly crossed the clearing and moved into sight of the Intellectuals' community house.

  Strike rose, smiling a bit grimly.

  "They asked for this! Barrows, waggle the tail a bit to distract our friends' attention." He picked up the duncerabbit, who was too far gone to respond. "This'll hurt you more than it does me, but it's in a good cause. Ready, Barrows?"

  It went off like clockwork. Barrows kicked the rudder bar, the Emotionals rushed down to tear the tail surfaces apart. Strike swiftly stepped out, hurled the duncerabbit for a perfect bulls-eye through one of the openings to the domed stru
cture, then retreated to safety.

  He became academic.

  "D'you know what I figure should happen now?"

  Barrows sat with hands pressed between his knees, shivering. "No."

  "Well, Speak-No-Evil ought to finish off the Intellectuals. That'll leave the Emotionals with no brain control. They'll have to try and think for themselves. And when that happens- Ever hear of the case of Oscar, the pig? It happened many years ago. About nineteen-thirty-seven, I think. Some psychologists placed this experimental pig in a position so-he'd have to try and think his way clear. It proved too much, and Oscar had a nervous breakdown and died. See?"

  Barrows saw, and they sat quietly waiting.

  Their wait was short. In an incredibly short time Speak-No-Evil's virus was spread to the most vulnerable host it could have found on all Venus. With unbelievable virulence it struck, ravaging the physically frail Intellectuals with the speed of a prairie fire. Even Strike was shocked at sight of the bloody horrors that staggered into view from the community house. From every door they came, smeared with straw-colored blood as cerebral hemorrhages opened the cranial arteries.

  It was the more terrible because of the utterly blank expression on those gray faces, which should have been registering pain and desperation. Self-preservation drove them blindly into the open; logic bade them flee Speak-No-Evil and his deadly cargo. But in vain. Before they even had time to instruct their emotional twins, they were stricken helpless by the plague, collapsed in an irregular pattern of untidy bundles on the soggy earth.

  But Strike's strategy did not produce the expected results. The Emotionals showed no signs of realizing that their tribe was reduced by half. Animated by their mentors' last emotional command-fury and hate and lust for blood-they continued their blindly bitter and senseless assault on the unmoving metal of the plane, hammering and clawing with unabated savagery.