New Writings in SF 18 - [Anthology] Read online

  Murchison opened her eyes and nodded. ‘It’s a good theory, but you don’t look happy about it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Conway sourly, ‘and I’d like you to shoot as many holes in it as possible. You see, the complete success of this operation depends on us being able to communicate with the beings who produced the thought-controlled tools. Up until now I had assumed that these beings would be comparable in size to ourselves even if their physiological classification would be completely alien and that they would possess the usual sensory equipment of sight, hearing, taste, touch, and be capable of being reached through any or all of these channels. But now the evidence is piling up in favour of a single intelligent life-form, the strata creature itself, which is naturally deaf, dumb, and blind so far as we can see. The problem of communicating even the simplest concepts to it is-’

  He broke off, all his attention concentrated on the palm of one hand which was still pressed against the ground, then said urgently, ‘Run for the ship.’

  They were much less careful about stepping on plants on the way back and as the hatch slammed shut behind them Harrison’s voice rattled at them from the lock communicator.

  ‘Are we expecting company?’

  ‘Yes, but not for a few minutes,’ said Conway breathlessly. ‘How much time do you need to get away, and can we observe the tools’ arrival through something bigger than this airlock port?’

  ‘For an emergency liftoff, two minutes,’ said the pilot, ‘and if you come up to Control you can use the scanners which check for external damage.’

  ‘But what were you doing, Doctor?’ Harrison resumed as they entered his control position. ‘I mean, in my experience the front of the biceps is not considered to be a zone of erotic stimulation.’

  When Conway did not answer he looked appealingly at Murchison.

  ‘He was conducting an experiment,’ she said quietly, ‘designed to prove that I cannot see with the nerve endings of my upper arm. When we were interrupted he was proving that I did not have eyes in the back of my neck, either.’

  ‘Ask a silly question ...’ began Harrison.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Conway.

  They were three semicircular discs of metal which seemed to flicker into and out of existence on the area of ground covered by the long morning shadow of the scout-ship. Harrison stepped up the magnification of his scanners, which showed that the objects did not so much appear and disappear as shrink rhythmically into tiny metal blobs a few inches across, then expand again into flat, circular blades which knifed through the surface. There they lay flat for a few seconds among the shadowed eye plants, then suddenly the discs became shallow inverted bowls. The change was so abrupt that they bounced several yards into the air to land about twenty feet away. The process was repeated every few seconds, with one disc bouncing rapidly towards the distant tip of their shadow, the second zig-zag-ging to chart its width and the third heading directly for the ship.

  ‘I’ve never seen them act like that before,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘We’ve made a long, thin itch,’ said Conway, ‘and they’ve come to scratch it. Can we stay put for a few minutes?’

  Harrison nodded, but said, ‘Just remember that we’ll still be staying put for two minutes after you change your mind.’

  The third disc was still coming at them in five-yard leaps along the centre of their shadow. He had never before seen them display such mobility and co-ordination, even though he knew that they were capable of taking any shape their operators thought at them, and that the complexity of the shape and the speed of the change were controlled solely by the speed and clarity of thought of the user’s mind.

  At Sector General he had watched his friend Mannen perform incredible feats of surgery using one of these fabulous tools—the one which had found its way aboard Descartes during the first attempted landing. In his hands it had become an all-purpose surgical instrument which took any shape he desired, instantly. It had been that tool and the possibility of obtaining more of them which had first attracted the hospital and Conway to Drambo—but that, of course, had been before they realised just how sick the sea-rollers had made their planet.

  ‘Lieutenant Harrison has a point, Doctor,’ said Murchison suddenly. ‘The early reports say that the tools were used to undercut grounded ships so that they would fall inside the strata creature, presumably for closer examination at its leisure. On those occasions they tried to undercut the object’s shadow, using the shaded eye plants as a guide to size and position. But now, to use your own analogy, they seem to have learned how to tell the itch from the object causing it.’

  A loud clang reverberated along the hull, signalling the arrival of the first tool. Immediately the other two turned and headed after the first and one after the other they bounced high into the air, higher even than the control position, to arch over and crash against the hull. The damage scanners showed them strike, cling for a few seconds while they spread over hull projections like thin, metallic pancakes, then fall away. An instant later they were clanging and clinging against a different section of hull. But a few seconds later they stopped clinging because, just before making contact, they grew needle points which scored bright, deep scratches in the plating.

  ‘They must be blind,’ said Conway excitedly. The tools must be an extension of the creature’s sense of touch, used to augment the information supplied by the plants. They are feeling us for size and shape and consistency.’

  ‘Before they discover that we have a soft centre,’ said Harrison firmly, ‘I suggest that we make a tactical withdrawal, or even get the Hell out.’

  Conway nodded. While Harrison played silent tunes on his control panels he explained to Murchison that the tools were controllable by human minds up to a distance of about twenty feet and that beyond this distance the tool-users had control. He told her to think blunt shapes at them as soon as they came into range, any shape so long as it did not have points or cutting edges....

  ‘No, wait,’ he said as a better idea struck him. ‘Think wide and flat at them, with an aerofoil section and some kind of vertical projection for stabilisation and guidance. Hold the shape while it is falling and glide it as far away from the ship as possible. With luck it will need three or four jumps to get back.’

  * * * *

  Two

  Their first attempt was not a success, although the shape which finally struck the ship was too blunt and convoluted to do serious damage. But they concentrated hard on the next one, holding it to a triangle shape only a fraction of an inch thick and with a wide central fin. Murchison held the overall shape while Conway thought-warped the trailing edges and stabiliser so that it performed a balanced vertical bank just outside the direct vision panel and headed away from the ship in a long, flat glide.

  The glide continued long after it passed beyond their range of influence, banking and wobbling a little, then cutting a short swathe through the eye plants before touching down.

  ‘Doctor, I could kiss you ...’ began Murchison.

  ‘I know you like playing with girls and model aeroplanes, Doctor,’ Harrison broke in drily, ‘but we lift in twenty seconds. Straps.’

  ‘It held that shape right to the end,’ Conway said, beginning to worry for some reason. ‘Could it have been learning from us, experimenting perhaps?’

  He stopped. The tool melted, flowed into the inverted bowl shape and bounced high into the air. As it began to fall back it changed into glider configuration, picking up speed as it fell, then levelled out a few feet above the surface and came sweeping towards them. The leading edges of its wings were like razors. Its two companions were also aloft in glider form, slicing the air towards them from the other side of the ship.

  ‘Straps.’

  They hit their acceleration couches just as the three fast-gliding tools struck the hull, by accident or design cutting off two of the external vision pickups. The one which was still operating showed a three-foot gash torn in the thin plating with a glider
embedded in the tear, changing shape, stretching and widening it. Probably it was a good thing that they could not see what the other two were doing.

  Through the gash in the plating Conway could see brightly coloured plumbing and cable runs which were also being pushed apart by the tool. Then that screen went dead as well, just as takeoff boost rammed him deep into the couch.

  ‘Doctor, check the stern for stowaways,’ said Harrison harshly as the initial acceleration began to taper off. ‘If you find any, think safe shapes at them—something which won’t scramble any more of my wiring. Quickly.’

  Conway had not realised the full extent of the damage, only that there were more red lights than usual winking from the control board. The pilot’s fingers were moving over his panels with such an intensity of gentleness that the harshness in his voice made it sound as if it was coming from a completely different person.

  ‘The aft pickup,’ said Conway reassuringly, ‘shows all three tools gliding in pursuit of our shadow.’

  For a time there was silence broken only by the tuneless whistling of air through torn plating and unretracted scanner supports. The surface wobbled past below them and the ship’s motion made Conway feel that it was at sea rather than in the air. Their problem was to maintain height at a very low flying speed, because to increase speed would cause damaged sections of the hull to peel off or heat up due to atmospheric friction, or increase the drag to such an extent that the ship would not fly at all. For a vessel which was classed as a supersonic glider for operations in atmosphere their present low speed was ridiculous. Harrison must be holding on to the sky with his fingernails.

  Conway tried hard to forget the Lieutenant’s problems by worrying aloud about his own.

  ‘I think this proves conclusively that the strata creatures are our intelligent tool-users,’ he said to Murchison. The high degree of mobility and adaptability shown by the tools makes that very plain. They must be controlled by a diffuse and not very strong field of mental radiation conducted and transmitted by root networks and extending only a short distance above the surface. It is so weak that an average Earth-human or e-t mind can take local control.

  ‘If the tool-users were beings of comparable size and mental ability to ourselves,’ he went on, trying not to look at the landscape lurching past below them, ‘they would have to travel under and through the surface material as quickly as the tools were flying over it if they were to maintain control. To burrow at that speed would require them being encased in a self-propelled armour-piercing shell. But this does not explain why they have ignored our attempts at making wide-range contact through remote control devices, other than by reducing the communication modules to their component pieces...’

  ‘If the range of mental influence pervades its whole body,’ Murchison broke in, ‘would that mean that the creature’s brain is also diffuse? Or, if it does have a localised brain, where is it?’

  ‘I favour the idea of a centralised nervous system,’ Conway replied, ‘in a safe and naturally well-protected area— probably close to the creature’s underside where there is a plentiful supply of minerals and possibly in a natural hollow in the subsurface rock. Eye plant and similar types of internal root networks which you’ve analysed tend to become more complex and extensive the closer we go to the subsurface, which could mean that the pressure-sensitive network there is augmented by the electro-vegetable system which causes muscular movement as well as the other types whose function and purpose are still unknown to us. Admittedly the nervous system is largely vegetable, but the mineral content of the root systems means that electrochemical reactions generated at any nerve ending will transmit impulses to the brain very quickly, so there is probably only one brain and it could be situated anywhere.’

  Murchison shook her head. ‘In a being the size of a subcontinent, with no detectable skeleton or osseous structure to form a protective casing and whose body, relative to its area, resembles a thin carpet I think more than one would be needed—one central brain, anyway, plus a number of neutral sub-stations. But the thing which really worries me is what do we do if the brain happens to be in or dangerously close to the operative field.’

  ‘One thing we can’t do,’ Conway replied grimly, ‘is delay the op. Your reports make that very clear.’

  Murchison nodded. She had not been wasting time since coming to Drambo and, as a result of her analysis of thousands of specimens taken by test bores, diggers, and exploring medics from all areas and levels of its far-flung body, she was able to give an accurate if not completely detailed picture of the creature’s current physiological state.

  * * * *

  They already knew that the metabolism of the strata creature was extremely slow and that its muscular reactions were closer to those of a vegetable than an animal. Voluntary and involuntary muscles controlling mobility, ingestion, and digestion, circulation of its working fluid, and the breaking down of waste products were all governed or initiated by the secretions of specialised plants. But it was the plants comprising the patient’s nervous system with their extensive root networks which had suffered worst in the roller fallout, because they had allowed the surface radioactivity to penetrate deep inside the strata creature. This had killed many plant species and had also caused the deaths of thousands of internal animal organisms whose purpose it was to control the growth of various forms of specialised vegetation.

  There were two distinct types of internal organisms and they took their jobs very seriously. The large-headed farmer fish were responsible for cultivating and protecting benign growth and destroying all others—for such a large creature, the patient’s metabolic balance was remarkably delicate. The second type, which were the being’s equivalent of leucocytes, assisted the farmer fish in plant control, and directly if one of the fish became injured or unwell. They were also cursed with the tidy habit of eating or otherwise absorbing dead members of their own or the fish species, so that a very small quantity of radioactive material introduced by the roots of surface plants could be responsible for killing a very large number of leucocytes, one after another.

  So the dead areas which had spread far beyond the regions directly affected by roller fallout were caused, by the uncontrolled proliferation of malignant plant-life. The process, like decomposition, was irreversible. The urgent surgical removal of the affected areas was the only solution.

  But the report had been encouraging in some respects. Minor surgery had already been performed in a number of areas to check on the probable ecological effects of dumping large masses of decomposing animo-vegetable material on the sea or adjacent living strata creature and to devise methods of radioactive decontamination on a large scale. It had been found that the patient would heal, but slowly; that if the incision was widened to a trench one hundred feet across then the uncontrolled growth in the excised section would not spread to infect the living area, although regular patrols of the incision to make absolutely sure of this were recommended. The decomposition problem was no problem at all—the explosive growth rate continued until the plant-life concerned used up the available material and died. On land the residue would subside into a very rich loam and make an ideal site for a self-supporting base if medical observers were needed in the years to come. In the case of material sliding off shelving coastlines into the sea, it simply broke up and drifted to the seabed to form an edible carpet for the rollers.

  Certain areas could not be treated surgically, of course, for the same reason that Shylock had to forego his pound of flesh. These were relatively small trouble spots far inland, whose condition was analogous to a severe skin cancer, but limited surgery and incredibly massive doses of medication were beginning to show results.

  ‘But I still don’t understand its hostility towards us,’ Murchison said nervously as the ship went into a three-dimensional skid and lost a lot of height. ‘After all, it can’t possibly know enough about us to hate us like that.’

  The ship was passing over a dead area where the eye plants w
ere discoloured and lifeless and did not react to their shadow. Conway wondered if the vast creature could feel pain or if there was simply a loss of sensation when parts of it died. In every other life-form he had ever encountered, and he had met some really weird ones at Sector General, survival was pleasure and death brought pain— that was how evolution kept a race from just lying down and dying when the going got tough. So the strata creature almost certainly had felt pain, intense pain over hundreds of square miles, when the rollers had detonated their nuclear weapons. It had felt more than enough pain to drive it mad with hatred.

  Conway cringed inwardly at the thought of such vast and unimaginable pain. Several things were becoming very clear to him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They don’t know anything at all about us, but they hate our shadows. This one in particular hates them because the aircraft carrying the sea-rollers’ atomic bombs produced a shadow not unlike ours just before large tracts of the patient’s body were fried and irradiated.’

  ‘We land in four minutes,’ said Harrison suddenly. ‘On the coast, I’m afraid, because this bucket has too many holes in it to float. Descartes has us in sight and will send a copter.’