Alien Earth and Other Stories Read online

  And they were no longer hunati.

  The chlorophyll drug had spent its force in their bodies, and they had come back to the normal tempo of human life.

  Lys looked up dazedly, at the forest that now seemed static, peaceful, immobile—and in which the gray-green blight now crept so slowly they could not see it move.

  "The same forest, and it's still writhing in death!" Farris said huskily. "But now that we're living at normal speed again, we can't see it!"

  "Please, let us go!" choked the girl. "Away from here, at once!"

  It took but an hour to return to the bungalow and pack what they could carry, before they took the trail toward the Mekong.

  Sunset saw them out of the blighted area of the forest, well on their way toward the river.

  "Will it kill all the forest?" whispered the girl.

  "No. The forest will fight back, come back, conquer the blight, in time. A long time, by our reckoning-—years, decades. But to them, that fierce struggle is raging on even now."

  And as they walked on, it seemed to Farris that still in his mind there pulsed faintly from far behind that alien, throbbing cry.

  "We die, brothers!"

  He did not look back. But he knew that he would not come to this or any other forest, and that his profession was , and that he would never kill a tree again.

  THE PAST MASTER

  Robert Bloch

  Only two years ago, Robert Block was a regular contributor to AMAZING STORIES and FANTASTIC. Today, his position in the writing world has moved so giant a step forward, that only in the rerunning of fantasies from obscure sources is it economically feasible for his fiction to appear in science fiction anthologies.

  The change came when Bloch's good friend, Samuel Peeples, an established and successful Hollywood writer, with a life-long interest in science fiction (See Preface Travelers of Space, Gnome Press, 1951), virtually subsidized his visit to the film and television capital of the nation and got him to try his hand at some scripts.

  Even without any special break, Robert Bloch was clicking on talent alone, but when the moving picture Psycho, based on a novel of Bloch's, proved the second highest dollar earner in black and white motion picture history, it caused a far-from-subtle change in attitudes. Ever since, Bloch has been kept so busy at the typewriter, including many stories for Thriller and Alfred Hitchcock, that even a friendly letter to the family costs him several hundred dollars in writing time.

  As far as science fiction circles are concerned, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy and if any one else wants the formula to Bloch's successful career it is simple: First, get born with loads of talent and then slug away for 25 years, selling a thousand pieces to several hundred diverse markets and if you're lucky, some friend will invite you to Hollywood where all you have to do is satisfy the whims of producers who don't know what they want until they see it.

  Robert Bloch, born April 5, 1917, caught the writing bug when he struck up correspondence with H. P. Lovecraft in 1932. His first story, Lilies, a ghost tale, appeared in the Winter, 1934 issue of William Crawford's semi-professional magazine MARVEL TALES, repository of many off-trail stories of that period. Farnsworth Wright, editor of WEIRD TALES, actually

  bought and paid for a story that same year, making Bloch a professional at the age of 17.

  In his early years he used H. P. Lovecraft as a model and the best of the stories from that phase of his writing may be found in his first collection The Opener of the Way published by Arkham House in 1945. Trained in the writing of what were essentially weird fantasies, when Bloch enlarged his field of operations, he at first, tended to submit to allied publications such as STRANGE STORIES, but membership in the Milwaukee Fictioneers, a writing circle which included Raymond A. Palmer, resulted in sales to AMAZING STORIES. Unquestionably his most famous story in that magazine was The Strange Flight of Richard Clayton (AMAZING STORIES, March, 1939) which encouraged him to make science fiction a regular part of his writing pattern thereafter.

  The Past Master represents one of Bloch's frequent forays outside of the fantasy field's magazines, but it is a science fiction story and unquestionably one of the finest he has written. Published in the Jan., 1955 issue of BLUEBOOK, a publication that used to represent a prestige sale for a fantasy writer, it has not been reprinted until now.

  STATEMENT OF DOROTHY LARITZKY

  Honestly, I could just die. The way George acts, you'd think it was my fault or something. You'd think he never even saw the guy. You'd think I stole his car. And he keeps asking me to explain everything to him. If I told him once, I told him a hundred times—and the cops too. Besides, what's there to tell him? He was there.

  Of course it doesn't make sense. I already know that. Honest to Pete, I wish I'd stayed home Sunday. I wish I'd told George I had another date when he called up. I wish I'd made him take me to the show instead of that old beach. Him and his convertible! Besides, your legs stick to those leather seats in hot weather.

  But you should of seen me Sunday when he called. You'd think he was taking me to Florida or someplace, the way I acted. I had this new slack suit I bought at Sterns, with the plaid top, sort of a halter, like. And I quick put on some more of that Restora Rinse. You know, George is the one down at the office who started everybody calling me "Blondie."

  So anyhow he came around and picked me up about four, and it was still hot and he had the top down. I guess he just finished washing the car. It looked real snazzy, and he said, "Boy, it just matches your hair, don't it?"

  First we drove along the Parkway and then out over the Drive. It was just packed, the cars, L mean. So he said how about it if we didn't go to the beach until after dinner.

  That was all right by me, so we went to this Luigi's—it's a seafood place way south on the highway. It's real expensive and they got one of those big menus with all kinds of ozzy stuff like pompanos and terrapins. That's a turtle, like.

  I had a sirloin and French fries, and George had—I can't remember, oh, yes I do—he had fried chicken. Before we ate we had a couple drinks, and after we just sat in the booth and had a couple more. We were sort of kidding back and forth, you know, about the beach and all, and waiting until after dark so we could go swimming on account of not bringing any suits.

  Anyways, / was kidding. That George, he just as soon do anything. And don't think I didn't know why he was feeding me all those drinks. When we went out he stopped over at the bar and picked up a pint.

  The moon was just coming up, almost full, and we started singing while we drove, and I felt like I was getting right with it. So when he said let's not go to the regular beach—he knew this little place way off somewhere.

  It was like a bay, sort of, and you could park up on the bluff along this side road, and then walk down to the sand and see way out across the water.

  Only that's not why George picked it. He wasn't interested in looking at water. First thing he did was to spread out this big beach blanket, and the second thing he did was open up his pint, and the third thing he did was to start monkeying around.

  Nothing serious, you understand, just monkeying around, kind of. Well, he's not so bad-looking, even with that busted nose of his, and we kept working on that pint, and it was kind of romantic, with the moon and all.

  It wasn't until he really began messing that I made him stop. And even then, I practically had to sock him one before he figured out I wasn't kidding.

  "Cut it out," I said. "Now see what you've done! You tore my halter."

  "Hell, I'll buy you a new one," he said. "Come on, baby." He tried to grab me again, and I gave him a good one, right on the side of his head. For a minute I thought he'd—you know—get tough about it. But he was pretty canned up, I guess. Anyhow, he just started blubbering. About how sorry he was, and that he knew I wasn't that kind, but it was just that he was so crazy about me.

  I almost had to laugh, they're so funny when they get that way. But I figured it was smarter to put on an act, so I made out like I wa
s real sore, like I'd never been so insulted in all my life.

  Then he said we should have another drink and forget about it, only the pint was empty. So he said how about him taking a run up to the road and getting some more? Or we could both go to a tavern if I liked.

  "With all these marks on my neck?" I told him. "I certainly will not! If you want more, you get it."

  So he said he would, and he'd be back in five minutes. And he went.

  Anyhow, that's how I was alone, when it happened. I was just sitting there on the blanket, looking out at the water, when I saw this thing sort of moving. At first it looked sort of like a log or something. But it kept coming closer, and then I could see it was somebody swimming, real fast.

  So I kept on watching, and pretty soon I made out it was a man, and he was heading right for shore. Then he got close enough so's I could see him stand up and start wading in. He was real tall, real tall, like one of those basketball players, only not skinny or anything. And so help me he didn't have any trunks on or anything. Not a stitch!

  Well, I mean, what could I do? I figured he didn't see me, and besides, you can't go running around screaming your head off. Not that there was anyone to hear me. I was all alone there. So I just sat and waited for him to come out of the water and go away up the beach or someplace.

  Only he didn't go away. He came out and he walked right over to me. You can imagine—there I was sitting, and there he was, all dripping wet and with no clothes. But he gave me a big hello, just like nothing was wrong. He looked real dreamy when he smiled.

  "Good evening," he said. "Might I inquire my whereabouts, Miss?"

  Dig that "whereabouts" talk!

  So I told him where he was, and he nodded, and then he saw how I was staring and he said, "Might I trouble you for the loan of that blanket?"

  Well, what else could I do? I got up and gave it to him and he wrapped it around his waist. That's the first I noticed he was carrying this bag in his hand. It was some kind of plastic, and you couldn't tell what was inside it.

  "What happened to your trunks?" I asked him.

  •Trunks?" You'd of thought he never heard of such things the way he said it. Then he smiled again and said, "I'm sorry. They must have slipped off."

  "Where'd you start from?" I asked. "You got a boat out there?" He was real tan, he looked like one of these guys that hang around the Yacht Basin all the time.

  "Yes. How did you know?" he said.

  "Well, where else would you come from?" I told him. "It just stands to reason." "It does, at that," he said.

  I looked at the bag. "What you got in there?" I asked.

  He opened his mouth to answer me, but he never got a chance. Because all of a sudden George came running down from the bluff. I never even seen his lights or heard the car stop. But there he was, just tearing down, with a bottle in his hand, all ready to swing. Character!

  "What the hell's going on here?" he yelled.

  "Nothing," I told him.

  "Who the hell is this guy? Where'd he come from?" George shouted.

  "Permit me to introduce myself," the guy said. "My name is John Smith and—"

  "John Smith my foot!" yelled George, only he didn't say "foot." He was real mad. "All right, let's have it. What's the big idea, you two?"

  "There isn't any big idea," I said. "This man was swimming and he lost his trunks, so he borrowed the blanket. He's got a boat out there and—"

  "Where? Where's the boat? I don't see any boat." Neither did I, come to think of it. George wasn't waiting for any answers, though. "You there, gimme back that blanket and get the hell out of here."

  "He can't," I told him. "He hasn't got any trunks on."

  George stood there with his mouth open. Then he waved the bottle. "All right, then, fella. You're coming with us." He gave me a wise look. "Know what I think? I think this guy's a phony. He could even be one of those spies the Russians are sending over in submarines."

  That's George for you. Ever since the papers got full of this war scare, he's been seeing Communists all over the place.

  "Start talking," he said. "What's in that bag?"

  The guy just looked at him and smiled.

  "Okay, so you want to do it the hard way, it's okay by me. Get up that bluff, fella. We're gonna take a ride over to the police. Come on, before I let you have it." And he waved the bottle.

  The guy sort of shrugged and then he looked at George. "You have an automobile?" he asked.

  "Of course, what do I look like, Paul Revere or something?" George said.

  "Paul Revere? Is he alive?" The guy was kidding, but George didn't know it.

  "Shut up and get moving," he said. 'The car's right up there."

  The guy looked up at the car. Then he nodded to himself and he looked at George.

  That's all he did. So help me. He just looked at him.

  He didn't make any of those funny passes with his hands, and he didn't say anything. He just looked, and he kept right on smiling. His face didn't change a bit.

  But George—his face changed. It just sort of set, like it was frozen stiff. And so did everything. I mean, his hands got numb and the bottle fell and busted. George was like he couldn't move.

  I opened my mouth but the guy kind of glanced over at me and I thought maybe I'd better not say anything. All of a sudden I felt cold all over, and I didn't know what would happen if he looked at me.

  So I stood there, and then this guy went up to George and undressed him. Only it wasn't exactly undressing him, because George was just like one of those window dummies you see in the stores. Then the guy put all of George's clothes on himself, and he put the blanket around George. I could see he had this plastic bag in one hand and George's car keys in the other hand.

  I was going to scream, only the guy looked at me again and I couldn't. I didn't feel stiff like George, or paralyzed, or anything like that. But I couldn't scream to save my neck And what good would it of done anyhow?

  Because this guy just walked right up the side of the bluff d climbed in George's car and drove away. He never said a ord, he never looked back. He just went. Then I could scream, but good. I was still screaming when eorge came out of it, and I thought he'd have a hemorrhage something.

  Well, we had to walk back all the way. It was over three iles to the highway patrol, and they made me tell the whole ing over and over again a dozen times. They got George's ense number and they're still looking for the car. And this rgeant, he thinks George is maybe right about this guy orking for the Communists.

  Only he didn't see the way the guy looked at George, rery time I think about it, 1 could just die!

  STATEMENT OF MILO FABIAN

  I scarcely got the drapes pulled when he walked in. Of ferse, at first I thought he was delivering something. He ere a pair of those atrocious olive-drab slacks and a ready-ntde sports jacket, and he had on one of those caps that look Sttle like those worn by jockeys.

  "Well, what is it?" I said. I'm afraid I was just a wee bit about it—truth to tell, I'd been in a perfectly filthy mood since Jerry told me he was running up to Cape Cod for exhibit. You'd think he might at least have considered feelings and invited me to go along. But no, I had to stay d and keep the gallery open. I actually had no excuse for being spiteful to this ~r. I mean, he was rather an attractive sort of person he took that idiotic cap off. He had black, curly hair and quite tall, really immense; I was almost afraid of him he smiled.

  Warlock?" he asked, shook my head, lis 15 the Warlock Gallery, isn't it?" 'es. But Mr. Warlock is out of the city. I'm Mr. Fabian. I help you?" rather a delicate matter."

  you have something to sell, I do the buying for the

  nothing to sell. I want to purchase some paintings." "ell, in that case, won't you come right back with me,

  ith," he said.

  e started down the aisle together. "Could you tell me just what you had in mind?" I asked. "As you probably know, we tend to specialize in moderns. We have a very good Kandinsky now, and an early
Mondrian—"

  "You don't have the pictures I want here," he said. "I'm sure of it."

  We were already in the gallery. I stopped. "Then what was it you wished?"

  He stood there, swinging this perfectly enormous plastic pouch. "You mean what kind of paintings? Well, I want one or two good Rembrandts, a Vermeer, a Raphael, something by Titian, a van Gogh, a Tintoretto. Also Goya, an El Greco, a Breughel, a Hals, a Holbein, a Gaugin I don't suppose there's a way of getting The Last Supper—that was done as a fresco wasn't it?"

  It was positively weird to hear the man. I'm afraid I was definitely piqued, and I showed it. "Please!" I said. "I happen to be busy this morning. I have no time to—"

  "You don't understand," he answered. "You buy pictures, don't you? Well, I want you to buy me some. As my—my agent, that's the word, isn't it?"

  "That's the word," I told him. "But surely you can't be serious. Have you any idea of the cost involved in acquiring such a collection? It would be simply fabulous."

  "I've got money," he said. We were standing next to the deal table at the entrance, and he walked over to it and put his pouch down. Then he zipped it open.

  I have never, but simply never, seen such a fantastic sight in my life. That pouch was full of bills, stack after stack of bills, and every single one was either a five- or a 10-thousand dollar denomination. I mean it; he had this huge pouch filled with five- and 10-thousand dollar bills. Why, I'd never seen one before!

  If he'd been carrying twenties or hundreds, I might have suspected counterfeits, but nobody would have the audacity to dream of getting away with a stunt like this. They looked genuine, and they were. I know, because—but that's for later.

  So there I stood, looking at this utterly mad heap of money lying there, and this Mr. Smith, as he called himself, said, "Well, do you think I have enough?"

  I could have just passed out, thinking about it. Imagine, a perfect stranger, walking in off the street with 10 million dollars to buy paintings. And my share of the commission is five percent!