“She crawled away, went and ate, then curled herself into a small round ball under her table and went to sleep. And despite that I repeatedly told myself to stay awake and keep watch over her, finally I too fell asleep again. Maybe it was something in the water they’d given us, some kind of drug. But so what? Even if I had stayed awake, what then? I wasn’t able to help myself, let alone Sue….
“…There was movement! Starting awake, I saw that the b-b-bugs were back in Sue’s bubble room again. So was their torture machine, and the screen was back up on the wall. Oh, God! Oh my good God! I shouldn’t have cursed Him so! Because…because—
“—Because I could see it was going to be the same all over again—but I could never have foreseen that it was going to be even worse!
“The alien operating the remote was ogling the screen with his knobby crab eyes, and the hellish machine was letting down a vibrating tool toward Sue where she was clamped to her table. Awake, aware, she was much too weak to struggle or even scream, but it didn’t stop her from trying. Very faintly, I could hear the croaking sounds she made, the gurgling when her mouth dribbled foam and her panting blew bubbles in it.
“They hadn’t needed to nail her head down this time, so she was able to turn it, her eyes bulging as she watched the vibrating tool descending toward her shoulder. It was a cutting instrument of some kind, its sharp edge an almost invisible blur as it came down on her right arm an inch below where it joined her shoulder. And zzzzztttt, it was through her arm—I mean right through it—before the blood could even begin to spurt! But I saw the look on Sue’s face, the way her eyes popped out further yet, and knew that she couldn’t believe it any more than I did. It had to be a nightmare!
“Then the blood spurted, and we both knew it wasn’t a nightmare. And as they cauterized her stump Sue passed out, but this time I didn’t thank God because I’d tried it once and it hadn’t worked. And while I had no idea what would happen next, still I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to bear it.
“And I was right.
“By then I’d lost my voice…you yell and scream for long enough, loud enough, and that happens. And there I was kneeling at the wall, sobbing like a little kid, watching as they turned Sue face down and cut her again: her entire left leg this time, buttock and all right down to the gleaming pink bones. From the hip at the top to the coccyx at the bottom, then up round Sue’s bush and back to the hip, they’d cut her. And at a stroke—or more properly at a slice and a bloody scoop, but in any case as quickly as that—what had been beautiful was hideously ugly.
“Once again they cauterized that crimson flood; and on the wall-screen before they switched it off and left with her amputated limbs, I saw but could scarcely believe that even now her heart was beating, however unevenly. And I know that you’ll forgive me, Doc, if I tell you that by then I was wishing it would stop. I wanted it done with—wanted her dead—because I knew that Sue would want it, too….
“Time passed…
“I have some vague recollections of partial consciousness, of being awake again, if only for a hazy moment or two, and of seeing renewed roach activity in Sue’s bubble. But as for what was happening in there: this time I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t bear to; I convinced myself that it was all a bad dream that I could simply turn away from, and lapsed into a period of delirious praying, raving, cursing and what have you.
“Just as well, I suppose, because when I came out of it and looked at her—and was actually able to understand what I was looking at—I saw that they’d taken her other leg, too. There was only half a woman on that table now. But…what the hell? They’d returned Sue’s arm! Limp and white as a piece of marble, it was just lying there beside her trunk, along with some other bits and pieces that I believed I recognized as the s-s-samples that they’d taken earlier.
“It was all there on the table in Sue’s bubble room: everything that had been a beautiful girl; well, except her legs and butt. And nothing of beauty left any more, only a lifeless grey mutilated trunk with slack breasts, a dead face and glazed fish eyes. But at least she was dead now, and I was able to speak to God again and thank him sincerely this time.
“Oddly enough, I was able to laugh a little, too. In fact I laughed quite a lot. I laughed so hard it hurt my ribs and then I knew I had to stop. So what do you reckon, Doc? I was maybe a little crazy? Maybe even now, just a touch crazy? But it’s okay, Doc, it’s okay. In fact my state of mind is the very last thing you need to worry about, because I can see everything perfectly clearly now….
“So where was I? Oh yes:
“And then…and then—
“—Finally they came for me, and it was my t-t-turn.”
Dr. S, urgently: “Jim, we…well we sort of know the rest of it, don’t we? So if you want to stop now—”
Goodwin, his voice grating: “No, you don’t know the rest of it. No, I don’t want to stop now! I want you to know everything about these fucking monsters so you’ll finally know what’s coming! And it’s not just them who are the monsters; we’ve been the monsters, too. But that was in our time—when we were the dominant species—and now it’s their time. I want you to understand how it works, that’s all, want you to make the connection on your own if you haven’t already done so. The fish fights the hook, Doc. The tree fern hurls its javelins, and even the lowly bramble has its thorns.”
Dr. S, baffled: “Fish? Brambles? Tree ferns? Fighting?”
Goodwin, as if uninterrupted: “Well, and so did I: I fought back. But when it comes down to survival, when it’s the hunter-gatherer—whether he’s a man-like ape with a club or an alien with superior technology—when it’s him against whatever else is out there and he’s hungry…then it’s always the dominant, more advanced guy who wins. Don’t you see that?”
Dr. S, very concerned now: “Jim, you’re not making too much sense. And I really do know the rest of it. Those terrible creatures were experimenting on you, seeing just how much it would take to kill you. Why, just looking at you I can see…I mean it’s pretty obvious…God, I didn’t mean to say any of that!”
Goodwin, cutting in, quite obviously abstracted but calmer now: “Oh yes, I fought back. They weren’t going to slice up my kidneys, my liver and brain—weren’t going to suck out my bone marrow and cut off my arms—not without a fight, they weren’t! But as it worked out those things weren’t what they were after. They’d found what they’d been looking for in Sue; they weren’t any longer interested in what they’d already rejected, only in what they’d kept and what I had still got.
“And now it was my turn, and they came for me: the three of them, their torture machine, their wall screen monitor and all. But I was waiting for them.
“The first one in—the moment he came skittering through that wall—I was up off the floor, launching myself at him. I hadn’t been drinking their drugged water; I was weak and dehydrated, but I was desperate too and full of fury! That first one in, I grabbed at his most vulnerable parts: his slimy, swiveling eyes-stalks under their blue chitin cowl. And how I yanked on them, hauling on them just as hard as I could!
“And oh, I hurt him—did I ever hurt the bastard! Stinking blue goo spurted from the sockets where I’d almost wrenched his stalks out, and all the while he was hissing and whistling like steam from a pressure cooker. Damn, but I really hurt that ugly fuck! Oh, yes. Yes I did…
“And then he and his pals hurt me.
“Cattle prods? I thank God I never worked on a ranch in the days before we synthesized beef! And as for tasers: you think I could be a cop and use one of those things? Not likely, not any more…not even if I had my legs…and not even if we stood a chance of winning this one. Because now I know what ‘hurting’ means.
“I suffered, Doc. I mean I really suffered. They shocked me and shocked me, needled me and needled me. They didn’t need to, because I was down on the floor, writhing around in agony after the first prod. But they did it anyway, because I’d hurt one of theirs. So in a way I suppose they’r
e pretty much like us: they don’t turn the other cheek. Or if they do, it’s only to cut and cauterize, ha-fucking-ha!”
Dr. S, consolingly yet very nervously: “Oh, Jim…Jim…Jim!”
Goodwin, his motorized adjunct whining into life, the sound of his tractor in motion: “So you see, Doc, you knew the how of it and the what of it, but you didn’t know the why. And to tell the truth neither did I till I got mobile again and was able to visit the restricted archives and read the documents we rescued from the wreck of the Starspike Explorer. I had friends on that ship or I wouldn’t have bothered, wouldn’t have been interested. But as it works out…well the way I see it, what was written in those documents was very relevant. In fact it explained just about everything that I’ve been trying to explain to you.”
Dr. S, warningly: “Don’t get too close to that window, Jim! You’re doing great with those controls but you haven’t got them down pat just yet and we’re nine stories high up here!”
Goodwin: “I just want to look out, that’s all. Look out on what I used to look down on from the shuttles and UES IV. Used to, yes, but look at me now. Earthbound—stone cold sober and yet ‘legless,’ ha-fucking-ha!—nine stories up at Space Central HQ, looking out over the entire complex. I can’t see nearly as far as I used to, Doc, not even from up here, but since reading those Starspike Explorer documents I sure understand a hell of a lot more! Have you read that stuff, Doc?”
Dr. S: “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. The investigation is ongoing and has been for a long time, but I was called in from the beginning to do a psychological study, a posthumous assessment of…of—”
Goodwin: “—Of a certain female crew member? Namely Laurilu Nagula? Oh, I can understand that well enough. But can’t you see the relevance, I mean aside from just the psychology? Can’t you see the parallels, the analogy?”
Dr. S, wonderingly: “Parallels? Analogy?”
Goodwin, thoughtfully: “Well, maybe not. Because it doesn’t—or didn’t—apply to you. But it certainly applies to me. I think that if you can find the time, assuming we’re to be given enough time, maybe you should read those papers again, Doc. And especially Laurilu’s concerns about all the waste, how much she hated it.” (Goodwin’s laughter.) “Well, me too, Laurilu! But on a far more personal level, right?”
Dr. S: “Jim, I—”
Goodwin: “Read what she wrote, and what she said to Michael Gilchrist, the ship’s so-called ‘exobioecologist,’ that time in her bunk; what she said about the shark fishermen. And not only that but what he said about them: how they threw back what they didn’t want, just tossed them back alive or dead, back into, or maybe I should say onto—”
Dr. S, faintly: “Back onto the…the…oh my God!”
Goodwin: “Now you’re getting it! Now you’re seeing it, Doc! It’s our position in the universal food chain, that’s all. What a tree fern is to us—”
Dr. S: “—We are to…to…?”
Goodwin: “Exactly! Except with us there’s this problem with the waste, that’s all. Makes you wonder what the French do with all those soft little bodies, now doesn’t it?”
Dr. S, weakly, wonderingly: “The French?”
Goodwin: “Sure. I mean, they know the parts that suit their taste buds, but what do they do with the bits that don’t, eh?”
Dr. S: “The bits that don’t? You mean the rest of the f-f-f—for God’s sake!”
Goodwin: “Just one more thing before I go, Doc. How many of these prosthetics is the Corps working on? I mean apart from my new, lightweight model—which I’m sure I won’t be needing.”
Dr. S, dazedly: “How m-many?”
Goodwin, revving his motor: “Because if you want my advice, Doc, I reckon you need to be building those things on an automated production line or lines, and that you should get them up and running just as soon as possible.”
Dr. S: “Jim, what are you saying? What are you d-doing?”
Goodwin: “Goodbye, Doc. It’s me for the compost heap, while there’s still some room on it.”
(The sound of his tractor’s motor revving more yet, then of grinding gears, glass shattering, torn metal, and moments later a jarring near-distant crash.) And finally:
Dr. S, his sobbing voice repeating over and over again: “Oh Jesus! Oh my God! Oh Jesus! Oh my G-g-god…!”
XII
FEASIBILITY REPORT
Sol III Equivalents, Haquar Standard:
Diameter……………1.215 approx.
Day…………..0.922 approx.
Mass……………1.163 approx.
Atmos.……………Acceptable, if a little high in nitrogen, which will be of small consequence once our automated farms and domed processing units are established.
Life:—
A surprising diversity of flora and fauna! The higher or “dominant” lifeforms are bipedal; indeed, their pedal extremities are a delicacy and highly recommended. A shame that the flavor and texture of their vital organs should be unappetizing to Haquarian tastes and even somewhat toxic in concentrated chemical and bacterial content; a great waste. Likewise the trunk, head, and stringy upper appendages: too bony, messy, time-consuming; generally unsatisfactory.
There has been among my team some facetious conjecture that perhaps these creatures have passed too far along the multiversal evolutionary path to be considered mere pabulum, provender, or gourmet pap. Such speculation was put to the test, as usual, by measuring the species’ progress against that of the Haquari.
They have two sexes: an utterly inefficient means of reproduction. Even the most primitive, amoeban lifeforms are capable of fission. Having no telepathic capability, no hive awareness, no Oneness, their principal means of communication is by sounds produced by the expulsion of gases from their mouths; while for mass communication they rely on a system of ponderous electronic transmissions.
With regard to evolution, this species would appear to have reached its peak. In exploration—having no concept of Dimensional Instantaneity—it can never conceivably occupy anything larger than a tiny niche in one small corner of what it unimaginatively perceives as the universe…in other words a single space-time plane of existence with no parallels except in semi-metaphysical theory! As for the IQ of the species: compared with an average Haquari intelligence quotient set at 10, the human score would be 0.0025 approximately. Therefore my assessment—based not only on the degree of Haquari necessity but principally on multiversal levels of progress, intelligence, and achievement—is that this species may only be placed in the ‘non-sentient livestock’ category.
END NOTE:—
With a population in excess of eight billion, Sol III has to be recognized as a major Haquari food source. Automated farming is not only feasible but practical, and in the light of the accelerating decline in sustainable home world resources, I recommend this world’s immediate exploitation. Under modern, managed farming procedures—processing bone as fertilizer and undesirable protein as provender for the livestock, etc.—we should enjoy at least two hundred years usage before the source of this par-ticularly nutritious comestible is exhausted….
This Being the Pronouncement of Ak’n N’Ghar XXVII,
Exobioecologist of Haquar Prime, 2731st Parallel,
on the 7138th Day of the 2nd Haquari Billennium.
Gaddy’s Gloves
This next one was written in the summer of 1988 and appeared in the pamphlet-cum-program book of the World Fantasy Convention when the traveling con came to London in 1991. Since the pamphlet was distributed to attendees only and “Gaddy’s Gloves” wasn’t reprinted, this is virtually an “unknown” Lumley. And of course its “science” element is now dated by virtue of all the incredible advances in communication technology, computer gaming, and like that. In fact, and if memory serves, even back in 1991 the kids were playing some pretty fantastic arcade games! Ah, but there was never a player like Gunner Gaddy….
I
Down in the cargo hold, Grint Pavanaz let himself out of his crat
e, ate a sandwich and hooked up his ’Vader to the nearest power point. An hour later and halfway through his tenth game, a hatch clanged open and crewmen came clattering with blasters drawn and primed. And they dragged him in front of Captain Cullis. The Captain—bald, fat, red-faced—was more than somewhat peeved and threatened to turn Pavanaz into flotsam. “What if we’d stowed that crate in vacuum?” he snapped through his gash of a mouth.
“You couldn’t.” Pavanaz shrugged. “I paid seven creds for that air-storage sticker.”
“Oh?” Cullis snorted. “And every air-storage sticker gets stored in air, right? Let me tell you something, Puffernuts: sometimes we vacuum all of our crates to kill off the roaches! Especially coming off a swamp like Gizzich IV. And sometimes we irradiate ’em too, and decon before delivery!”
Pavanaz was unrepentant; he shrugged again and said: “Wow!” but very dryly. “You irradiate seeds, yeah? And you vacuum temperate atmosphere tools? Well no wonder your freighters have a better than fifty percent ‘damaged in transit’ record!”
“Twenty-two percent on this ship, Puffernuts!” The Captain was touchy. “Or twenty-two point zero one if we jettison you!”
“Naw.” Pavanaz picked his nose. “See, I dropped a line to Earth to let people know I was coming—and aboard which scow. Also, I researched this bucket. I discovered you run a tight ship, Captain—so no more horror stories about spacing your passengers and such. Hell, you run such a tight ship you even monitor internal power drain! It’s how you found me: the juice my ’Vader was burning.”
“Your what?” the Captain scowled. And Pavanaz explained.
When he was through they went back down to storage and examined his machine. Pavanaz glowed. “She was the latest thing in Ozzie’s Arcade back on Gizzich IV. But at a centricred a shot you could go broke getting yourself a decent score. So I entered Ozzie’s place kind of late one night and sort of, well, rearranged the wiring. Fixing these things was my job, see—or in this case, unfixing them. So Ozzie sent for me the next day and I checked her out, and told him: “No way—she’s a goner—computer’s cracked.” He sold her to me for scrap.