Collectivum

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  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  COLLECTIVUM

  BY MIKE LEWIS

  ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH

  The Oren were one and their strength was legion. They had it all figured out, in their own parasitical, cold-blooded way. But they'd neglected one she-cat of a girl....

  * * * * *

  He crossed the rickety bridge at sundown and saw the squat, fat fellowwhipping the girl with a board. His mind leaped to a conclusion: _anOrenian prowler, convincing his victim to hold still_. He clubbed thefat fellow with a rock and toppled him over the seawall into thelagoon where he floated face-down.

  "Are you stung?" he asked the girl.

  She picked herself up weakly, and she was a gold-bronze beauty with ablack mane of hair and long, narrow eyes. She shook her head to hisquestion and whimpered slightly while she examined her bruises.

  "He was my husband," she explained.

  "Not an Orenian?" he gasped.

  She shook her head. "But he was going to kill me."

  Morgan shot a horrified glance at the body floating far out on theswift tide. Three sharks were circling lazily. He looked around for aboat, saw none. He swiftly estimated his chances of swimming out afterthe fat man and towing him in. The chances appeared to be nil.Nevertheless, he began stripping off his shirt.

  "Don't bother," said the girl. "He was stung last week."

  Morgan stared at her silently for a moment. She seemed not in theleast perturbed. If the man had been stung by an Orenian, he was lostanyway. Ruefully, he rebuttoned his shirt.

  "I leapt to a bad conclusion."

  "That he was an Orenian? He would have been, soon. Besides--you _have_to leap to conclusions nowadays, to stay alive."

  "You don't seem to worry."

  "I told you, he was going to kill me."

  "Why?"

  "Because--" She paused and stared out across the twilight water,gathering a slow frown. "Because he was crazy."

  Morgan's eyes flickered over her trim figure, and he thought--_maybe_.She had a trace of Seminole blood, he decided--with the quietsultriness that it leant to her face.

  "I'm heading west," he announced.

  "To the cypress?" She cooly inspected his sturdy arms, clippedfeatures, and the hatchet in his belt-rope. She nodded faintly toherself. "Want company?"

  He shrugged and turned half away. "It's okay with me." He set off downthe road and she followed a few feet to the rear.

  "Florida coast's getting to be lousy with them," she called.

  "Orenians?"

  "Yeah. Whole truckload of them passed through yesterday. On their wayto Miami, I guess. One man said he saw an airplane yesterday."

  "They must be reviving the industry up north."

  "Yeah. Trucks by the dozen. Say--where've _you_ been hiding?"

  "Mangrove island. Been there six months."

  "Get lonesome?"

  "And tired of sitting still. Small island."

  "You should have stayed--but I'm glad you didn't."

  He shot her a sharp glance. She failed to look bereaved at the loss ofher mate. But that was not unusual. Most marriages nowadays werecontracted by brute force--and dissolved the same way. She probablyfelt that rolling the fat one in the drink gave her a claim on him.

  When the last trace of gray fled from the west, they walked westwardalong the old highway beyond the limits of the coastal town which wasnow nearly deserted. They talked softly as they trudged along, and helearned that her name was Shera and that she had been a dancer in asmall Miami nightspot, before the Orenians came. She had joined thefat one a year ago--because he owned a gun, and was therefore goodinsurance against wandering Orenians. But when the ammunition wasgone, she tried to leave him, which resulted in the incident by thewaterfront.

  Morgan was irked that he had blundered into a family affair, andtroubled that he had relieved the fellow of all worldly cares.Nevertheless, if the man had been stung, the free world wouldsay--"job well done." For in a few weeks he would have ceased to bestrictly human, becoming a dangerous threat to his fellows. And if thegirl had been unable to escape from him before that time, she wouldhave been subject to the same plight. Morgan decided that he wouldhave done the same thing if given time to weigh the situationbeforehand.

  "How far are we going?" she asked.

  "We're turning off on the next side-road," he grunted.

  "You know the country?"

  "I used to." He waved his arm to the south. "Road winds through aswamp, then climbs to high ground. Ends in a spruce forest."

  "Got any food?"

  "Will have, tomorrow. Ditches are full of warmouth perch. Plenty ofswamp cabbage, wild oranges, bull frogs, papaya."

  "I'm hungry now."

  "That's tough."

  She whimpered a little but soon fell silent. He saw she was limping,and he slowed his pace. Pity was a lost emotion in an age of chaos;but she was strong, healthy, and appeared capable of doing a day'swork. He decided to humor her, lest she decide to trudge alone.

  * * * * *

  When they reached the swamp, branches closed over the narrow trailroad, screening off the sky and hiding the thin slice of moon. Thegirl hung close to his elbow. A screech owl hooted in the trees, and athousand frogs clamored in the blackness. Once the scream of a panthersplit the night, and the girl sobbed as if echoing the cry. Theyhurried ahead through the overgrown weeds.

  "Drop flat!" he hissed suddenly.

  She obeyed without a sound. They crouched together at the edge of theroad, listening. A distant rustling came from the roadway to thesouth.

  "Orenians?" she whispered.

  "Orenians."

  "How many?"

  "Can't tell. They always march in step. Keep quiet."

  Morgan gripped the hatchet and set himself for a quick spring. As theydrew nearer, he decided that there were two of them. Their movementswere perfectly coordinated, since they were of one mind, oneconsciousness--that of Oren. The girl tapped his arm with the bladeof a knife.

  "I'll take one," she breathed.

  When the footsteps were almost upon them, Oren halted. There was nooutcry; the Orenians had no need for vocal communication; theirthought-exchange was bio-electromagnetic.

  "Now!" howled Morgan, and launched himself at the enemy.

  His hatchet cleft the face of the nearest foe, and he turned instantlyto help the girl. A pair of bodies thrashed about on the ground. Thenshe stood up, and he heard her dry the knife on some grass. It wasover in an instant.

  "Not stung?"

  "No."

  "That was too easy," he said. "I don't like it."

  "Why?"

  "They don't ambush that easy unless they're in rapport with anothergroup someplace close. We'll have some more of them after us if wedon't get away."

  They hurried about the unpleasant task of splitting open theonce-human skulls to remove the legless parasite-entities that filledthe bony hollows where brains belonged. The Oren creatures lived intheir stolen homes long after the borrowed body died, and they couldsignal others to the vicinity. Morgan tossed the globular littlecreatures in the ditch where they lay squeaking faintly--helpless,once-removed from the body of the host who had long since ceased toexist as a human being.

  "Let's go!" he grunted.

  "Same way?"

  "Yeah."

  "But
they _came_ from that way!"

  "Have to chance it. Too dangerous, hanging around the highways. Outhere we can find places to hide."

  They set off at a trot, chancing an ambush in reverse. But Morganreasoned that the Orenians had been returning to the highway after aday's exploring on the side-roads. After plunging for half-an-hourthrough the darkness, the road began winding upward. The cypressarchway parted, revealing star-scattered sky. They slowed to a walk.

  "Can't we sit down to rest?" she panted.

  "Can if you like. Alone."

  She shuddered and caught at his arm. "I'll stick."

  "Sorry," he murmured. "We can stop soon. But they'll be chasing