More Science Fiction Tales Page 3

  She remembered vaguely what the professor had said—that she would probably stay in the werewolf form for only an hour or so and then return to her own form. It must be almost an hour now.

  She peered down at her body. The gray, wolf fur was fading away and the soft, pink flesh returning. She was becoming Sybil again. She stood erect. Fully restored to her real self, her first thought was of how close she had come to killing Miff, her beloved pet Angora. Then she realized, with a start, that her clothes were in the cabinet. And so was the professor!

  She rushed around and found an old laboratory smock and put it on. Full of worry over how he was faring, she hurried to the door of the cabinet and threw it open with her now-human hands.

  At first she could see nothing. The professor was not there. Had he managed to get out while she was in the alley? But no, there was no way for him to open the door from inside.

  Then, she heard a tiny squeak. She looked down. At her feet was a mouse—a tiny, helpless, forlorn, pathetic excuse of a mouse.

  She reached down and picked it up. She looked into its pleading eyes.

  "So, Professor Callicantzaros, you would turn me into a she-werewolf! Well, old fuzzy-head, how do you like being a mouse? All I can tell you is that I turned most of the dials. You had better hope that what happened to you wears off in an hour like it did for me. If not, who knows, you may have to stay a mouse for the rest of your life." She smiled. "Which may be a very short life if Miff catches you."

  There was a loud knocking at the front door. She went through the house. It was the police officer she had seen with the two boys.

  "There have been several complaints that there is a wolf or a big dog loose here, miss. Is that true?"

  Sybil looked up at him and smiled. "No, officer, there is only my pet mouse and me."

  Hide and Seek

  by Mario Martin, Jr.

  The morning was cool and crisp and orange as Chucky made his way through the woods in search of the meteorite. He had just crossed the stream by traversing the fallen tree that had always served as a bridge for the guys in the neighborhood. Once past the stream, he started the long climb up the giant hill that everyone called Ickle Pickle. Chucky had often wondered why they called that thickly wooded hillside such a strange name. But no one seemed to know. This particular morning, the main thing on his mind was finding that meteorite.

  He remembered the night before. He and his father had been out in the field behind their house, looking at the craters on the moon with his telescope. The sky had been a perfect swath of dark blue velvet, indented with shining gems that were really stars. Chucky was the one who saw it first—a yellow orange smear that sliced through the velvet —and he knew it was a meteor. It was the first time he had ever seen a real one, although he had looked at pictures of meteors in his astronomy books many times. It was just plain luck that he and his father were out that night to see it. They traced its fiery path and judged that it had probably come down in the woods near their house. They watched to see if any fire started after impact, but there was none, so they went to bed.

  The next morning Chucky had gotten up real early, eaten a quick breakfast of honey and oatmeal, and jumped on his bike. On his back he wore a knapsack crammed with some baloney sandwiches, a hammer, a chisel, ice tongs from his father's toolbox, matches, and a Thermos of hot soup.

  He felt like an explorer or an investigator, like the men who worked for the National Geographic Magazine. Chucky imagined that he was trekking through unknown territory, pausing only to note new discoveries. Within an hour, he had worked his way to the crest of Ickle Pickle, and now he had only to comb through the several square miles of thickly wooded forest.

  Hours passed as Chucky waded through the mounds of fallen leaves, patches of "sticker-bushes," and the occasional hidden tree roots that always threatened to trip him up. Finally, he paused for lunch, unpacking his knapsack and starting a small fire. He didn't really need the fire, but its presence made him feel like he was actually camping out. It was as he sipped his hot soup that he heard the voice.

  But it wasn't really a voice. It was more like someone thinking to him inside his own mind.

  Sitting very still, Chucky concentrated on the voice. / am hurt. I need help. Please help me. I am hurt.

  "Who are you?" asked Chucky, turning around and scanning the area but seeing nothing. "Where are you?"

  As soon as Chucky spoke, the voice inside his head stopped. In the silence that followed, Chucky feared that he had scared it away. And then, suddenly, his mind was picking up the thoughts once more. / am a . . . visitor to your world. My ship has crashed and I need help. Who are you?

  "I'm Chucky, Chucky Mills," he said, feeling strange talking to someone he could not see. He wondered what the voice had meant by "a visitor to your world." Did the voice belong to an alien? A being from another planet? If that were so, this was the fulfillment of one his wildest dreams. He remembered all the nights that he had stood in the field behind his house, peering up at the stars, wondering if there was anyone out there like himself.

  Now it seemed as if there was.

  Will you help me? the voice asked.

  "Where are you? I can't see you anywhere," said Chucky.

  Nor can I see you. I can only feel your nearness. Begin walking away from the sun. I will direct you.

  As Chucky rose to comply with the alien's directions, the first suggestions of danger and doubt entered his mind. Suppose it was a trick? Suppose they were trying to trap him and capture him?

  Please, said the voice, as if it sensed his doubt, do not fear me. I will not harm you. Please come. I need your help.

  There was something about the voice in his mind that seemed sincere to Chucky, and he resisted the urge to run away or to go and tell his father what had happened. He doubted whether his father would believe him anyway. Stamping out his campfire and repacking his knapsack, Chucky headed off in the proper direction.

  Several times he received new directions from the alien voice. Stop, to your left. Over now, it would say. Or, You are closer now. Straight ahead. Now turn. This continued for several minutes until Chucky saw the wreckage of the ship.

  He was surprised at the size of the thing. It was no larger than a soapbox racer, about five feet long, and it was shaped like a horseshoe crab—a dome with small fins flaring out along the bottom edge. The ground around the object was all plowed up and blackened, but the metal of the hull still seemed shiny and new. Except that the front part of the dome was crushed in like a cracked eggshell.

  Chucky walked up to the craft. Upon closer inspection, he saw that parts of the ship were scorched, the metal discolored from fierce heat. He recalled what he had seen the night before—the streak of flame in the sky—and imagined what the fiery trip downward must have been like.

  Peering inside the broken shell of the ship, he could see tiny rows of controls and things that looked like little television screens. Then he noticed a small wriggling shape that was lodged halfway back in the ship's interior. Please do not be alarmed by what I look like, said the thing inside. I am hurt. You must help me.

  Chucky studied the alien creature. He looked like a big crab with his hard shell and many legs, only he was bigger than any crab Chucky had ever seen—over a foot long, he figured.

  "What's the matter, can't you get out?" Chucky said as he gazed into the darkened depths of the ship.

  No. A piece of the hull collapsed. I am trapped.

  "You hurt bad?"

  No. But I still need your help. Do you have any tools?

  Chucky thought of his knapsack and the few things he had brought along. He pulled out the hammer and chisel and attempted to chip a larger hole into the wreckage of the ship. After several blows the chisel was curled and worthless. "It's no good," said Chucky. "I can't break through."

  Primitive materials such as yours will not help. The alien's words seeped into his mind. There was a finality about them, as if to tell Chucky that any further effo
rt would be worthless.

  "I'm sorry," said the boy. "I wish I could help you."

  Perhaps you still can.

  "How?"

  "I sense that you are a young member of your kind. Can you get help from your elders?"

  "My what?" asked Chucky, momentarily puzzled.

  You would call them "grown-ups."

  Chucky laughed softly. "Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. Well, yeah, I guess I could."

  Then please do so. I must contact the leaders, the older members of your race. You must hurry. There is little time left.

  "Time? Time for what?" Chucky felt shivers run up his spine, wondering what the alien creature really meant.

  There is no time to explain. Please believe me that it is important.

  The strange, crablike creature scraped his clawlike arms against the sides of the ship. All around the alien, instruments and blinking lights were still functioning. Chucky realized that he was dealing with something totally unknown, totally unfamiliar. There were many questions that he wanted to have answered before going on.

  "I don't know," he said finally. "I think you'd better tell me what's going on first."

  Very well. You are a determined young being. To begin, I am a member of a race from a place that is very far from here. A planet which circles a star which you call Alpha Centauri. It is a world of harsh things—very different from here. My race is a harsh race. It has endured many difficult times. Now its members seek other worlds, kinder worlds, and they have chosen yours as one of them.

  "Huh?" Chucky started. "You mean they're coming here?"

  No, not now. Not for a long time. They only wish to study this place. Test it. Sample its resources.

  "Then what're you doing here?" Chucky continued to peer in at the crab-thing.

  There are members of my race who do not approve of conquering tactics. I am one of them. I escaped from my world to warn your people of what may come in the future. I have sacrificed myself for the good of something I believe to be greater than my one life.

  Chucky wasn't sure he understood everything the alien said, but he realized that something must be done. He would have to tell his father.

  "All right," he said after a pause. "I ... I believe you. I'm going to get my father. Maybe he'll know what to do." Yes. Please, go now. The alien's voice was low and full of authority.

  Chucky simply nodded his head, packed up his broken tools and started down the path through the woods. How would he tell his father what he had found! It all seemed so unreal, like a dream or a fantasy. What would his father say? Would he believe his son's story?

  Several minutes passed. He had cleared the rise of Ickle Pickle and was starting the long walk down to the stream, when the alien's voice pounded once more in his brain. Chucky Mills. Wait. You must return to me. Quickly. Sensing the urgency in the alien's words, Chucky turned and raced back through the woods. Errant branches scratched his face as he ran. Roots reached out, almost tripping him. But still he ran. Soon he could see the wrecked ship ahead of him. A strange, green light was emanating from within it.

  Panting, out of breath, and somewhat scared, he peered inside. The crab-thing was bathed in intense light from several of the instrument panels. Lights were blinking furiously. “What’s happening?” Chucky asked. “What do you want?”

  They have come after me. Somehow they have traced my flight.

  “Who’s coming after you?” But Chucky already knew the answer to the question.

  Members of my race. Your life is in danger here. But you could never get away in time. That's why I called you back. They are very close now—entering orbit above us. It will only be several minutes before they detect my position.

  “What will they do to you?” asked Chucky, pushing a shock of dark hair from his eyes.

  They will probably try to destroy me.

  “You mean kill you?” The thought brought the utter reality of the moment to the ten-year-old boy.

  Of course. And I fear that they will kill you too. Unless . . . The alien paused as his instruments began flashing new alarms. They approach now! No more time for words. Listen to me. Do exactly as I tell you. It's our only chance.

  Chucky could only nod his head. He wanted to speak, but the words would not come. Looking up into the afternoon sky, he knew that an alien ship was streaking down upon them. Any second it might appear, ready to deal a death-laden blow.

  The alien crab-thing was now struggling to extract a

  small package from the quarters of the ship behind him. Presently, the creature extended one of his multi-jointed arms, holding what looked like a giant diamond in its claw. Take this, Chucky. I am hoping that they will not detect your presence here immediately. Take this and get away from the ship—about one hundred of your measured ''yards." When they come down, hold the crystal at arm's length. Concentrate all your thoughts into it. Try to will my attackers into nonexistence. Wish them to be destroyed. Can you do that?

  Chucky swallowed hard. He could hear a shrieking sound as something tore through the upper layers of the air. It was the alien ship. "I . . . think so. I think I can." He

  reached out and grabbed the strange diamondlike crystal from the alien's claw.

  I hope you can, said the alien. And now, good-bye, my friend. Go now!

  Turning and running, Chucky cleared the distance between the crashed ship and a thick clump of trees on the edge of the hill. He couldn't really measure the distance, but when he had huddled down in the heavy shrubbery among the trees, the alien's small ship was barely visible. He was covered with sweat. His chest was heaving as he strained for breath. The crystal in his hand grew slippery as he clutched it tightly. He waited.

  The ground shook as the alien ship came down. It sounded as if someone had ripped open the sky, letting all the thunder and lightning that was stored up in it come suddenly pouring out. Chucky sank lower into the moist autumn earth as he watched the ship lower itself to the forest floor. Unlike the smaller, wrecked craft, this one was immense. It was as big as a truck and shaped like a saucer.

  Terrified, he watched four legs extend from the craft's underbelly to support its weight. Several ramps dropped down and almost at once, a horde of the crab-things came scuttling downward. Their motion was quick and jittery, and they looked like cheap, metal, windup toys. Only Chucky knew they were not windup toys, but deadly creatures. Each one of the crabs carried a weapon that looked something like a gun.

  Suddenly, the first row of the creatures stopped their furious movements and extended their weapons toward the twisted, little ship. Chucky almost cried out as he saw needles of blue light stream from the nozzles. The beams struck the little alien ship. Instantly, it became a yellow orange fireball which shimmered, frozenlike, for several seconds before it faded away. The ship was gone. Nothing remained but a patch of scorched earth.

  Chucky knew that the alien being was gone. A knot grew in his stomach as the knowledge crashed down on him. Gritting his teeth, he extended the crystal, pointing it at the great alien battle cruiser. Never before in his life had he felt what he did for those strange, scuttling creatures.

  He wished them dead.

  The crystal in his hand felt soft for a moment, losing its hard-edged, jewel-like qualities. Then it regained its shape and grew warmer in his palm. The heat was almost unbearable, like a candle flame or a hot pan from the oven. But Chucky held on, trying to concentrate on the aliens.

  Just as the last row of creatures reached the lip of the boarding ramp, a burst of energy leaped from the crystal. Umbrella-shaped, the energy field enveloped the alien ship. Chucky let the crystal, now spent, drop from his hand as he witnessed the product of its awesome power. The crabs had frozen in their tracks. The hull of the ship began to glow a bright cherry red, and the air was alive with vibration.

  Everything grew hazy as the alien ship and its crew started to shimmer like a mirage on a summer highway. Seconds ticked by—then the vibrations, the humming, everything faded away.


  And the ship was gone.

  No explosion, no flash of light, no sound. Nothing. It was as if the ship had never been there. Ever. It was like magic, only Chucky knew that it wasn't. His throat was as dry as the cracked autumn leaves all around him. His hands were trembling and his knees threatened to give way as he tried to stand up.

  The crystal had lost its shining appearance. Its surface was black and dull. He picked it up and it began to melt into a thick, oily substance like old motor oil. He let go and it plopped heavily onto the dry leaves.

  Slowly, he walked back to the spot where the little alien ship had been. The earth was singed, but other than that, there was no evidence that it had ever been there. Chucky thought about the strange little creature he had found there. It was funny how he looked just like the others who had come to kill him. Yet Chucky knew that he was in some way different. "Friend," thought Chucky. "He called me his friend." He knew now that the little alien creature had meant it, too.

  The sun had slipped behind the clouds, and he became aware of the wind slicing through his jacket. Suddenly it was cold and growing darker. He wanted to be away from Ickle Pickle. He wondered if he would ever be able to come there again.

  His father was raking leaves in the front yard when Chucky got home. "Well, son," he said, "find that meteorite?"

  Chucky pushed down the kickstand on his bike and looked at his father. After a pause, he simply shook his head. "No, not exactly," was all he could say.

  "Well, what did you find?" His father puffed on his pipe and smiled.

  "A friend," said Chucky, trying hard to smile. "But he's not there anymore."

  A Thirst For Blood

  by Arthur Tofte

  He stood staring, horrified, down into his father's grave. . .

  In his hands were the iron spike, the mallet, the sharp-edged spade, and the canvas bag. He had been told what he had to do with them—but he could not do it!