Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (54 page)

The alien threat here is certainly partly our fault; we go to their home and we bring them back with us. We’re told little about them, except that they’re a collective consciousness within each host and are viral in nature, and in at least one case they have a tendency to think like one creature even to swearing on some alien landscape. But of their “life” on Venus before we get there we know nothing; certainly they are not spacefaring, although they are extremely technologically savvy. They don’t have the memories of the host, but they seem pretty adept at learning what they need to learn very quickly and being quite convincing imitators to others. The implication is that they are not native to Venus, either, but have been through this many times before, much like the pod people or the slugs. The fact that they are not fleshed out but that little pieces of their background show up now and again adds to their mystique, and keeps them removed from us. Like Campbell’s shape shifters, they see no reason for dialog; they only want to keep us ignorant long enough to allow them to replace the entire human race.

Other than pacing, what distinguishes
Call Him Dead
from the ordinary is its unique narrator/hero. He’s got an unusual occupation, but, more, he’s got a secret that saves the world but it can also put him at grave risk even among his own kind if they find out about his peculiar ability, and he’s always got to be under control. He is, thus, the first one to learn of the invaders and to act in some small way against them, but he’s also caught between a rock and a hard place and that makes this a much more interesting thriller than the basic us-vs.-them tale. How do you convince others that that nice young woman over there is an alien bent on taking over your body, without revealing your secret? And when many of those who would fear and then act against the alien menace might also do the same to you should they find out . . . , well, you’ve got a problem . . . But to do nothing is to let the aliens win.

Too often characterization has been overlooked in Russell’s works, but it’s often the key to the success of his books. In this case, it’s front and center in a wild and fast-paced battle of wits with our very selves at stake. Hold on and have fun.

He was a squat man with immense breadth of shoulder, hairy hands, bushy eyebrows. He maintained constant, unblinking attention on the road as he drove into trouble at sixty miles an hour.

It was April 1, 1980. All Fools’ Day, he thought wryly. They had two or three moving roadways in Los Angeles, Chicago and New York. Also six airtight stations up there on the Moon. But except for rear engines and doped-alcohol fuel, motor-cars were little different from those of thirty years ago. Helicopters remained beyond reach of the average pocket. Taxpayers still skinned themselves month after month—and brooded over it every All Fools’ Day.

For the past ten years there had been talk of mass produced helicopters at two thousand dollars apiece. Nothing had ever come of it. Maybe it was just as well considering the likely death-roll when drunks, half-wits and hot-rod enthusiasts took to the skies.

For the same ten years the scientific write-up boys had been forecasting a landing upon Mars within the next five. Nothing had come of that either. Sometimes he doubted whether anything ever would come of it. A minimum of sixty million miles is a terrible distance for a gadget that squirts itself along.

His train of thought snapped when an unknown voice sounded within his peculiar mind saying,
“It hurts! Oh, God, it. . . hurts!"

The road was wide and straight and thickly wooded on both sides. The only other vehicle in sight was a lumbering tanker mounting a slight slope two miles ahead. A glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that there was nothing behind. Despite this, the squat man registered no surprise.

“Hurts!”
repeated the voice, weakening rapidly.
“Didn’t give me a chance. The bastards!”

The squat man slowed until his speedometer needle trembled under twenty. He made a dexterous U-turn, drove back to a rutted dirt road leading into the woods. He nosed the car up the road, knowing full well that the voice had come from that direction.

In the first five hundred yards there were two sharp bends, one to the right, one to the left. Around the second bend a car stood squarely in the middle of the road, effectively blocking it to all corners. The squat man braked hard, and swerved over the grass verge to avoid a collision.

He got out, leaving his door open. Speculatively he eyed the other car while he stood still and listened with his mind rather than with his ears.

“Betty
...” whispered the eerie voice.
“Three fellows and a pain in the guts. Darkness. Can't get up. Ought to tell Forst. Where are you, Forst?”

Turning, the squat man ran heavily along the verge, clambered down a short bank, found the man in the ditch. He did not look long, not more than two seconds. Mounting the bank with furious haste, he dug a flask out of his car-pocket, took it down to him.

Raising the other’s head he poured a thin trickle of spirit between pale lips. He did not say anything, asked no questions, uttered no words of comfort and encouragement. Cradling the head on his forearm he tried only to maintain the fading spark of life. And while he did it, he listened. Not with his ears.

“Tall, blond guy,
” murmured the other’s mind, coming from a vast distance.
“Blasted at me . . . others got out. . . slung me off the road. Betty, I'm
...”

The mental stream cut off. The squat man dropped his flask, lowered the other’s head, examined him without touching. Dead beyond doubt. He made note of the number on the badge fixed to the uniform jacket.

Leaving the body in the ditch he went to the stalled car, sat in the driver’s seat, found a hand-microphone, held it while he fiddled tentatively with switches. He was far from sure how the thing operated but intended to find out.

“Hello!” he called, working a likely lever. “Hello!”

Immediately a voice responded, “State police barracks, Sergeant Forst.”

“My name is Wade Harper. Can you hear me?”

“Barracks,” repeated the voice, a trifle impatiently. “Forst speaking.”

Evidently he couldn’t hear. Harper tried again, got something adjusted. “Hello! Can you hear me?”

“Yes. What goes on there?”

“I’m calling from Car Seventeen. One of your officers is dead in a ditch near by.” He gave the badge number.

There sounded a quick intake of breath, then, “That’s Bob Alderson. Where are you now?”

Harper gave it in detail, added, “He’s been shot twice, once in the belly and once through the neck. It must have happened recently because he was still living when I got to him. He died in my arms.”

“Did he tell anything?”

“Yes; a tall, fair-haired fellow did it. There were others with him, no number stated, no descriptions.”

“Were they in a car?”

“He didn’t say, but you can bet on that.”

“Stay where you are, Mr. Harper. We’ll be right out.”

There sounded a sharp click and a new voice broke in with, “Car Nine, Lee and Bates. We picked that up, Sarge, and are on our way. We're two miles off.” Replacing the microphone, Harper returned to the top of the bank, gazed moodily down upon the body. Somebody named Betty was going to know heartbreak this night.

Within a few minutes heavy tires squealed on the main artery, a car came into the dirt road. Harper raced round the bend, signaled it down lest it hit the block. Two state troopers piled out. They had the bitter air of men who owed somebody plenty and intended to pay it with interest.

They went down into the ditch, came up, said, “He’s gone all right. Some son of a bitch is going to be sorry.”

“I hope so,” said Harper.

The taller of the two surveyed him curiously and asked, “How did you happen to find him way up here?”

Harper was prepared for that. He had practiced the art of concealment since childhood. At the ripe age of nine he had learned that knowledge can be resented, that the means of acquiring it can be feared.

“I wanted to pay dog-respects to a tree. Found this car planted in the road. First thing I thought was that somebody else had the same idea. Then I heard him moan in the ditch.”

“Five hundred yards is a heck of a long way to come just for that,” observed the tall one, sharp-eyed and shrewd. “Fifty would have been enough, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“How much farther would you have gone if the road hadn’t been blocked?”

“Couldn’t say.” He shrugged indifferently. “A fellow just looks for a spot that strikes his fancy and stops there, doesn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said the trooper.

“You ought to,” said Harper. “Unless you are physically unique.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked the trooper, showing sudden toughness. The second trooper chipped in with, “Lay off, Bert. Ledsom will be here any minute. Let him handle this. It’s what he’s paid for.”

Bert grunted, went silent. The pair started hunting around for evidence. In short time they found fresh tire-tracks across a soft patch twenty yards higher up the road. Soon afterwards they discovered a shell in the grass. They were examining the shell when three more cars arrived.

A man with a bag got down into the ditch, came up after a while, said wearily, “Two bullets about .32 caliber. Either could have caused death. No burn marks. Fired from range of a few yards. The slugs aren’t in him.”

Another with captain’s chevrons spoke to the two nearest troopers. “Here’s the ambulance—lift him out of there.” To several others, “You boys look for those slugs. We’ve
got
to find them.” To Lee and Bates he said, “Put a plank over those tracks. We’ll make moulage casts of them. See if you can pick up the other shell. Work up the road for the gun as well: the punk may have thrown it away.”

He joined Harper, informed, “I’m Captain Ledsom. It was smart of you to use Alderson’s radio to get us.”

“Seemed the sensible thing to do.”

“People don’t always do the sensible thing, especially if they’re anxious not to be involved.” Ledsom surveyed him with cool authority. “How did you find Alderson?”

“I trundled up here to answer the call of nature. And there he was.”

“Came up quite a piece, didn’t you?”

“You know how it is. On a narrow track like this you tend to look for a spot where you can turn the car to go back.”

“Yes, I guess so. You wouldn’t want to park on a bend either.” He appeared satisfied with the explanation but Harper could see with complete clarity that his mind suspected everyone within fifty miles radius. “Exactly what did Alderson say before he passed out?”

“He mumbled about Betty and—”

“His wife,” interjected Ledsom, frowning. “I hate having to tell her about this.” “He mentioned a big, blond fellow blasting at him. Also that there were others who tossed him into the ditch. He gave no more details unfortunately. He was on his last lap and his mind was rambling.”

“Too bad.” Ledsom shifted attention as a trooper came up. “Well?”

“Cap, the tracks show that a car turned up here with Alderson following. The car stopped by the verge. Alderson pulled up behind but in the middle of the road. He got out, went toward the first car, was shot down. At least two men picked him up and dumped him out of sight.” He held out his hand. “Here’s the other shell.” He pointed. “It was lying right there.”

“.32 automatic,” said Ledsom, studying the small brass cylinders. “Any sign of Alderson’s car having been edged off the road and put back again?”

“No.”

“Then they must have pushed straight ahead. They couldn’t get out this way with that car stuck across the road.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and went on, “This track meanders seventeen miles through forest, loops back and joins the main artery about ten miles farther along. So by now they’ve either got back on the road or they’ve holed up someplace in the woods.”

“Seventeen miles would take at least twenty minutes on a route like this one,” ventured Harper. “Even if they’re driving like crazy they can’t be far off it yet.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll call the boys to put up roadblocks along the main run. We’ll search the loop too. It’s used almost entirely by loggers. If those bums are familiar with it the chances are they work or once worked for the logging outfits. We’ll follow that line later.”

Entering his car, Ledsom spoke awhile on the radio. He came back, said, “That’s fixed. Blocks will be established pretty soon. Local sheriff is on his way here with four deputies.” He gazed moodily at the surrounding woods. “Just as well they’re coming. The fugitives may dump that car and take to their feet, in which case we’ll need an army to go through this lot.”

“Any way I can help?” asked Harper.

Ledsom looked him over for the third time, carefully, calculatingly, while his mind said to itself,
“Some crazy coot might think it incontrovertible proof of innocence to stick his head in the lions mouth. I’d like to know more about this guy. All we've got to go on so far is
his
story. ”

“Well?” encouraged Harper.

“Finding the murder weapon could give us a lead,” remarked Ledsom in the manner of one idly musing. “And we can’t afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how remote.” Then his eyes stared straight into Harper’s and his voice became sharp, imperative. “Therefore we must search you and your car.” “Naturally,” responded Harper with bland indifference.

“
Wrong diagnosis
," decided Ledsom’s mind.
“He’s clean. We’ll frisk him all the same.”
They raked the car from end to end, ran hands over Harper, extracted a tiny blued automatic from his right-hand pocket. Ledsom grabbed the gun eagerly, ejected the magazine from the hand-grip, examined it, jerked his eyebrows a bit.

“Holy smoke! What sort of a rod is this supposed to be? Twenty in the mag with slugs the size of match-heads. Where did you get it?”

“Made it myself. Up to fifty yards it is very effective.”

“I can imagine. You got a permit for it?”