Philip E. High - Twin Planets

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2024-12-22 0 0 318.1KB 136 页 5.9玖币
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Twin Planets by Philip
E. High
Chapter One
Denning had not realized that the events of the past week had shaken
him so much until his eyesight started playing tricks.
He had seen it, hadn't he? He stopped, put his car into reverse and
went slowly backwards. It was an illusion, a trick of the light, surely?
It wasn't.
There was a small shelter containing a seat and a raised metal sign. The
metal sign said Stus Bop.
He climbed out of the car and looked again. Clearly it was not a joke.
The sign was weather-worn, and it was unlikely that the local authorities
would permit such a glaring mistake to go unchanged for long. One knew,
of course, that the sign meant "Bus Stop" but, even after rubbing one's
eyes, it still said Stus Bop.
He frowned, irritated to find that the mistake had shaken him, and
climbed back into the car. Better take a rest. If he were that shaken he'd
better get off the road before he had an accident.
He pulled onto the grass verge, cut the engine and shivered. Damned
cold, wasn't it? Strange, the sun had been shining only a few moments
ago; now the sun had vanished and the' sky had a curiously leaden sheen.
He shivered again. God, he was cold, really cold, but this was July, not
January. Probably a fall in temperature due to an approaching storm, or
more likely still, nerves, sheer nerves. The cold was nerves, the "bus stop"
nerves, the whole business an aftermath of shock.
He lit a cigarette, made certain the handbrake was on and closed his
eyes. Better relax, try to sleep for a few moments. He'd be better after
some rest.
In sleep Denning looked boyish, helpless and curiously ineffectual for
his thirty years. He had good features: a strong chin, a well shaped mouth
and awake, clear gray eyes beneath dark, rather thick brows. Nonetheless,
he still looked guileless and vaguely apprehensive, as if he had been shut
away from the world too long and was doubtful of its attitude towards
him.
Perhaps the expression was indicative because Denning had discovered
the previous week that he was guileless, was ineffective.
He had also discovered, to his chagrin, that he was a physical and
moral coward. In truth, the only justification he could find for his
continued existence was the fact that he could admit these things to
himself without trying to justify them or explain them away.
He went over the events again. Yes, he was a coward. He should have
hit Beacham, struck out at him however ineffectively, if only to justify his
own manhood.
The trouble was, of course, that Beacham was bigger. The muscles in
his naked shoulders had rippled unpleasantly, and he had looked crude,
savage and too confident.
Beacham had stuck out his chin, almost demanding to be punched, and
then he had sneered, "Don't burst into tears, sonny boy. These things
happen and will probably happen again—or would you care to do
something about it?"
It was then that Denning discovered he was a coward. He had retreated
behind a torrent of cliches, a flood of deprecation. He heard the
nauseatingly familiar phrases as if they were not his own. They were
"civilized people," he had said. Then, "differences could be settled without
violence." And so it went until the pathetic flood of words slowly dried and
he found himself near to tears and fumbling for a cigarette.
Beacham had laughed, laughed until the tears came into his eyes, and
even Marian, who had not known whether to look guilty or brazen, had
joined in shrilly, if a little hysterically.
Denning writhed inwardly. You came home unexpectedly because you
had forgotten some necessary papers and found a business associate in
bed with your wife. All you could do when they stood and laughed at you
was to cringe, clenching and unclenching your hands ineffectually. But you
knew suddenly that Marian, who was thirty-two, had married you for
security. You knew that this was but one of many infidelities. You knew
that this was not a love affair, but an incident. This act of adultery was as
casual and as meaningless as a meal in a restaurant. God, and he had
talked of "stepping aside for their future happiness." No wonder they had
laughed.
He had wanted to hit Beacham, wanted to punch the thick sensuous
lips until they were pulp; the resentment and the urge had been there, but
his muscles had refused to respond.
Worse, he saw Beacham every day at work, and every day Beacham
smirked and said, "Good morning, sonny boy."
It was clear also, by the sly looks of some of his colleagues and the
embarrassed pity of others, that Beacham had related both his conquest
and the subsequent "scene" to the entire staff.
Denning worked for a small firm of industrial architects and, for the
last week, he had been using his entire will-power to go to work.
He was, he knew, a competent but uninspired architect with little hope
of achieving sensational success, but at least he had been secure and
almost content. Now he was a clown, a cuckold, despised by his associates
and, no doubt, being reappraised by his employers.
At home, it was almost as bad. Marian was either out or shut in her
room and,-if they met, she called him "cave-worm."
Denning realized suddenly that he was bitterly cold and opened his
eyes. It was clear that his nerves———
His mind froze with his body and became blank and uncomprehending.
It couldn't be, it couldn't. Deep down inside him he whimpered.
There was no shelter, no bus stop, no familiar road, and a shrieking
wind buffeted madly at the stationary car.
It was almost dark. Stars were visible and the sky was lit at the poles by
an aurora such as had never been seen.
He bunked painfully. Ahead of him, a mile-wide road stretched to a
horizon that looked like a burned black line against a white and crimson
fire which flared like the open door of a blast furnace.
Denning put his hands over his eyes. "Hell," he thought, dully. "I'm
dead. I must have been killed somewhere, probably in a road accident."
He looked again -at the horizon, at the long black shadows leaning in
darkness from every mound and hill, at the rim of fire encompassing the
visible curvature of the Earth. It looked like a sunset gone mad.
Clearly, this was hell, but a Scandinavian hell of green ice and cold
vipers———
Slowly his mind began to function and, by degrees, to reason. There
was ice on the hood of the car, and the windshield was filigreed with frost.
When you died, when you were killed, did you take your car with you?
Would you be smoking the same cigarette? Somehow, none of it made
sense and he was filled with an overwhelming panic. Got to get away
from here, got to turn the car around and head away from that ghastly
burning glare.
He rumbled, shaking for the switch and turned it sharply to the right.
The starter groaned, the engine turned protestingly, missed, faltered and
finally fired unevenly. Vaguely he was glad he had not drained the
antifreeze of the previous winter.
The first time he tried to pull away, the engine stalled and he had to
restart, but the second tune the engine had almost settled down to its
familiar purr.
The opposite direction was, he found, no more encouraging than the
flaring horizon from which he had turned. The distant heights which faced
him might have been normal mountains, but he didn't think they were.
The jagged peaks and long surfaces which threw back the glare almost like
mirrors could mean only one thing—ice. Mountains of ice, enormous
glaciers rising tier upon tier as far as he could see.
God, he was so cold. His feet felt numb and the middle finger of his
right hand was white and bloodless.
He turned on the heater and was grateful for the flow of lukewarm air
from the slowly heating engine.
An enormous gust of wind shook the car and he skidded slightly on the
icy road. Better hold the thing in second gear. Funny driving through hell
in second gear, spatter of hail on the windshield but everlasting fire
behind you. Wait now, for the horned gentleman with goat's legs and a
trident. Watch it, Denning, watch it! You're becoming hysterical, a little
more like that and you'll start gibbering—but, oh God, what the hell has
happened?
At that moment a curt voice which seemed to come from the empty
seat beside him said: "Halt! Halt! Police!"
Fortunately Denning was already slowing or he would have run straight
into the back of the thing which appeared suddenly in front of him.
He braked violently and stopped.
The thing was black, pear-shaped and without visible door or windows.
It hung, silently, just in front of him without visible means of support.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the thing's side and a man
stepped out. He wore what appeared to be a black crash-helmet with a
sharply pointed peak. Above the peak, painted in thick, rather clumsy,
white lettering were the words ZONAL POLICE. Below the helmet was a
tight fitting scarlet uniform which covered the man's entire body,
including his hands and feet.
He strode over and Denning automatically wound down the window,
shivering in a sudden blast of ice cold air.
"Permit!" The policeman extended a scarlet-clad hand. He had a long,
thinly bitter face and tiny, unpleasantly brittle blue eyes.
"My driving license, you mean?" Even to himself, Denning sounded
hoarse, terrified and almost inaudible.
"Driving license?" The policeman smiled bitterly with one side of his
mouth. "Friend, I am not here to play jolly guessing games, or indulge in
idle banter. You are inter-zone, between frontiers, and you are not allowed
out of your zone without a permit. You know the law as well as I, so now
that I have wasted valuable time spelling it out for you to avoid a
misunderstanding, you will produce the permit—yes?"
Denning made frantic and helpless gestures with his hands. "I don't
know where I am. I think I lost my way somehow. I don't know what you
mean by a permit or a zone—" His voice trailed away.
The policeman looked at him and smiled. It was a mockingly soothing
smile, and it made Denning go cold inside.
"We are jesting, yes?" The smile was tigerish now. "We are daring and
filled with bravado." The policeman put his hand inside the window and
pointed his finger, the tip of which terminated in a bright metal point. "I,
too, play games. I, too, can be the great comedian." He looked at the other
thoughtfully. "I should burn a small black hole in your right ear, perhaps?
It is an amusing game among jesters, but you would have to keep very still
or the small black hole might be burned right through your head. Shall we
begin now or would you like to produce the permit?"
"Look, I'm very sorry." Denning was almost in tears. "Please
understand—" He stopped. The policeman had thrust his head into the car
and was studying the instruments disbelievingly. "Mother of Sin," he said
in a shocked undertone.
He withdrew his head and walked slowly around the car, studying it.
Twice he kicked the tires, three times he looked underneath, then he
returned. "What, in the name of God, is this thing?"
"It's"— Denning cleared his throat nervously—"It's a Ford Classic."
"Where did you get it—dig it out of a glacier?"
"I bought it four months ago."
"It's a mockup, surely. Let's look at the energy unit."
"Ener—?" Denning understood suddenly and dutifully released the hood
catch.
The policeman raised it and studied the engine. Naked Sin, it really is a
combustion unit." He strode suddenly to the window. There was
something gleaming in his hand that was clearly a weapon, and his face
was ugly. "What sort of stunt is this? No more jokes, my friend. You have
exactly ten seconds to tell the whole story."
"The whole story has yet to be told," said a quiet male voice, and
Denning saw the policeman stiffen.
"Don't do anything rash, my friend. There are six burners pointed at
the middle of your back."
"So it was a joke after all." The policeman looked at Denning with
something akin to respect, then his face contorted. "What shall I do?"
"If you are wise," said the voice, "You will climb back into your prowl
and go away. Forget this. It is none of your business."
"I cannot do that. You know I cannot do it. At the first opportunity I
must call for assistance, outwit you, or fight it out."
"Then you are a fool."
"True, but I cannot help it. It is the conditioning, you understand. I
cannot help it."
"Then we are very sorry." There was a brief flash of violet light. The
policeman stiffened. For a few seconds he stood swaying, bubbling sounds
came from his throat, then abruptly he crumpled sideways.
Denning saw him clutch at the car, fall half over, his head striking the
hood, and then he disappeared from view.
A voice said, "Pick him up and toss him in his prowl He'll freeze to
death out here."
"We could do with a few less of these creeps."
"We have no fight with the Z.P. and, in any case, they cannot help it."
"This one can talk."
"So can his dead body to science. Do as I say and put him in his prowl.
Imagine the hornet's nest we'll stir up with a dead Z.P."
"Oh, very well, but one day—" The unseen speaker moved away and
Denning lost the rest of the sentence.
The car was suddenly surrounded by dark-clad, be-goggled figures
strangely resembling frogmen, and the door was wrenched open.
A begoggled head appeared, a shoulder and a hand. The hand held
something glinting and metallic which looked like a weapon.
"All right, Denning, get out. We haven't much time."
"Look here, what———?"
The weapon jerked menacingly. "Out, I said. Out, out, out."
He climbed out, already shivering with cold again. Behind the car was a
black sphere like a rigid gas balloon with a lighted opening like a door in
the side.
Something prodded into his back. "In there, and move. We're in a
hurry."
He was almost pushed through the opening, but before he could get a
look at the interior a voice said, "Sorry about this, Denning, but it has to
be done."
It seemed that something touched him lightly on the back of the neck.
A touch which left a curious spreading numbness, sapping his strength.
He swayed, clutching wildly for some sort of support, and a vague
impression that someone caught him before he fell…
"Are you all right, sir?" Something was shaking his shoulder gently, and
he opened his eyes.
"All right? Er—yes. Yes, thank you." He was looking at a real policeman
in the familiar blue uniform.
It had been a dream, all of it a dream. There was the shelter, the
winding road and the metal sign which said, correctly: Bus Stop. Parked
some thirty feet down the road was a police car with the comforting blue
lamp on the roof. A real policeman, the familiar road, the sun shining
from a cloudless sky. Yes, yes, a dream—thank God.
"You were slumped over the wheel, sir." The red face beneath the blue
peaked cap was concerned. "I wondered if you had been taken ill."
"Er—no. No." Denning could have embraced him with relief. "As a
matter of fact, I had been driving for some hours, felt drowsy and decided
to pull off the road for a rest."
The policeman nodded. "Wish a few more drivers would use the same
common sense, sir, save a lot of accidents. Glad you're all right, sir." He
saluted and went away.
Denning waited until the police car was out of sight, then opened the
door, climbed out and stretched luxuriously.
A dream, a particularly vivid dream, but, thank——— his arms, still
half-raised from the stretch, went suddenly rigid.
The car had a dent in the hood, and there were several long scratches
on the offside front fender. From beneath the fender, water dripped
steadily from a small but visible accumulation of rapidly melting sludge…
Chapter Two
Denning climbed back into the car, shakily, and tried to think. It was
not so easy as he imagined. His mind appeared to have developed a
peculiar disinclination to refer to the events of the past few hours. It was
an almost automatic reaction, similar to a bereaved person's refusal to
recall the face of the loved one because the memory brought immediate
pain.
Desperately he chain-smoked his way through a packet of cigarettes.
Why had he come down here, heading towards this small country town he
had known as a child? Escape? Escape from what? There was no point in
it; his foster parents had both been dead for years and to return now
would do nothing but awake a seething nostalgia and a host of
sentimental recollections. His foster parents, he recalled, had treated him
lovingly as their own, but he had been found abandoned on a public house
doorstep in the early hours of the morning.
Funny how vividly he could recall so much of his childhood. Strange,
too, how clearly he now seemed able to think on any subject but—his mind
shied away from it He would get it sorted out later, perhaps. No doubt
there was an explanation of some kind, a pity he couldn't think of a
satisfactory one.
His mind turned again to the reasons for his journey. It was not only
the conditions at home; there had been something curiously compulsive
about everything, an urge, something almost migratory—was there such a
word?—which he couldn't explain.
It wasn't Marian. He was a little shaken to find that he could now look
back on her infidelities without anger or particular regret. He was like a
man touching a once-aching tooth with his tongue, startled to find no
soreness or stab of pain.
"He was surprised also that he felt very little about Beacham. Almost he
pitied him. Beacham was not the man he appeared; true, he was
physically strong, but his sexual appetites were grossly exaggerated.
He was a man with an inferiority complex somewhere deep in his
character which he had to hide. Beacham drank whiskey, smoked a pipe,
followed sport and womanized because he thought it was manly. He had to
prove his virility both to himself and to the world. He had to have
conquests not so much from animal desire but because sexual conquest
eased his basic sense of insecurity.
Denning blinked, wondering how he knew and wondering even more
how he knew he was right. Since the events of the last few hours he
seemed to have developed a curious clarity of mind and a deep insight
which he could not remember having experienced before.
Again, he seemed to have a deeper understanding of himself.
He sighed, forcing himself not to think. Better get some gas on the way
back. He hoped he didn't start seeing things again, but he'd have to take
that chance.
Half an hour later he pulled in at a wayside gas station to replenish the
nearly empty tank.
The girl attendant, a heavily made-up blonde of about twenty-five,
seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on the car. She cleaned the
摘要：

ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.TwinPlanetsbyPhilipE.HighChapterOneDenninghadnotrealizedthattheeventsofthepastweekhadshakenhimsomuchuntilhiseyesightstartedplayingtricks.Hehadseenit,hadn'the?Hestopped,puthiscarintoreverseandwentslowlybac...

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