Binder1, p.1
Binder1, page 1
TO THE LORD OF HEAVEN
I TURN ALL THOUGHT!
When the Essence-Stealer screams from the heavens, this strangely-formed will be many leastings for me. Safety and assured essence are mine. O boon at last granted! To the Lord of the Heaven I turn all thought! Lad-nar’s essence is yours at ending!
The thing rose nine feet on powerfully-muscled legs; it had a sheened, glistening fur. It resembled a gorilla and a Brahma bull and a Kodiak bear and a number of other Terran animals, but it was none of them. . . . Kettridge half-turned. He saw one of the thing’s huge paws crashing toward him. The brief moment ended and Kettridge lay unconscious. . . .
Lad-nar looked over one massive shoulder at the sky.
Even as he watched, the roiling dark clouds split and a forked brilliance stabbed down at the jungle. Lad-nar squinted his eyes, unconsciously lowering the thin secondary lids over them, filtering out the worst of the light.
He shivered as the roar screamed across the sky.
He shoved the man under one furry arm, clasping his unconscious burden tightly. Lad-nar’s eyes were frightened. He knew the time of death and forbidden walking was at hand.
—From BLIND LIGHTNING
by Harlan Ellison
THINGS HUNTING MEN
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people ;or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by David Drake
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises ;
260 Fifth Avenue ;
New York, N.Y. 10001
First printing, June 1988
ISBN: 0-671-65412-8
Cover art by Pat Ortega
Printed in the United States of America
Distributed by ;
SIMON & SCHUSTER ;
1230 Avenue of the Americas ;
New York, N.Y. 10020
DEDICATION
To Dan Breen
Because he’s a helpful friend
And because it’s nice to know
somebody who’s able to run
a bookstore as a business.
“It” copyright © 1940 by Street and Smith Publications for the August, 1940, issue of Unknown. Reprinted by permission of Kirby McCauley, ;Ltd., agent for the author's estate.
“The Ruum” copyright © 1953 by Fantasy House, Inc., for the October, 1953, issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Reprinted ;by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith ;Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Ave, New York, NY 10022.
“Happy Ending” copyright © 1948 by Standard Magazines, Inc., for the August, 1948, issue of Thrilling Wonder Stories. Reprinted by ;permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc.
“Ancient, My Enemy” copyright © 1969 by Universal Publishing and Distributing Corporation for the December, 1969, issue of IF: Worlds ;of Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Rough Beast” copyright © 1962 by the Conde Nast Publications, Inc., for the March, 1962, issue of Analog Science Fiction-Science Fact. ;Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Black Destroyer” copyright © 1939 by Street and Smith Publications (renewed 1967 by the author) for the July, 1939, issue of Astounding ;Science-Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Collecting Team” copyright © 1956, 1984, by Robert Silverberg for the December, 1956, issue of Super-Science Fiction. Reprinted by ;permission of the author and Agberg, Ltd.
“Blind Lightning” copyright © 1956 by King-Size Publications, Inc., for the June, 1956, issue of Fantastic Universe Science Fiction. Copyright ;renewed 1984 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation. Reprinted by permission ;of The Kilimanjaro Corporation.
“Greenface” copyright © 1943 by Street and Smith Publications for the August, 1943, issue of Unknown Worlds. Reprinted by permission of ;the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, ;Inc., 845 Third Ave, New York, NY 10022.
“Hunting Problem” copyright © 1955 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation for the September, 1955, issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. Reprinted ;by permission of the author.
“The Hunting Ground” copyright © 1976 by Ramsey Campbell for Superhorror. The author graciously extends the editor permission to ;reprint.
Contents:-
Acknowledgments
IT - Theodore Sturgeon
THE RUUM - Arthur Porges
HAPPY ENDING - Henry Kuttner
ANCIENT, MY ENEMY - Gordon R. Dickson
ROUGH BEAST - Roger Dee
BLACK DESTROYER -A. E. Van Vogt
COLLECTING TEAM - Robert Silverberg
BLIND LIGHTNING - Harlan Ellison
GREENFACE - James H. Schmitz
HUNTING PROBLEM - Robert Sheckley
THE HUNTING GROUND David Drake
Acknowledgments
Among the people whose help was crucial on this one are Jim Baen; Jerry Page; the Miesel clan; the Coulsons; Richard Minter; Forry Ackerman; Harlan Ellison; Marcia Decker; Charles Waugh; Marty Greenberg; and with particular emphasis, Karl Wagner.
I was thirteen when I read my first Theodore Sturgeon story: “Thunder and Roses .” It scared the hell out of me.
Twenty-five years later, I had occasion to reread “Thunder and Roses.” It still scared the hell out of me.
Sturgeon had a remarkable talent for turning a standard SF situation into something unique—and uniquely memorable—through the depth of his characterizations. ;He must have cared very deeply about his characters in ;order to sketch them so believably, lovable for their ;faults as surely as for their skills and excellence.
That’s why it was so shocking when Sturgeon brought his characters to horrible ends, as he often did.
Permitted them to come to horrible ends, 1 should rather say, because the tragedy is never gratuitous. It ;flows from the events of the story. It stays in memory ;because, when you think back on it, that’s the only way ;the particular set of events could be expected to turn ;out.
“It” was the second Sturgeon story I read. I cared as much about the plight of a little farming family as I had ;for the doomed half-world of “Thunder and Roses.”
And “It” scared the hell out of me, too.
IT
Theodore Sturgeon
It walked in the woods.
It was never born. It existed. Under the pine needles the fires burn, deep and smokeless in the mold. In heat ;and in darkness and decay there is growth. There is life ;and there is growth. It grew, but it was not alive. It ;walked unbreathing through the woods, and thought ;and saw and was hideous and strong, and it was not ;born and it did not live. It grew and moved about ;without living.
It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mold into the cool of a morning. It was huge. It was lumped ;and crusted with its own hateful substances, and pieces ;of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and lay ;writhing, and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.
It had no mercy, no laughter, no beauty. It had strength and great intelligence. And—perhaps it could ;not be destroyed. It crawled out of its mound in the ;wood and lay pulsing in the sunlight for a long moment. ;Patches of it shone wetly in the golden glow, parts of it ;were nubbled and flaked. And whose dead bones had given it the form of a man?
It scrabbled painfully with its half-formed hands, beating the ground and the bole of a tree. It rolled and lifted itself up on its crumbling elbows, and it tore up a ;great handful of herbs and shredded them against its ;chest, and it paused and gazed at the gray-green juices ;with intelligent calm. It wavered to its feet, and seized ;a young sapling and destroyed it, folding the slender ;trunk back on itself again and again, watching attentively the useless, fibered splinters. And it snatched up ;a fear-frozen field-creature, crushing it slowly, letting ;blood and pulpy flesh and fur ooze from between its ;fingers, run down and rot on the forearms.
It began searching.
Kimbo drifted through the tall grasses like a puff- of dust, his bushy tail curled tightly over his back and his ;long jaws agape. He ran with an easy lope, loving his ;freedom and the power of his flanks and furry shoulders. His tongue lolled listlessly over his lips. His lips ;were black and serrated, and each tiny pointed liplet ;swayed with his doggy gallop. Kimbo was all dog, all ;healthy animal.
He leaped high over a boulder and landed with a startled yelp as a longeared cony shot from its hiding ;place under the rock. Kimbo hurtled after it, grunting ;with each great thrust of his legs. The rabbit bounced ;just ahead of him, keeping its distance, its ears flattened on its curving back and its little legs nibbling ;away at distance hungrily. It stopped, and Kimbo ;pounced, and the rabbit shot away at a tangent and ;popped into a hollow log. Kimbo yelped again and ;rushed snuffling at the log, and knowing his failure, ;curvetted but once around the stump and ran on into ;the forest. The thing that watched from the wood raised ;its crusted arms and waited for Kimbo.
Kimbo sensed it there, standing dead-still by the ;path. To him it was a bulk which smelled of carrion not fit to roll in, and he snuffled distastefully and ran to ;pass it.
The thing let him come abreast and dropped a heavy twisted fist on him. Kimbo saw it coming and curled up ;tight as he ran, and the hand clipped stunningly on his ;rump, sending him rolling and yipping down the slope. ;Kimbo straddled to his feet, shook his head, shook his ;body with a deep growl, came back to the silent thing ;with green mu
Kimbo slowed, then flipped himself through the air at the monster’s throat. His jaws closed on it; his teeth ;clicked together through a mass of filth, and he fell ;choking and snarling at its feet. The thing leaned down ;and struck twice, and after the dog’s back was broken, ;it sat beside him and began to tear him apart.
“Be back in an hour or so,” said Alton Drew, picking up his rifle from the corner behind the wood box. His ;brother laughed.
“Old Kimbo ’bout runs your life, Alton,” he said.
“Ah, I know the of devil,” said Alton. “When I whistle for him for half an hour and he don’t show up, ;he’s in a jam or he’s treed something wuth shootin’ at. ;The ol’ son of a gun calls me by not answerin’.”
Cory Drew shoved a full glass of milk over to his nine-year-old daughter and smiled. “You think as much ;o’ that houn’ dog o’ yours as I do of Babe here.”
Babe slid off her chair and ran to her uncle. “Gonna catch me the bad fella, Uncle Alton?” she shrilled. The ;“bad fella” was Cory’s invention—the one who lurked ;in corners ready to pounce on little girls who chased the ;chickens and played around mowing machines and hurled ;green apples with a powerful young arm at the sides of ;the hogs, to hear the synchronized thud and grunt; ;little girls who swore with an Austrian accent like an ex-hired man they had had; who dug caves in haystacks ;till they tipped over, and kept pet crawfish in tomorrow’s milk cans, and rode work horses to a lather in the ;night pasture.
“Get back here and keep away from Uncle Alton’s gun!” said Cory. “If you see the bad fella, Alton, chase ;him back here. He has a date with Babe here for that ;stunt of hers last night.” The preceding evening, Babe ;had kind-heartedly poured pepper on the cows’ salt ;block.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” grinned her uncle, “I’ll bring you the bad fella’s hide if he don’t get me first.”
Alton Drew walked up the path toward the wood, thinking about Babe. She was a phenomenon—a pampered farm child. Ah well—she had to be. They’d both ;loved Clissa Drew, and she’d married Cory, and they ;had to love Clissa’s child. Funny thing, love. Alton was ;a man’s man, and thought things out that way; and his ;reaction to love was a strong and frightened one. He ;knew what love was because he felt it still for his ;brother’s wife and would feel it as long as he lived for ;Babe. It led him through his life, and yet he embarrassed himself by thinking of it. Loving a dog was an ;easy thing, because you and the old devil could love ;one another completely without talking about it. The ;smell of gun smoke and wet fur in the rain were perfume enough for Alton Drew, a grunt of satisfaction and ;the scream of something hunted and hit were poetry ;enough. They weren’t like love for a human, that choked ;his throat so he could not say words he could not have ;thought of anyway. So Alton loved his dog Kimbo and ;his Winchester for all to see, and let his love for his ;brother’s women, Clissa and Babe, eat at him quietly ;and unmentioned.
His quick eyes saw the flesh indentations in the soft earth behind the boulder, which showed where Kimbo ;had turned and leaped with a single surge, chasing the rabbit. Ignoring the tracks, he looked for the nearest ;place where a rabbit might hide, and strolled over to ;the stump. Kimbo had been there, he saw, and had ;been there too late. “You’re an ol’ fool,” muttered ;Alton. “Y’ can’t catch a cony by chasin’ it. You want to ;cross him up some way.” He gave a peculiar trilling ;whistle, sure that Kimbo was digging frantically under ;some nearby stump for a rabbit that was three counties ;away by now. No answer. A little puzzled, Alton went ;back to the path. “He never done this before,” he said ;softly.
He cocked his .32-40 and cradled it. At the county fair someone had once said of Alton Drew that he could ;shoot at a handful of corn and peas thrown in the air ;and hit only the corn. Once he split a bullet on the ;blade of a knife and put two candles out. He had no ;need to fear anything that could be shot at. That’s what ;he believed.
The thing in the woods looked curiously down at what it had done to Kimbo, and tried to moan the way ;Kimbo had before he died. It stood a minute storing ;away facts in its foul, unemotional mind. Blood was ;warm. The sunlight was warm. Things that moved and ;bore fur had a muscle to force the thick liquid through ;tiny tubes in their bodies. The liquid coagulated after a ;time. The liquid on rooted green things was thinner ;and the loss of a limb did not mean loss of life. It was ;very interesting, but the thing, the mold with a mind, ;was not pleased. Neither was it displeased. Its accidental urge was a thirst for knowledge, and it was only— ;interested.
It was growing late, and the sun reddened and rested awhile on the hilly horizon, teaching the clouds to be ;inverted flames. The thing threw up its head suddenly, ;noticing the dusk. Night was ever a strange thing, even ;for those of us who have known it in life. It would have ;been frightening for the monster had it been capable of fright, but it could only be curious; it could only reason ;from what it had observed.
What was happening? It was getting harder to see. Why? It threw its shapeless head from side to side. It ;was true—things were dim, and growing dimmer. Things ;were changing shape, taking on a new and darker color. ;What did the creatures it had crushed and torn apart ;see? How did they see? The larger one, the one that ;had attacked, had used two organs in its head. That ;must have been it, because after the thing had tom off ;two of the dog’s legs it had struck at the hairy muzzle; ;and the dog, seeing the blow coming, had dropped ;folds of skin over the organs—closed its eyes. Ergo, ;the dog saw with its eyes. But then after the dog was ;dead, and its body still, repeated blows had had no ;effect on the eyes. They remained open and staring. ;The logical conclusion was, then, that a being that had ;ceased to live and breathe and move about lost the use ;of its eyes. It must be that to lose sight was, conversely, ;to die. Dead things did not walk about. They lay down ;and did not move. Therefore the thing in the wood ;concluded that it must be dead, and so it lay down by ;the path, not far away from Kimbo’s scattered body, ;lay down and believed itself dead.
Alton Drew came up through the dusk to the wood. He was frankly worried. He whistled again, and then ;called, and there was still no response, and he said ;again, “The ol’ flea-bus never done this before,” and ;shook his heavy head. It was past milking time, and ;Cory would need him. “Kimbo!” he roared. The cry ;echoed through the shadows, and Alton flipped on the ;safety catch of his rifle and put the butt on the ground ;beside the path. Leaning on it, he took off his cap and ;scratched the back of his head, wondering. The rifle ;butt sank into what he thought was soft earth; he staggered and stepped into the chest of the thing that lay ;beside the path. His foot went up to the ankle in its yielding rottenness, and he swore and jumped back.
“Whew! Sompn sure dead as hell there! Ugh!” He swabbed at his boot with a handful of leaves while the ;monster lay in the growing blackness with the edges of ;the deep footprint in its chest sliding into it, filling it ;up. It lay there regarding him dimly out of its muddy ;eyes, thinking it was dead because of the darkness, ;watching the articulation of Alton Drew’s joints, wondering at this new uncautious creature.
Alton cleaned the butt of his gun with more leaves and went on up the path, whistling anxiously for Kimbo.
