These Savage Futurians Page 4

  Berman stopped by a long, lop-sided hut composed of wood and plastic boarding. “Hi! Cooks! Field patrol for food.”

  He squatted down on the ground and, after a minute or so, two elderly women brought out a round metal container in which was a steaming brown liquid. The container had the words Tractor Fuel in faded white lettering on its side but the words were meaningless to both of them.

  They were presented with metal plates and a plastic spoon.

  Berman dipped in his spoon and ladled the substance onto his plate. In it were lumps of some solid substance.

  Ventnor, normally, would have been wary of such a diet, but already he was experiencing the pangs of hunger. The food, although greasy, was nourishing and he ate greedily. Fortunately, for his peace of mind, he was unaware he was eating a stew of protege, wild dog and an unfortunate crow—the victim of a small boy with a sling.

  When Berman had finished, he lay down where he was and immediately fell asleep. Ventnor found a heap of straw nearby and immediately collapsed.

  Both men were awakened in the early evening by shouts and running feet.

  “The Maidstone boys—the Maidstone boys are coming!”

  Hubel was ready for them. He sat on an ancient gas drum inwardly uneasy but outwardly calm.

  Behind him was his elite guard—twelve bearded men with ancient Ross rifles. Behind these was a line of fifty bowmen and, to support it, a double line of spears.

  The Maidstone boys were conducted to him with an armed escort and brought to a halt about ten feet away.

  One of them took a single pace forward, hands extended in a peace sign.

  “I am Peary,” he said. “I am the leader.”

  Hubel scowled at him. “What you want with me?”

  Peary did not answer the question directly but took something from a plastic bag carried by one of the other men.

  “Sire, I have here a pair of binoculars. They are very powerful, you may have them.”

  ”

  “Noculars!” Hubel’s eyes glistened briefly—he owned a blurred and cracked pair of opera glasses of which he was exceedingly proud.

  “Try them.” Peary held them out and explained to Hubel how to use them.

  He spent ten minutes testing them delightedly then scowled again. “What you want?”

  Again Peary evaded a direct answer and beckoned Puttick forward. “Look at this man. As you see, he has no hair on his face.”

  He removed another object from the bag, beckoned one of his men forward and shaved off part of his beard. “Would you like a smooth face, Sire? See how easy this is to use. Just keep pressing this little lever at the side so—”

  Hubel was already licking his lips, he was sold and knew it. “What you want?”

  Peary smiled. “We want your village boy,” he said.

  4

  While these events were taking place on land, far out in the Atlantic a none too friendly discussion was taking place concerning them.

  They were taking place on an island which was completely artificial. The island had once been a minor weather station anchored to the ocean bed by magno-beams.

  With the coming of weather control, however, the island had become obsolete and had been acquired by a private buyer—an industrial concern which went bankrupt in three months.

  The white-elephant was then snapped up by a far-seeing magnate who imported a number of experts to make his retreat self-supporting.

  When the writing on the wall became even more apparent, the magnate extended his invitation to even more specialists. A large number accepted the invitation, and the island, together with its accommodation, had to be extended to house them.

  As civilization began to slide towards collapse, the invitations, although increased, became selective. Only scientists with exceedingly high qualifications or men of learning with an almost unobtainable intelligence quota were invited.

  The response to what was now a veritable haven of safety was immediate and represented ninety per cent of the world’s best brains.

  By this time, the accommodation facilities and the total area of the island had been doubled several times over. It now contained workshops, extensive laboratories, recreation rooms and places of entertainment.

  By this time the magnate was in his dotage and the management and up-keep of the island were taken over by a committee.

  Five years before the world slid to ruin, however, Megellon arrived.

  Arnold Megellon was a dark, dour man with a savage mouth, incredible energy and immense intensity of purpose. He knew, or thought he knew, exactly what was wanted both then and in the future and intended to get it.

  He was dedicated, single minded and quite ruthless. There were a large number of ‘accidents’ and a disquieting number of bodies were consigned to the sea in the course of reorganization. When he had finished, however, the island was a highly efficient functioning unit. Furthermore, it was heavily armed and when, with the coming of chaos, several attempts were made to take it, Arnold’s preparations saved it from complete destruction.

  It was these attacks which proved Arnold’s theories and swung general opinion ,in his favor. When the combined fleets of three nations attempted to take and hold the island, Arnold’s foresight defeated them.

  The massive and highly advanced defenses upon which he had insisted and finally forced through the committee, proved to be the island’s salvation.

  The flagship of the attacking fleet, the contents of its ammunition hold, brought to combustion point by some of the island’s advanced equipment, blew skywards with such a titanic explosion that it took three escorting destroyers with it.

  The entire engagement lasted exactly twenty minutes, by which time the strike force had lost forty per cent of its effectiveness.

  The few missiles which the fleet had managed to release had been successfully picked up and ‘about-turned’ by deflector beams. Some of these fell among the retreating fleets accounting for another fourteen vessels.

  The collapsing governments, faced with failing supplies, riots and economic chaos were incapable of mounting another attack. They did, however, play their last card. It was more a gesture of revenge than anything else. They released a hail of missiles and mounted the most massive air armada the world had ever seen.

  The missiles were deflected or turned back so that they exploded in or above the nations from which they had been released.

  The air armada was blasted out of the sky long before it was in sight of the island—technically Arnold was now master of the world.

  On the Island, of course, he was regarded as a hero. They called him leader,’ ‘saviour’ and, subsequently, the ‘architect of the future.’

  Megellon had ideas. He knew, or thought he knew, the reason the society of the world had failed. He wrote a long, superficially convincing, paper called Psycho-Sociological Weaknesses and their Cure, which later became a basis for island policy. He followed this, a year later with: The Stable Society. In this work, he revealed his plans for the foundation and creation of a new society—a society made stable by applied psychiatry and genetic manipulation.

  He then sat back to wait, but it was not a long vigil. All over the world nations, principalities and powers had ceased to exist. The Island watched as famine, chaos and disease strode across continents and islands. It watched the Indoes, the Engineers, the Tychs and Techs, the Haves and Have-nots, fight their bloody and abortive battles.

  When nothing was left, when society was reduced to a few roving, half-starved bands of vagrants, then the Island moved in, selecting and removing the children of the survivors. Experimental villages were set up on the coast lines of the world and the great experiment began. Arnold Megellon was going to build a stable society from the remnants of the old. Like many fanatics and rulers before him, Arnold found a villain—the villain was the Gadgeteer!

  The Gadgeteer was, broadly speaking, defined as the sort of imbecile who would take the pin out of a hand grenade to see what happene
d.

  In truth, there was much to support Arnold’s theory but, like most single minded men, he produced facts to fit theory and omitted to build a theory from facts.

  Now, several decades after his sudden death from heart failure, the Island was still rigidly following his policies. The genetic manipulation of the new race could not be undertaken in a day but would require many generations. The work had begun and would continue.

  By this time, the Island itself had been extended and increased in area so many times it was virtually a minor continent. Its mass was such that it affected tidal currents to such an extent that it produced climatic changes in various parts of the world. It had roads, traffic, public parks, green belts, lakes, swimming pools and an air service.

  In one of the buildings on the Island an intense discussion was taking place with Skeld, the district chief, conducting proceedings.

  “In the circumstances, Matheson, I cannot regard you as completely responsible, although the delay in endorsing this order will be entered on the debit side of your record.”

  “Our primary concern, gentlemen, is to establish the potential of this specimen—well, Matnick?”

  Matnick shook his mane of graying hair. “I cannot think of a less dangerous specimen I’d care to see roaming around loose.”

  “Be specific, please.”

  “Well, sir, as you are probably aware, genetically, in the process of suppressing a characteristic that same characteristic is, by some peculiar reactionary process, apt to become over-predominant. In two or three generations, of course, we can reduce this tendency but in this specimen the tendency is, shall we say, abnormal. This man Ventnor is, by any standard and in any age, an inventive genius plus. Worse, his sexual urges are likewise over-predominant and, should he form an association with any of these primitive women, he will undoubtedly pass these tendencies on. In which case, of course, we should be compelled to wipe out every primitive in the South East as a safety measure.”

  “We need those primitives for anthropological studies and comparison purposes,” said Seymour sharply.

  “I am aware of that, hence the need for haste.” He turned. “Have you found him yet, Kimber?”

  “Not yet, sir. We tracked him to Bridge and lost him.”

  “How did you lose him?” Skeld’s voice was accusing.

  “Not my fault, sir. I was using a micro-robotic disguised as a fly—some bloody fool of a primitive swatted it.”

  “Hum, that means that one of the tribes have him—who runs that area, Holland?”

  Holland opened one of his innumerable files. “Could be Hubel or a faction known locally as the Maidstone boys, sir.”

  “I’d like an outline on these tribes. If we have to go in and get him I’d like to know what we’re up against.”

  Holland did a quick switch with the files. “Hubel—chieftain-type monarch—”

  “Never mind the full reading—numbers and strength, please.”

  “Very well, sir. Hubel has a tribe of roughly thirty thousand and runs an army of about eight thousand. These are primarily general soldiers but include eight hundred bowman. Unfortunately he also possesses twenty-two Ross rifles and three thousand rounds of ammunition. Twelve of the rifles are serviceable and he has an elite guard trained to use them.”

  “You keep a tight check.” Skeld nodded approvingly. “Now these—er—Maidstone boys, please.”

  “Different story altogether, sir. This is a tribe run by a primitive but highly efficient junta, the whole tribe conforming to strict training rather like the ancient Spartans. These boys have got hold of a military training book somewhere and a manual on unarmed combat. They employ both very effectively. Every man has commando training and, in combat they’re pretty formidable. They have no fire-arms but they go in for cross-bows in a big way.”

  Skeld nodded. “Right, nothing to worry about there. We could use a seeker-missile but, in this case, I’d like to be sure, very sure. Well send an expert, that way we can get confirmation that the job is done. .. .”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Kimber’s voice was excited. “I’ve got him.”

  “You have—where?”

  “Passing through an area which used to be called Challock, sir. I assume the Maidstone boys have him….”

  In a long past period when a large number of scientists had been running for the safety of the Island, not all went Some of the best, including an extraordinary high number of medical people, remained behind. They were dedicated men, without illusions, but determined to do their best where it was most needed.

  They, too, had seen the writing on the wall. They, too, made preparations. In every land, in every nation, they formed survival cells by which, they hoped to build society anew.

  When chaos finally engulfed the world many of the cells were swept away, but a hard core remained and had, over a period of many years, constructed a highly efficient organization.

  They knew, of course, about the Island and its policies. They knew, without being told, that if the Island ever got wind of their presence it would take punitive elimination measures.

  The organization, therefore with singular skill and particular attention to detail, disappeared—it became a number of primitive tribes with nothing, outwardly, to distinguish them from others.

  It was six men of one of these ‘primitive tribes’, descendants of the original dedicated scientists who had stayed behind in the times of terror, who were now conducting Ventnor through the ruined village of Challock.

  Puttick, bringing up the rear, said, casually: “Hell of a lot of flies around here today.”

  Peary, who was getting readings on three of the ‘flies’ said: “Yeah,” and put his thumb down in confirmation.

  Puttick knew exactly what he meant and for the first time was glad he was going down Charing Hill. They were things among those trees which would eat first and worry about indigestion afterwards. A micro-robotic spy unit disguised as a fly would be useless in the revolting digestive organs of a ‘thing’.

  Ventnor, for his part, was both bewildered and suspicious. He was fully alive to the fact that he had been traded for a pair of binoculars and a thing which shaved faces, but why? What was so important about him?

  So far he had spent the entire journey in the company of a man they called Geof Stein. Here, fortunately, he was without suspicion. Geofry Stein, a man with a youthful face and a. worried kind of crinkled forehead, talked a lot. He never said anything but his particular kind of volubility was reassuring, soothing and designed to extract information from the unwary.

  ‘Stein, the Psych’, a man with a prodigiously retentive memory had already extracted enough information from Ventnor to keep his department occupied for several months.

  As a keen man, Stein was particularly interested in Ventnor’s education. The man was highly intelligent but crippled by his limited vocabulary. Ventnor knew the word ‘war’ but not ‘soldier’. He was familiar with ‘spade’ but he had never heard of a lathe’.

  Stein was beginning to get a picture of how the Island was creating its stable society and, inwardly, he smiled bitterly. The society would be stable all right, safe, timid and, once freed, perish from sheer mediocrity.

  The Islanders, in their desperate attempts to avoid a repetition of the recent destruction, were suppressing characteristics which were virtually survival reflexes.

  The Padres intrigued him, too. He had ideas, but was too good a scientist to jump to conclusions.

  The party passed through a clump of stunted trees and Ventnor found himself at the summit of a hill. Below, in the clear air, the countryside stretched undulatingly and greenly away to the horizon. Here and there, however, were black, burned-looking areas where nothing grew.

  Stein touched his arm. “From here on stay very close to me. Try and put your feet where I put mine, this is a very dangerous pathway. On this pathway, or beside it, you may see things, very ugly living things. Most of them are harmless to man but they are still disturbing.
Do not let them frighten you or cause you to disobey my instructions. If you do not do as I say and keep to the path, you will die. On the path it is safe, off the path it is not safe—do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good, do not forget—follow me.”

  They began to descend, Peary leading the way. Seven flies—one of which was genuine—went with them.

  The path wound slowly downwards through groups of sickly looking trees which were so twined with ivy that among them it was almost dark. They slid down the walls of craters, the bottoms of which were still thigh-deep in wet gray ash. They crossed areas of burned soil entered another clump of trees.

  Stein said, “Blood-toad ahead, it won’t hurt you.”

  Ventnor looked at the thing Stein called a blood-toad and felt slightly sick. It was half as big as a man and looked like a transparent plastic bag half filled with scarlet liquid. There was no sign of eyes, limbs or eating orifices, but the thing stank revoltingly and the bag which was its body pulsated steadily.

  Ventnor did not see it but when one of the ‘flies’ passed a moment later, the thing ejected a spurt of scarlet liquid knocking the tiny mechanism to the ground. The blood-toad, making squelching noises, undulated its body onto the top of it.

  There were other things, bloated things which hung from branches and dripped. A thing like a hairless rat, its vital organs contained in little sacks on the exterior of its body —the little sacks were transparent.

  Stein waited politely while Ventnor stood and retched. He was, however, not without feelings, he made some effort to draw the other’s mind from his revulsion by pointing out the real dangers.

  “See the bright sliver of metal in the trunk of that tree? Looks like a needle, doesn’t it? It isn’t a needle, it’s a micro-cannon—a very small weapon—and, should you pass right in front of it, it will feel your body-heat. It is powerful enough to blow a hole as big as a man’s clenched fist right through your body.