Authors: Lloyd Biggle Jr
The Metallic Muse (29 page)
“Not yet,” Allen said. “Here they come again.”
They came, and they continued to come. They seemed not to have noticed Hilks in their first rushes, but now they divided their attention and swooped down in pairs again and again. They were coming closer before they turned upward, flying through the clouds of spray. Once the small one brushed against Allen.
“They can’t be that hungry,” Hilks said.
“No. They’re angry. That’s what the spray does to them. It maddens them. Are you listening, Meyers?”
“We’d better get moving,” Hilks said. “The spray won’t last forever. Let’s leapfrog. I’ll cover you, and then you cover me.”
Meyers cut in. “If you can find a clearing, I’ll pick you up.”
“We’ll let you know,” Hilks said. “In the meantime, keep a close watch on the forest. With them on our backs we might miss your clearing.”
“Right,” Meyers said.
Allen made a short dash, placed a tree at his back, and turned to cover Hilks. The sudden movement seemed to infuriate the Cloaks. All four shot after Allen. Three of them turned away as he pointed the spray upward. The small Cloak hovered over him for a moment, taking the full, drenching blast. Then the pressure faded, the spray gun sputtered and cut off, and the Cloak fell upon Allen.
Allen thrust at it, but it encircled and clung to his arm. Hilks raced toward him, drenching both Allen and the Cloak with spray. Pain seared and stabbed at Allen’s arm, and he staggered backward and fell. He must have blacked out, for he had no memory of the moment when the Cloak released him. He regained consciousness with Hilks standing over him and turning aside the Cloaks with blasts of spray. He pushed himself to a sitting position and stared down at the throbbing numbness that had been his arm.
“Are you all right?” Hilks asked anxiously. “Can you walk?”
“I—think so.” Allen got up unsteadily. “My spray is gone.”
“I know. You started before I did, but I can’t have much left.”
Allen was examining his arm. “Bad?” Hilks asked.
“Clear to the bone in one place,” Allen said. “Fortunately it’s not bleeding.”
“So we’ve learned another thing,” Hilks said. “Even leather won’t stop them when they’re riled up or really hungry.”
“Can we do anything?” Meyers asked.
“Just watch for us. We’ll have to make a run for it. We’ll start after their next rush. Ready?”
“Ready,” Allen said.
They darted off through the trees.
But the Cloaks were after them in a fluttering rush. Hilks turned, warded them off, and they ran again.
“It’s no good,” Hilks panted. “My spray is almost finished. Not much pressure left. Any ideas?”
Allen did not answer. Hilks sprayed again, turned for another dash, and fell headlong over the protruding edge of a large rock. He scrambled to his feet and both of them stood staring, not at the Circling Cloaks, but at the rock, which inexplicably humped up out of the ground and seemed to float away. After a dozen feet it bumped to the ground. Encrusted dirt fell away from it.
“The devil!” Allen breathed. “It’s Bronsky’s snail. And look at the size of it!”
“Here comes the Cloaks,” Hilks said. He aimed the spray gun.
But he did not use it. As the Cloaks dropped down through the trees, a tongue-like ribbon of flesh shot out from the enormous shell, broadened, folded back, and dropped to the ground with a convulsive shudder of satisfaction. And the Cloaks were gone.
They watched in fascination as the flesh heaved and twisted and finally subsided and began slowly to withdraw.
Meyers, screaming wildly into the radio, finally aroused them. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Sure,” Hilks said. “Everything is all right now.”
“What about the Cloaks?”
“They’ve just been eaten.”
“What did you say? Beaten?”
“Eaten,” Hilks said. “I have the picture now. All of it. How about you?”
Allen nodded. “The snail is the Cloak’s natural enemy. Or the Cloak is its favorite food. This one was more or less happy with Bronsky until one day it smelled or otherwise sensed a Night Cloak in the vicinity. If we hadn’t put an army to beating the woods and shooting at it, it probably would have eliminated the menace at once. As soon as we
stopped bothering it, it started eating Cloaks, and it’s been eating them ever since. That’s where the missing Cloaks went. They aren’t hibernating, or migrating, they’re in the snail. Look how it’s grown! How big did Bronsky say it was?”
“About six feet.”
“It’s ten feet now. At least. There’s the answer to our Cloak problem. Forget the spray and the leather clothing. Clear everyone out and leave it to Elmer. Have Venus ship us the snail they have and as many more as they can find. Are you recording, Meyers?”
“Recording,” Meyers said happily. “I got the whole thing. Just as the Cloaks were about to finish you off, that snail came galloping up and ate them.”
“Not exactly,” Allen said. “But close enough. What’s Elmer doing now?”
“It sees us,” Hilks said.
They watched. The pinkish flesh flowed out slowly, thickened, stood upright. Then, before their disbelieving eyes, it suddenly took shape and color and became the snaky caricature of a once-lovely Venus.
“Allen!” Hilks hissed. “That thing has a memory! It has the proportions wrong, but the image is still recognizable.”
“It thinks we’re an audience,” Allen said. “So it’s performing. Bronsky said it was just a big ham.” He walked toward it.
“Watch yourself!” Hilks said sharply.
Allen ignored him. He approached the snail, stood close to it, looked up at the wreathing head of Venus.
The Venus collapsed abruptly. The flesh quivered, thrust up again, and became a hazy, misshapen caricature of John Allen, complete with face mask, wounded arm, and dangling spray gun. Somewhere behind him he heard Hilks choking with laughter. Allen ignored him. He extended his sound arm and solemnly shook hands with himself.
THE END
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Back Cover text
THE DANGERS OF FIDDLING WITH THE FUTURE
Lloyd Biggie, Jr. says in this book that science fiction writers do not predict. What they say is, “if something or other continues, this is what could happen.”
Besides being a science fiction writer, Biggle is also a musician with a doctorate in the arts. And in THE METALLIC MUSE he has presented seven fine science fiction stories of what could happen in the world of music and art and television “if this goes on.”
This becomes thereby a special book on several counts. Not only are the stories top-rate reading, but they also present some mind-boggling predictions.
As the author also says, sometimes “predicting it made it happen.”
And adds, “I didn’t mean to do it.”
-NEVER BEFORE IN PAPERBACK-
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