The Brain-Stealers

21

A very famous zoologist was hoeing deftly in his garden —he grew excellent dahlias—when his granddaughter brought him the morning mail. He beamed at her and sat down in a garden chair to look at it. A bill or two, which he regarded with disfavor. An invitation to lecture. A letter calling his attention to an article in a scientific journal, just published, and asking his opinion. A letter-He looked blankly at the photographs. They were three-dimensional, of course, and in color. The technical excellence of the film made up for some lack of experience in the photographer. They were pictures of a—a creature. It had a horde of small limbs for locomotion, and two small malevolent eyes, and a mere breathing-orifice instead of a nose. It's feeding apparatus— The zoologist said, "Preposterous!" He looked at a second photograph of the same object. It was in a different position. There were heavy veinings beneath a flabby, pinkish, hairless skin. The way in which it balanced itself on those seemingly innumerable feeble legs....

The zoologist said, "Ridiculous!"

He looked at the third picture and snorted. He did not bother to read the letter. He went back to his hoeing. But he frowned as he worked. Presently he went back to the discarded letter. He looked at the pictures again. He said vexedly, "Fiddlesticks!"

The devices by which the creature lived and moved— if it lived and moved—were not like those of any known animal. Animals did not have an odd number of legs. They did not have four joints in their limbs. They did not have mandibular fangs. Especially, they did not have such feeding apparatus.

The zoologist threw down the photographs a second time. He went back to his hoe, but he did not pick it up. He went yet again to the pictures. They were preposterous and ridiculous and a very suitable comment on them was, "Fiddlesticks!" But they had an irrational plausibility. He observed this improbable feature. By itself it was impossible because— But the thing that made it not impossible was there! Each arrangement was unorthodox in the animal world. But each was completely consistent with every other. The zoologist scowled. The thing was a wonderfully clever fake. Only a trained man could appreciate how wonderfully clever it was. But there must be something that would prove it a hoax...

He studied the pictures with concentrated attention. He grew irritated by his findings. The thing was unheard of, but it was incredibly rational. Nobody could have combined so many ingenious improbabilities so deftly. Nobody! It was not possible to create so soundly planned an impossibility!

At last he read the letter. He hesitated a long time. Then he went angrily to his visiphone and called Security.

The parasitologist looked at the pictures that had come in the morning mail. Clever.... There were no parasites like this, of course, but that feeding apparatus, when you looked at it carefully, was a remarkably original and well-developed idea. No creature had it, but some creature should ... The fangs, too. A blood-feeder, of course. Hm ... Those very curious jointed claws at the ends of the multiple legs ... Of course, for holding on to the animal the creature fed on! Actual parasites were small, so they needed no such devices, but if a parasite were as large as this fake....

It was amusing to look for flaws in the hoax. If a parasite were this large it would need ... Hm ... No. Not quite clever enough! Then he blinked. He'd been wrong. Quite clever enough. Cleverer than he'd thought. The difficulty was met by this....

The parasitologist examined the pictures with a mounting, absorbed interest. It was fascinating. Someone was trying to put across a clever hoax, but they must have slipped somewhere...

Presently he was saying excitedly to himself that only a genius could have designed this model. Everything fitted perfectly, though nothing was the way any known creature was equipped...

Later he was saying to himself that not even a genius could have designed this model. Nobody on earth could have done so perfect a job of imagining an animal which was not like any animal on earth in any single feature. Nobody could have interrelated so many novelties so perfectly.

When he called Security, after reading the letter, his voice shook with excitement.

A celebrated biologist called Security. He said acidly that he had been given to understand that a young man named James Hunt was about to surrender himself to Security, for cause. There was reason to believe that James Hunt had information of unparalleled importance to the science of biology. He had a specimen which must be examined by a capable man. He, the eminent biologist, very urgently requested to be allowed to interview James Hunt when he had surrendered himself and before he was shipped off to Life Custody.

The Security Coordinator of Eastern Sector 5 said pompously; "Yes. It's ridiculous, of course, but there are reports of extensive anemia in that area. If this Hunt person has actually discovered a parasite as he declares, and it is actually responsible for the anemia—why—measures must be taken at once. At once! Check these fingerprints and see if he is actually the person his letter claims. Have the photographs examined and request an estimate of the magnification...."

Jim's hand showed in one of the photographs, and the size of the Thing could very readily be deduced. But the Security Coordinator of Eastern Sector 5 had simply not noticed it. Because if he had, he would have considered that Jim was trying to play a joke on him. And of course no crime could be compared to the unthinkable insolence of trying to play a joke on a Security Coordinator!

Fat Doctor Oberon, of Physchological Precautions, beamed at a letter which did not contain any photographs at all. He had been quite sure that the young man Hunt, whom he himself had sentenced to Life Custody for experimenting in a forbidden field, had had confederates. Now here was a letter from young Hunt, who had made a truly remarkable escape from Security Custody. Hunt respectfully stated that he was surrendering himself and would bring in a sample of the thought-transmitters which Security detectors had shown to be in use, but which they had not succeeded in tracking down.

Doctor Oberon beamed complacently. The young man had learned that it would not do to trifle with Security. Obviously, he expected to secure a commutation of his sentence by complete surrender and the betrayal of his confederates. But he was a dangerous character. He would be allowed to betray his companions, of course. But so unprincipled and desperate a person amounted to a psychological hazard for the public at large. Permanent and very strict confinement would be necessary.

Doctor Oberon sighed in pious satisfaction. It was always gratifying to have the sense of duty well done which came of a peril to the public safely fore-fended....

A newspaper editor growled, "What'll these cranks think of next? Who's this Hunt fella who wrote this? 'Says he escaped Security Custody and is classed as dead, but he's very much alive and here are his fingerprints. Then he sends us these pictures and says these things are alive and he's turning one over to Security? Who's Hunt?"

Somebody investigated.

"Huh! Jumped from a patrol-ship, eh? Sounds flukey.... Check the fingerprints anyhow. If they do check— but they won't—get a tame scientist to classify this thing-whatever it is—and tell 'im to make it dangerous for a picture spread. Get what you can on Hunt Now, where's that sport-scandal story—"

An hour later on the visiphone, "What's that? ... The scientist says it's alive but not terrestrial?....Don't belong in any earthly phylon? What the hell's a phylon?..... He means it's something that comes from another world? Let him stick his neck out! Make him sign it!....

We'll play it up as famous scientist says creatures from other worlds have reached earth. One has been captured by young Hunt and is on the way to scientific circles for examination.... Hey! Make it intelligent! He guesses it comes from Mars! Martians have copied the guided missiles we've sent there and come back in improved models!.... That's the angle ... Say, when's this guy Hunt going to turn over this creature? We've got to have some reporters covering that...."

Jim Hunt drove into the state capital with his head bandaged. The bandage held the wire cap in place, and was so obvious a trick that it was noticed and instantly dismissed, whereas a patently false head of hair would have caused him to be regarded with suspicion. He halted in traffic where a sidewalk visiphone said stridently, "Martians on Earth! Visitors from Other Worlds Have Arrived! Specimen of Other-World Race to reach Security Today! Do they Mean War? Read the Blade! Read the Blade! Read the Blade!"

He caught a glimpse of the visiphone screen. It showed the front page of a newspaper, and spread across the middle of the news-columns were reproductions of three of the pictures he and Brandon had taken.

But he wouldn't let himself hope. Not yet. There was that trick the Things might think of ... He drove on grimly toward the local office of Security. So far everything looked perfect. But everything had looked perfect when he'd made the transmitter. The transmitter had failed. This might, too. It shouldn't, but if stupidity and ineptitude could spoil anything, it was certain that the lower officials in Security would manage to spoil it...

There were people waiting in front of Security headquarters. Newsreel men. Still-picture photographers for newspapers. A television set-up. It simply wouldn't be possible for Security to hush up his surrender and the Thing. Even if there was a policy to make the world safe by allowing nothing that was unsafe to be known or found out or searched for.

He parked the car and got out of it. He was ignored. He opened the trunk-back. He was still ignored, though some people did sniff uneasily at the pungent filthy, beastly smell that came out of it. Carrying the cage eagerly, he essayed to work his way through-There was a rush. A small, savage knot of men formed and broke ruthlessly through the tangle of camera-tripods and wires. They leaped upon Jim. Hands clutched at his throat. Men snarled at him with the hysterical, terrible rage implanted by the Things in the minds of their subjects at however great a distance. Something struck Jim's head with terrific force. He felt the cage snatched from his hands. Then he knew nothing.