Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Metamorphosis by Charles V. De Vet (life books to read txt) 📖
- Author: Charles V. De Vet
Book online «Metamorphosis by Charles V. De Vet (life books to read txt) 📖». Author Charles V. De Vet
"Good old Max." Bitterness crept into his voice. "Faithful, selfless old Max. Going to save the world. Going to save the whole of humanity," he amended expansively.
He hadn't changed too much. Sarcasm had always come natural with him, which made it no more likable.
He might have said dull, stupid, cloddish old Max. The words would have better matched the tone of his voice. At that, he might be right. The authorities back on our home world of New Nebraska had said pretty much the same thing, only more diplomatically.
"You and Zealley are different," I'd been told. "That was one of the reasons we made you a team, originally. Zealley is clever and imaginative, but basically an egotist. A to-hell-with-the-other-fellow character. Fortunately, you're not like him. You're a man who accepts his responsibilities, a man with a strong sense of duty. We know we can trust you." Whether it was actually trust or only that they had little choice, I had not let myself decide.
"We had such high hopes." Zealley was reminiscing, speaking more to himself than to me.
We had. We'd been a two-man survey crew, mapping out new territory for the future expansion of the human race. On a world listed only as TR768-L-14 on the star maps, we had run into disaster. We found the planet unfit for human habitation, but not before we'd been bitten several times by things we never did see.
No infection had resulted and we thought little about it, until we were a good part of the way home. Gradually then we noticed a quickening of our sensory processes, a well-being of body too pronounced to be normal. During the next several weeks of flight, Zealley wrote a historical novel that I was certain would turn out to be a classic. I found myself mastering, without difficulty, higher math, which had always been beyond me before.
At the end of the third month we stopped needing sleep. During the days and nights that followed we conversed brilliantly on subjects that had not interested us before, and the depth of which we couldn't have fathomed if they had interested us. We were at a loss to explain the reason for the change, though we knew it tied in somehow with our stay on TR768-L-14, and probably with the things that had bitten us. The cause was of secondary importance; the marvel of the reality was what intrigued us. We looked forward with poorly restrained excitement to displaying our new mental and physical dexterity.
The Space Bureau authorities were every bit as impressed as we had anticipated. The medics readily found that we had been infested by a germ, but by a benevolent germ, a true symbiote. That discovery was followed by months of tests and examinations.
Between sessions with our own medics and laboratory men and various visiting specialists, we amused ourselves by showing our new abilities. At least a dozen times a day I had to put someone down in an arm wrestle. Even when they devised a way to pit two against me at a time, I had little difficulty besting them.
Zealley's displays tended toward the more flamboyant. One of the tricks he delighted in was taking a razor blade, and, while his audience watched with repelled fascination, cut a long gash in his forearm. For an instant the blood would ebb out, then quickly clot and cease to flow. The next day he would show them the arm, where a thin red line at the most would remain to mark where the wound had been.
Apparently Zealley's reminiscing had kept pace with my own. "It seems such a shame, doesn't it, Max?" he asked. He was genuinely sad.
So was I.
Test results and theories developed fast in those early days. The findings showed that the symbiotes repaired damage and faults in our systems and protected us against disease. It was even hazarded that they would prolong our lives indefinitely.
Yet we were warned against complacency. The bug—we always spoke of it in the singular, even though we knew the original mites had spawned in our blood streams—could not act quickly enough to save our lives in the event of major damage to essential organs or the brain. Also, we could drown. Or we could die in a fall from a great height. Or starve to death.
The first intimation we had that all was not well had started as a rumor. Two of the staff biochemists had been experimenting with transplants of the bugs in fruit flies. They had turned up something sensational.
Zealley was not present when I received the disastrous news. At the end of what would normally be a twenty- or thirty-year cycle—the chemists were not able to estimate it any closer—the symbiotes evolved into tiny winged insects.
At that stage they acquired size and flying strength by devouring the tissues of their hosts.
In twenty or thirty years, then, our benign cohabitants would kill us—and spread out by the millions to infest other available animal life. Unless they were destroyed, not only would Zealley and I die, but all humanity on all the worlds would face the prospect of becoming infested.
Zealley must have surmised what was coming. He had disappeared a week earlier. Before he left, I had noticed considerable change in our body and facial features. He would very soon be impossible to identify.
The only lead the authorities ever got on him was that he had fled to Earth. At that particular time Earth and New Nebraska were involved in one of the more serious interworld bickerings. Citizens of each were denied admittance to the other, which was probably the reason Zealley had chosen Earth as a haven.
New Nebraska's authorities called me in and briefed me on what I was to do. They were able to smuggle me to Earth with forged papers that identified me as a citizen of another planet.
Zealley had to be found—and I was their one hope.
"You have some interest in that clock?" Zealley's words jarred me out of my retrospection. Silently I cursed myself for letting my thoughts and eyes stray. I was dismayed, too, to find that only a few minutes had passed since I'd last looked. Even so, the police were taking longer than I had calculated.
Zealley abandoned all pretense of joviality. "Now, George," he said to the pale-faced youth, who still stood by the door with his knife in his hand.
The boy started toward me and I tensed, shifting my feet to face him. Something crashed against my right temple and only then did I remember Steve, the man behind me.
The force of the blow knocked me sideways but not unconscious. I started to turn and a second glancing blow split the skin across my forehead. I slid off the bed on the side away from him.
I retained just enough control of my faculties to get to my feet as the youth reached me and to grab him in a bear hug, but not fast enough to keep the long blade of his knife from ripping into my stomach.
The symbiote, though able to repair damage, was not able to block pain. The bite of the knife clenched my muscles in a spasm of agony, and dimly I heard the youth give a grunt of distress as my arms squeezed and bent him back at the waist.
Something landed on my foot—his knife. With blackness closing in, my arms lost their strength and I slid down his body.
I blanked out, but only for an instant. The kid had fallen with me and my hands clutched his ankles as I fought to stay conscious. I stood up, still holding his ankles. Putting everything I had into the effort, I swung him around and sent him crashing into Steve, who was just rounding the foot of the bed. They went down together.
I gasped in air, clutching the gash in my stomach with hands that were sticky and wet with blood. I turned toward Zealley. He was still seated in his chair, still smiling. One hand, resting negligently in his lap, held a snub-nosed pistol.
He could have killed me any time before this, but he had wanted the fun of watching me fight for my life. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it abruptly as someone pounded at the door.
"Come in!" I shouted through the froth in my mouth.
"Damn you," Zealley said softly. He wiped the pistol on his trousers and slid it across the floor away from him.
The door burst inward.
"These men tried to kill me," I told the two police officers.
Zealley's bland features simulated surprise. "I?" he asked. "I heard noise in here as I was passing in the hall. I came in to see what the trouble was."
"He's lying," I said as the policemen turned inquiringly toward me. "He's with them."
Zealley shook his head sadly. "He must be delirious—" he began, but the evidence was all on my side.
"Shut up!" one of the officers said, grabbing him by the shirt front and jerking him to his feet.
I had started dressing immediately. I wanted to hide the wound in my stomach. It burned, but I kept my face blank.
Zealley was silent now. If I had been just superficially wounded, his bluff would have worked—I'd have healed right there and then. I hadn't, so he had to wait for developments. I hoped I could give him some.
While one of the officers worked to revive the youth—the thug named Steve was already on his feet—I went to the bowl in the alcove and washed the blood off my hands and stomach.
They had the kid upright when I turned around: "Are you hurt bad?" the policeman holding Zealley asked me.
"Not too bad." I managed to keep my voice steady. "I'll be all right until you can send an ambulance."
He stood uncertainly for a moment. "I don't like to leave you alone, but I can put in a call from our cruiser. The ambulance should get here within ten minutes."
"I'll be OK," I said.
The sound of the closing door was the only way I had to know they were gone. For the past half minute, my tight grip on the bed headboard was all that held me erect. Now the starch went out of my body and I crumpled to the floor.
This time I did not blank out, but lay twisted and tight, waiting for the pain to stop—or to kill me.
A small easing of the torment came and I forced myself to relax. I was able now to steel my mind against the racking spasms and pull myself to my feet. I was not at all safe yet; even if I was not mortally wounded, it would take the symbiote hours to repair the damage.
I managed to pull on my clothes with numbed, awkward fingers and get out of the room before the ambulance arrived. I took with me only my grip. I would still need that.
There was small chance that the police could hold Zealley. He would probably be free on bail this same afternoon.
The odds were against me. I was fighting in Zealley's own back yard, wounded and entirely alone, while he must have been prepared for this contingency for years. But I had succeeded in the first part of my plan. I had found out who he was, and I had put him in a position where he could not use his superior resources, for a time at least. Now I had to get to him before he was able to mobilize those resources.
In the street, I had a violent attack of cramps in my upper diaphragm, and I got down on one knee and made a pretense of adjusting a shoe strap as I fought the torment. Perspiration gathered in clammy globules all over my body. When the pain left, I rose and pushed grimly on.
Opposite Minneapolis Mining's main offices, and a quarter of a block down, I found the type of commercial building I was looking for, and went in and sought out the building superintendent.
"Do you have an office for rent on one of the lower floors?" I asked him. "One that faces the front street?"
"We have several," he answered with professional courtesy. He thumbed through a row of cards and pulled out one with a small brown envelope attached. "Here's a fine office on the sixth floor. It's only one room, but—"
"I'll take a look at it," I interrupted him.
"Of course." He tore open the small envelope and took out a brass key. "I'll take you up."
"I'd rather go alone."
As he hesitated, I took out my billfold and separated a hundred-dollar bill from two others of its kind and laid it on his desk. "I'll leave a deposit—in case I should like it," I
Comments (0)