Blindfold from the Stars

by Philip E. High

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

The conquest of a galaxy is relatively easy providing the aggressor has the necessary technology and, more important, a safe method of overcoming possible opposition without bleeding to death in the process. The Asdrake employed mutated micro-organisms which directly attacked the brain of the planet's intelligent life - they liked this method. They could fight if they had to but were inherently lazy. This method had worked successfully on twenty-two occasions - why should it fail on planet 5/6/9. Sector 88. Sun System 46. "Tseudec" (Native name: "Earth"). Casualties from the epidemic were astronomical yet, in complete paradox, failed to kill a single human being - the side effects took care of that. And those side effects were beyond even the Asdrake's imagination. The survivors on Earth found undreamed complications in rebuilding the world with the use of their new psychic powers - and perhaps more important, were they new powers at all, and if not who had removed them thousands of years ago?

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 189

Sample

The conquest of a galaxy is relatively easy providing the aggressor has the necessary technology and more important, a safe method of overcoming possible opposition without bleeding to death in the process

The Race of Asdrake—pressed by a population explosion—had found one, as simple as it was ruthless.

When a planet suitable for occupation was discovered, it was first checked and, if containing intelligent life, checked still further.

A number of lone natives were kidnapped, studied and finally dissected.

Then the second part of the plan went into operation. A large number of faster-than-light missiles were released from the home system. These missiles broke up on penetrating the atmosphere. They contained mutated microorganisms which directly attacked the human brain. The victims became lethargic, slowly incapable of movement and finally died. The period from infection to death was about thirty days.

This slow process more or less ensured the preservation of vital installations and the careful shut-down of power sources.

The Asdrake, however, waited until the bodies were decomposed and the smell of death long departed—say two years.

The Asdrake liked the method. They could fight if they had to but were inherently lazy. Besides, why louse up a habitable world with a lot of craters and razed cities?

They had recently selected their latest victim but here complications had arisen.

The Supreme Commander looked at the message from the Department of Biological Warfare and exhaled noisily through broad flat nostrils.

Side-effects! What side-effects? The method had worked successfully on twenty-two occasions, why should it fail now?

He flicked on the information switch with a furry finger.

PLANET 5/6/9. SECTOR 88. SUN SYSTEM 46. ‘TSEUDEC’ (NATIVE NAME: ‘EARTH’).

CULTURAL LEVEL: 6

TECHNICAL LEVEL: 33

The Supreme Commander switched off and studied the cautiously worded message again. It suggested that further biological research was necessary before assault. The Department was not happy, the native brain deviated in some respects from the norm. It was possible, therefore, that routine methods would be less successful than heretofore.

The Supreme Commander snorted the equivalent of ‘So what!’

A large proportion of the population were bound to be affected and, if they were not, he could take a class 6/33 culture apart with one ship.

As for side-effects, he was convinced—correctly—that the Department of Biological Warfare only assumed possible side-effects.

He crumpled the message in his hand and threw it over his shoulder.

‘Attack will proceed as scheduled by orders of the Supreme Commander—.’

Casualties from the epidemic were astronomical yet, in complete paradox, failed to kill a single human being—the side-effects took care of that.

As with all major catastrophes, there were survivors and Bill Travers—William J. Travers, Sales Representative—was one of them. He worked for a vast international chemical combine, now defunct, but he had yet to find that out.

Travers was thirty-three, dark haired and not unhandsome. He worked hard enough at his job to hold it down but no more. He was, he was aware, singularly unambitious, at least, in respect of work. There was so much in life, so many worthwhile things to experience which the rat-race prevented. Other men could struggle to become area managers or executives—picking up their ulcers en route—but that was not for him, to hell with it.

Life, civilization and an unhappy marriage ending in divorce had made him cynical but, at the same time, philosophically shrewd.

Was the rat-race really a race for visible goals or were the contenders, although unaware of it, running away from something?

To Travers it was a moot point and many of his views were equally disturbing.

When the infection began, he was staying at a small inn several miles from the nearest city. There were several reasons for this. One, he didn’t like cities. Two, it was cheap and, three, he was doing all right with the proprietor’s daughter. He also liked the inn’s position. It was cosseted between low green hills and overlooked a small pleasant lake.

He awoke that particular morning with the feeling that something was wrong. It was an obscure sort of feeling and he was unable to put his finger on it. He went quickly through the previous day. Yes, all orders had been confirmed and dispatched by post, not that.

He rolled over and glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty! He should have been in his car and on the road half an hour ago. Where was his morning coffee? Why were the curtains still drawn?

He rose, drew back the curtains and stared out of the window.

Outside it was raining dismally, the lake was puckered with rain drops and shrouded in mist.

He shrugged. To hell with it. He washed, dressed, shaved unhurriedly and went downstairs.

The inn was empty.

He walked round the building several times, shouting: ‘Marion!—Bob, Mr. Wallace!’

No one answered and he returned inside, puzzled.

He raided the refrigerator, helped himself to some cold chicken and made himself a coffee.

The feeling of unease had increased but he assured himself it was due to the emptiness of the inn. Probably a perfectly natural explanation, family crisis or illness involving a close relative, such things happened.

He finished his coffee and drummed his fingers absently on the edge of the table, conscious of a growing depression.

What a day, what weather and what a bloody future. Out on the road, year in and year out—for what? One never had the opportunity or the cash to visit strange places or swim in tropical waters.

He let his mind wander. Silver sand, sunlight, a lagoon—he loved swimming—a coral island. It was nice to dream and it wasn’t too much to ask, was it? God, he wished he was there now—.

There was no sensation of transition or of time. One fraction of a second he was sitting at the table and, in the next fraction, he was standing in bright sunlight.

Silver sand sloped downwards to blue still waters and a sand crab scuttled by, pincers warningly erect. Far out, the rollers hurled themselves in white spray against the reef.

He stood still but his eyes moved. To his left and to his right, the shoreline curved towards the reef. Palm trees swayed in a slight warm breeze, sea birds circled far out over the lagoon.

Travers was one of those people who remain calm in moments of crisis but get the shakes hours later. His brain was working coolly but a little numbly.

He didn’t tell himself that it couldn’t be because it was. He could feel the heat of the sun through his jacket, he could feel it on his face.

He bent down, picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. Then he walked down to the sea and put his fingers in the water. It was warm, almost tepid but he had forgotten his desire for a swim.

He forced himself to reason. He had wished he was here and he was here. Things like that didn’t happen but this time it had.

Could he wish himself back?

He wished.

He was sitting at the table in the inn.

Had it been a dream?

No, there was silver sand on the carpet near his shoes and his jacket was still warm.

The implications hit him suddenly. Supposing he had wished—no!—or—no!

He was afflicted with terror—suppose—suppose—dear God.

He rose, helped himself to a whisky from the bar and poured a generous measure down his throat.

It seemed to steady him a little but his terror remained.

He sat still for a long time trying to regain a measure of calm. It was, he decided eventually, something best forgotten. There was, no doubt, some explanation but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Better put the whole incident behind him. A fantastic incident had occurred, probably under unusual circumstances of which he was unaware.

There was nothing he could do about it and no one would ever believe him. The best thing to do was to forget it, push it out his mind as much as possible. He didn’t want a repetition. That sort of thing was enjoyable in fairy tales but it frightened the guts out of you in real life.

Got to get back on the road, back to all the grind—it had certain attractions now. After a few calls and a few rebuffs, he would soon revert to normal.

He walked out to the car park at the rear of the inn, more conscious than ever of the dullness of the sky.

High on the roof, a solitary seagull squawked depressingly and monotonously.

The sound added to Travers’ sense of despair and desolation. Every damn thing was adding its quota to the intolerable pressure building up inside him.

Abruptly he lost his temper.

‘Ah, drop dead, damn you!’ he said savagely and aloud.

The bird stiffened, then fell slowly sideways. He watched it roll untidily down the roof in a series of small bounces. It landed with a faint thud at his feet, eyes glazed and claws in the air.

He stared at it for a long time. He was trying to relate and, at the same time, trying not to relate his words with the actual happening.

After some minutes, he went inside again and poured himself another whisky. The bottle neck rattled against the glass and a lot of whisky ended up on the floor.

Travers was cold inside yet his face felt as if it had been splashed with water. Sweat crawled down under his collar causing an irritation of which he was only half aware.

If only there was someone to talk to—Marion? No, she was all right in bed but—face it—she was stupid. Bob? No, not him either, he would simply stand there with a silly grin. Mr. Wallace, the manager, yes, fat and jovial but no bloody fool.

The trouble was, Mr Wallace was nowhere around. He was a man who would listen, dear God, he wished he was here now—.

There was a sudden and heavy impact beside him. Four bottles, some glasses and a tray of sandwiches fell to the floor.

Travers turned, startled. Then he put his hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to stop himself vomiting.

Wallace was back—what was left of him.

Travers recognized the gold ring on the third finger of the left hand. He recognized the digital watch and the blue suit.

There was not much else left to recognize. What remained of Wallace was draped over the bar like a torn and bloody sack. His right arm was missing and something had torn off his head.

Travers picked up a full bottle of whisky and walked stiffly from the building. He felt numb and his surroundings seemed unreal.

He put the bottle carefully in the back of the car—might need the lot later—and started the engine.

It occurred to him only briefly that he was well above the legal alcohol limit for driving but he no longer cared.

He drove down the short drive to the road and turned left for the nearest city.

Before he had covered a hundred yards, he was compelled to mount the grass verge for a vehicle blocking the road. One door hung open but the car was empty.

Two minutes driving brought four more and then there was a pile-up involving six vehicles. Five of the wrecks were empty but the sixth held a dead man. He had gone through the screen and lay sprawled on the bonnet.

Travers got past by driving into a ploughed field. Once past, he put his toe down and raced for the brow of the hill where the road joined the main highway.

When he got there, he stamped on the brakes, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The main highway looked like a bombed transport division.

Vehicles lay slewed at all angles and, close to him, a big blue car had tried to climb a telegraph pole.

Some distance away was a gigantic pile-up involving at least forty vehicles. Two huge trucks had apparently collided head-on and following traffic had ploughed into the wreckage.

In the distance, pillars of black smoke crawled slowly upwards in the still air. In many places cars were burning and he could see several still bodies in the various wrecks.

Travers realized abruptly that whatever had happened had not been a wholly personal thing. Some major tragedy had overtaken the human race, at least in this part of Canada.

Some time during the night, something had struck. It had passed over the inn while he slept, taking with it Mr Wallace, Marion and poor, simple-minded unshaven Bob.

It had passed over this highway, over major and minor roads, leaving death and destruction behind it.

He shivered and glanced uneasily upwards at the grey drizzling sky. Was it still hanging around in case it had missed something—himself, for example?

He looked at the highway again and, in the distance, something caught his eye. He thought at first that it was a redness from one of the fires but it wasn’t.

This thing was drifting above the wrecked vehicles as if searching. It was round and scarlet like a hot coal but contained within a circle of black. A sullen roundel with a black rim or, he thought morbidly, a bloody eye in a black socket.

Suddenly and without warning, his nerve snapped. He slammed the car into reverse and collided with an abandoned vehicle. Barely aware of it, he shot forward in a wild U turn, knocking down a signpost in the process.

He had no idea where he was going, his only thought was to get away.

The speedometer was quivering on ninety and the hedges were a blur before his panic evaporated. He slowed down just in time to negotiate the pile-up in which the dead man was sprawled.

He decided to drive on past. . .