Sleeping Planet
Chapter Four
The township of Baxter slept peacefully in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. Everything was quiet; nothing moved in the stillness save a questing breeze with the nip of winter in its breath.
Rierson stopped the Catamount midway between the city limits and the precisely centered shopping area, rested big hands on the steering wheel and looked around carefully, noticing details. He was on a two‑lane street bordered by well‑kept verges and clean sidewalks. Beyond the sidewalks ‑ each in its neat little lot ‑ were pleasant bungalows of various pastel colorings. The lawns were green and close‑clipped; the shrubbery showed
signs of careful tending.
Cars sat here and there along the street, pulled up at the curb or parked before garages. A toy space helmet was lying on the sidewalk not fifteen feet away. Taken as a whole, it was a tranquil, pastoral scene the likes of which could be found virtually anywhere on Terra now that the brawling, sprawling masses had clustered around the spaceports or gone starward to the colonies.
All it lacked was one essential ingredient: people.
The wind moved in the short grass, in the exotic plants and manicured hedges; the wind pried leaves from the stately oaks along the street and sent them whirling in helter‑skelter confusion. The wind moved, and only the wind.
The scene bore nightmarish connotations ‑ as if some prankish deity had waited until the wee hour before down when the town slumbered deepest, then flipped the whole about on its axis, leaving the unsuspecting sleepers peacefully dreaming on. Unease prickled in the back of his mind ‑ a tiny voice that shouted something was terribly wrong, that urged him to turn the car around and leave while there yet was time.
He shook off the feeling, touched the accelerator and rolled forward into the business district. These buildings alternated in height between one and three stories; they were square, pastel‑colored and possessed of yard upon yard of plate glass. Graveled car parks dotted every other corner or so, and none were over a quarter full. The bulk of the cars were lined along
the curbs. Still no sign of life.
He began to see other things. The window of a hardware store was smashed; glass fragments sprinkled both the merchandise within and the pavement without. There was a conspicuous gap in a displayed line of sporting rifles, and what had been neatly arranged boxes of cartridges looked like a tornado had whirled through them. A car pulled up at the opposite curb had a badly‑dented fender and shattered headlight. Directly across the street from the hardware store, a ladies’ apparel shoppe’s display window was peppered with symmetrical, bullet‑sized holes. Within the window, several manikins were overturned.
The Catamount moved further. Several other vehicles showed fresh signs of minor collision damage. No other buildings had been disturbed as far as he could tell. He approached a wide, divided boulevard. In its center, safety islands bloomed with multi‑hued late‑season flowers and were festooned with short, healthy palm trees. Tall, graceful light standards arched above. He turned left into the boulevard, continued his slow ride.
Five blocks ahead and on the right, a massive graystone church occupied a full block of real estate. Its architecture ‑ vaguely Spanish ‑ contrasted sharply with the square and modernistic auxiliary building of brick, aluminum and glass enclosing its rear half in a square horseshoe. At the very least, the contrast of structures was eye‑catching. The church,
facing on a back street running parallel to the boulevard, was as devoid of life as the rest of Baxter.
Atop the church’s steeple, diluted by the sun, an amber flasher revolved. So that was it.
Rierson grinned, shaking his head as the tension that had been building in him since he discovered the Catamount’s sleeping driver drained away with a rush. While he had been hunting, the Larry had pulled off another of their incessant nuisance raids, and the staunch local citizenry was cowering in its bomb shelters. That explained the smoking ship ‑ possibly a crippled Larry drone, perhaps a civilian craft that had not gotten down
quickly enough when the shooting started. It would also explain radio silence and the fact that commercial stations were off the air ‑ if not the telephone embargo, which was probably some new measure dreamed up by bureaucrats to make the public more war‑conscious.
And at this very moment, one of those selfsame bureaucrats was undoubtedly totaling up with vindictive glee the fines to be levied against one James Rierson: operating an aircraft during an alert, breaking radio silence, attempting to use a telephone, and various and sundry subsidiary charges. It was going to take a lot of talking to get out of this when
confronted by war‑hysterical authorities.
If it got too bad, he might even have to hire a lawyer.
With these happy thoughts running through his head, he pulled up opposite the rear of the church and killed the engine. Might as well go in and surrender to the local raid warden and start facing the indignantly patriotic music.
Fwack!
With his hand on the door handle, he looked down at the puncture in the fabric covering the door. It was the making of the puncture that had caused the sound. He looked up. In the right side of the windshield was a neat round hole with spidery cracks radiating from it.
In seeming slow motion, his brain assimilated the facts and produced a conclusion: someone was shooting at him.
Again in seeming slow motion, he reacted. He flung the door wide and fell out onto the street, taking his rifle with him. In his ears racketed the sharp crack of a high‑powered rifle. Came a second shot close on the echoes of the first, and fine glass fragments powdered him as he hunched against the Catamount’s flank. He inched down to the front of the car, peered around.
Blowie!
As he ducked back, concrete chips stung his arm. No doubt about it, somebody wanted his scalp and wanted it badly. But at least he knew now where his would‑be assassin was: on the roof of the auxiliary church building. He put his pack against the Catamount, checked the loading of his gun. There were five shells in the magazine. He bolted
one home, waited. A fourth shot disturbed the tomblike stillness of Baxter and the slug ricocheted off the roof of the car, screaming away into
space. He moved back to the front, scanned the area before him cautiously.
Between himself and the church building was a sidewalk, a lawn and a sign. Nothing else ‑ nothing to afford a scrap of
protection. The sign was the only thing resembling cover; he studied it carefully. It was a large affair, approximately five feet by ten, and made of the same fake brick as the auxiliary building. It was surrounded by a petit flower bed lifted above the ground by a brick enclosure; in raised plastic lettering upon both sides of that expanse was spelled “Baxter Methodist
Church”.
Rierson eased back to a position of safety and waited some more. The silence of the afternoon returned. The sniper was waiting, too. Waiting for what? Reinforcements? Had he bumped into a gang of hoodlums intent on ransacking the town while the Baxterites hid in their shelters? Sweat trickled down his ribs, made his palms slippery. Was that why he was being
shot at? If not, what possible reason could there be?
“You on the roof!” he bellowed. “You hear me?”
Silence answered.
“I said, can you hear me?”
No answer.
“God‑damnit, why’re you shooting at me?” His voice, distorted, flung echoes across the silent boulevard to bounce among the buildings there.
Nothing.
Hot anger coursed through him. This had gone just about as far as it was going to. Shoving himself to his feet, he started around the car, intent on getting satisfaction. A head and pair of shoulders popped above the edge of the roof, and sunlight glinted on rapidly shifted metal. Rierson dove for the turf. The rifle above cracked, and the bullet plowed a furrow wide of its mark. He came up on his elbows, sighted along the gun barrel beneath the scope tube. The gold bead of his front sight dropped into the notch of the rear and centered on the figure. The other just wouldn’t give up. He made violent motions with his hands ‑ working in another cartridge ‑ and slammed the gun back against his shoulder.
Rierson squeezed his trigger.
^^^^^^^^^^
The three orange‑skinned men were staring morosely at their stove‑up scout ship when the first shot sounded. They jerked almost simultaneously, hands going to guns ‑ and then relaxed, exchanging looks of disgust as a second shot followed.
“I wish,” said the pilot, “that Agirt would stop shooting off that damned thing.”
“Me too,” endorsed the gunner. “Didn’t he get enough kick out of peppering those store‑window dummies?”
“Not Agirt.” The lieutenant smiled. “He has an incredible fondness for archaic and alien weapons.” He raised the rifle he was holding. “And these are both archaic and alien.”
“But hardly a weapon,” opined the pilot. “Me, I’ll take a crossbow over that thing anytime.”
The distant rifle sounded again. “He’s supposed to be standing watch,” said the pilot. “Not playing with alien toys.”
The lieutenant shrugged tolerantly. “Who’s to hear him? The Rekks?”
“Maybe,” insisted the pilot doggedly. “Remember that aircar we saw? It could have been ‑ “
Agirt’s rifle cracked a fourth time. “It was flying by automatic pilot,” said the lieutenant.
“How do you know?”
“Because its living pilot would have succumbed to the Dust by now. We were informed of the possibility of seeing aircraft still flying ‑ and instructed to let them alone.”
“We were also informed there would be no danger from Terran defenses,” muttered the gunner. “But where’s the landing ship that brought our air squadron down, eh? Where’s half our squadron…?”
“That’s enough!” The lieutenant’s voice assumed the cold weight of authority. “Our landing barge was destroyed by sheer chance ‑ a last‑gasp effort of defenders falling asleep at their guns. Now be silent, or you will find yourself on report ‑ “
“Listen!” That was the pilot.
“I heard voices ‑ a voice… something… from over near Agirt.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No! I swear it. I…” Agirt fired again.
“Voices or not,” said the lieutenant, frowning, “I think Agirt is taking this a little too far. I’d better ‑ “
A sixth shot sounded. His voice choked off.
“That,” said the pilot unnecessarily, “was not Agirt’s rifle.”
The lieutenant felt a sudden coldness in his belly. He dropped the Terran rifle, drew his sidearm. “Gunner, you come with
me ‑ pilot, you stay with the ship. See if you can lift it ‑ and if the cannon are working.” Then he was running toward Agirt’s
position, with the gunner pounding heavily along behind.
^^^^^^^
The unknown rifleman flung his arms up and went over backwards, leaving his rifle on the parapet. The abandoned gun
teetered precariously for a long heartbeat, then fell end over end to the ground below.
Climbing to his feet, Rierson went across the lawn, around the building and through an arched doorway. Within was a patio formed by the three wings of the Sunday‑school building and the rear of the church proper. Shrubbery similar to that adorning the boulevard safety islands lined the walls; the enclosure was bisected by flagstone paths. A paint‑stained plastic ladder leaned against one wing of the auxiliary building. He went to it, ascending cautiously, using one hand to climb, the other to keep his rifle ready. Reaching the roof, he stepped onto it and found his ambusher.
He was utterly dead. He was also a Llralan soldier.
Rierson stood there incredulously, seeing the neat hole drilled through the Larry’s forehead, seeing the ruin made of the back of his head by the soft‑nosed hunting round. The lean body was lying loosely, like a discarded rag doll. It was clad in tight‑fitting gray trousers stuffed into space‑black knee boots, and a billowy, soft‑looking gray blouse. A peaked cap and
neatly folded tunic lay beside the parapet, alongside several brightly‑colored boxes of Terran hunting ammunition.
For long moments the lawyer stood there, unable to believe what he saw, yet unable to discredit his eyes. A Llralan soldier dead atop the roof of a Sunday‑school building in Georgia. There had to be irony in that, but he was in no mood to appreciate it. There was also probably an explanation, but he couldn’t think of one offhand.
Right now, only one thought occupied his mind: if there was one, was it not possible that there were more? As if in answer to his question, there was a furtive movement back in the direction of the business district. He dropped
instinctively to the graveled surface of the roof, but no shot was forthcoming. Crawling to the parapet, he peered over.
Sure enough, someone was slinking along, hugging every bit of cover, about three hundred yards away. He leveled his rifle
across the parapet, put his eye to the scope. The slinker was a Llralan.
Uniformed like his dead fellow, but carrying a sear pistol instead of a Terran rifle, he was heading for the church. He was not aware of being observed. His face was taut, eyes narrowed. The shots had probably drawn him from whatever he was about. As Rierson watched, he disappeared behind a building, reappeared fifty yards closer. He felt suddenly cold.
Never before had he been stalked by a sentient being, and the idea wasn’t particularly appealing.
The Llralan came on. Rierson waited, cross hairs centered on his chest.
His advancing target halted, looked around. A second sinuous form glided from between two palm trees to join him. Rierson began to sweat in earnest. Two of them now, rangy orange men with sear guns in their hands and murder on their minds. How many were there, anyway? The lawyer began to have visions of a creeping horde, stealthily encircling the church.
However many there were, two less would make the odds that much better for him. Rierson sighted carefully, gently let off the shot.
The right‑hand Llralan jackknifed, staggered backwards several yards and went down in a kicking heap. The left‑hand one reacted swiftly to his companion’s downfall, spinning on his heel and sprinting for cover. Rierson worked the bolt smoothly, with ease born of long practice, and swung the gun after the running figure.
The bullet kicked up chips beneath the other’s flying heels. Then he was behind a row of cars and running crouched. Rierson snapped a shot at him as he crossed an opening, missed by ten feet. He continued to gallop back the way he had come. He ran through a yard, vaulted a low fence and steamed at another, higher one, long legs scissoring along with amazing
rapidity. As he took to the air like an ungainly water bird, Rierson fired again.
He seemed to trip over some invisible obstacle, went pinwheeling through the air. He cleared the fence, dropped behind it and was lost to view. Rierson swung back to cover the first one, saw that he was huddled on the sidewalk, head dangling loosely from the curbing. That made one he didn’t have to worry about.
Turning, he got to the ladder and down it hastily. Pausing only to reload, he went to a heavy door set in the rear of the church ‑ the one marked with yellow ‑ the bomb shelter entrance. As he had figured, it was locked tight. He debated whether or not to try banging for admittance, decided against it. The place to get was away from here. He headed for the archway,
went through it and began to run back toward the Catamount.
To the west, something large and silvery rose above the rooftops and wavered uncertainly toward the church. The staccato
thrum of its engine marked it as no ship of Terran make, though the difference was hard to discern through the coughing
irregularity of its beat.
Caught in the open, Rierson resorted to the big sign, flattening himself against it as the ship arrived overhead. A round hatch opened in its belly as it hovered, casting a saucer‑shaped shadow on the lawn, and a stubby,
cone‑shaped snout jutted from it. A low buzz became apparent over the throb of the ship’s engines; a blue blur formed in the
hatch. Rierson studied that haze thoughtfully. Whatever the frame of mind of the pilot of the craft, it had caused him to forget his cupshields ‑ the force shimmering about that projector was unprotected. Should a material object enter that field at this moment ‑ an object say, the size of a bullet…
Suiting action to thoughts, he placed a bullet through the hatch.
The afternoon came apart in a blinding flash of white flame. The sound of the ship‑disintegrating blast was rather felt than heard. Rierson lay flat in the flower bed, stunned by the concussion, the bolt of his rifle digging into the pit of his stomach. It was a long while before he came back to reality and looked around him. His ears still rang; his eyes still smarted. Every
window in the Sunday‑school building had been blown inward. Likewise the windows across the boulevard. Several trees
were uprooted and one light standard leaned drunkenly.
Of the Llralan ship there was no trace. None.
He crawled out of the flower bed, staggered to his feet and picked up his rifle, checking the barrel for obstructions, the mechanism for damage. Satisfied that all was well, he moved unsteadily to the Catamount. The big red car was windowless, and several ragged holes in its body showed where chunks of the airship had disappeared to. Miraculously, the tires were
unharmed.
Brushing powdered glass from the seat, he got in. He was still in a state of shock; the possibility of there being more Larrys close to hand never occurred to him. The engine turned over first try, sounding loud in the stillness after the blast. He began to drive. The wind coming in through the windshieldless front window was cold; he fastened his jacket, hunched
his neck and drove on, north out of Baxter. The sun was going down with its usual pyrotechnics in the clouds. When darkness was complete, he abandoned the car and continued on foot. The headlights were smashed and he had no intentions of driving blind.
