Authentic Science Fiction, No. 23 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

20 THE SINGING SPHERES toise-men Of Krellig II, the starfish creatures of Zeton and even the mobile orchids on Orbis. The gadgets were stan- dard equipment now for all field parties, and regulations laid it down that one member of every squad must carry a Mattus fitted into his atmosphere suit. With a pair like young Hart- neil and Tubby, you could bet it would be me! Externally, the Mattus showed as a slender, telescopic an- tenna; internally, a thin cadmium plate rested gently on the operator’s forehead at the touch of a switch. The apparatus proper fitted into a small, rectangular casing, screwed to the eravity-reactor in the shoulder-pack. Instructions recommend that the extended antenna be “placed in close proximity to the subject’s brain-case,” while the operator “concentrates with full power of intellect, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, upon his expedition’s peaceful Bens and the desire for cordial relationships with the subject.’ INo one need be particularly bright to deduce that these suggestions were penned by some stuffy old headquarters scientist sitting comfortably in his laboratory-office. Few specimens that Pd experimented on possessed visible brain- cases, although the idea was sound insofar as thought-im- pulses must naturally radiate more strongly near their source, Anyhow, had they kindly pointed out the brain-cases on these floating spheres ’d have been greatly obliged. “Don’t stand there day-dreaming,” said Hartnell, again, Snap out the Mattus rod and shove it in Fuzzy-bubble’s ace.’ Tt was all very well for him to talk like that. He hadn’t got to wor k the machine, and I confessed to a cold, creepy feeling every time I tried it out. Somewhat reluctantly, then, I clicked over the few simple controls and moved slowly forward, holding the rod extended towards the sphere. I had a ridiculous impression that if I got near enough to give it a good prod it might vanish with an audible pop. . I tried to close my ears against that maddening whistle over the inter-com and concentrate, as instructed. At first there was nothing. There rarely is, of course. Not until subject and operator become mysteriously attuned is it possible to sense emotions—usually fear, distrust and hostility, mingled with curiosity. cé q THE SINGING SPHERES 21 ‘‘He’s coming nearer,”’ said Hartnell, quite unnecessarily. “Getting anything, Pop?” “No,” J said, brusquely. “Not a thing.” I stood there, ten or twelve yards in front of the others, busy concentrating. It’s difficult to describe impressions received over the Mattus. Sometimes definite pictures’ appear, on other occasions the operator—hardly knowing how—becomes suddenly aware of what the other party is thinking. Most uncanny of all, it often seems that a tiny voice whispers across an alien, psychic void. In all cases the nervous strain is terrific and I never finish a session without finding myself soaked in perspiration. And while my arm ached with holding out the rod and the inside of my suit grew insufferably hot and stuffy, I gradually knew a strange, hopeless depression. It was useless, of course. Hither the spheres weren’t intelligent or I was too ex- hausted to receive their mental images. There wasn’t much sense carrying on. Surelv I could put my time to better use than standing on the hot, bare rock of a dying world, trying to communicate with its last few inhabitants. My mind was gripped by an ineffable sadness at the futility of it all— I jumped so violently that I bit my tongue. A dying world? The last few inhabitants? Now what in Betelgeuse could have put that into my mind? “All right, Pop?” asked Hartnell, eagerly, seeing my sudden movement. “Managed to do anything?” “Yes,” I said, blinking away tears of pain. ‘“Pve bitten my confounded tongue!” He told me not to waste time being funny, but to get on with the job. I might have given him quite a brisk answer, but I thought once more about those two strange impressions I’d had and applied myself again to the Mattus. Sadness and despair were still there, mingled with slight dis- trust, but no definite hostility. A dying world? TI could well believe it. We had seen no sign of life anywhere in the grim, silent deserts or the sluggish, ammonia-laden seas. Then, somehow, I sensed pronounced curiosity. I stared again at the purple, shimmering sphere—like a hovering light- ning ball—scarcely more than eight paces distant and won- dered whether this thing could nossibly have a mind. Con- centrating upon a composite mental image of our journey and comic @ JOOKS.cCOmM