The deadly ones
By F. L. Wallace
He preyed on the nightmare fears of mankind,
and the dread food he craved was his in
abundance. Why, why did he have to go exploring?
F. L. Wallace is one of the bright new stars of science fiction. He is also a practicing engineer who has designed hydraulic presses, and gyro instruments. Be warned! When he starts weaving sound science into the homespun geography of his native Illinois you may find yourself caught up in a spatial drive which will carry you clear across the great curve of the universe—on a journey guaranteed to chill and surprise you!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe July 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Rathsden. I'm sure the name means nothing to you. There are legends, of course—from old Germany and the greater Reich, colonial America even. But you can't prove anything very damaging or concrete with legends. And even when the story is otherwise correct, I've been careful to keep my name out of it. A clever person shuns publicity, though it may involve tampering with history. For all practical purposes the name Rathsden is unknown. I want it kept that way.
I can't remember when the inspiration came. Probably it had lain for a long time dormant in the back of my mind, like a mole hibernating in mid-winter. Warmed by the proper circumstances, it emerged at last in its full vigor to claim my attention.
I've always worked hard, but lately what I got out of my efforts you couldn't call a living. The Red Cross was largely responsible. You could never get me to say a good word for that agency—never.
Still, I have made use of them, and in this case they made their contribution, though it was an unwitting one.