Shadow Of Life

by Simak Clifford

It was increasingly hard, he found, to continue thinking of the creature of the spaceship as merely a “thing,” as something that had no identity, but he knew that despite mounting suspicion, he must continue to think of it as such or give way to illogic.

There was, he knew, good reason to suspect it might have been a member of the old Martian race, although that, he told himself, would be sheer madness. The Martian race was dead.

And yet, Elmer without a doubt had played some part in placing him aboard the ship — and who else but the Martian race would Elmer be in league with? The Elmer had believed, as did the thing, that he would become one of the Preachers of Evil was evident. That his refusal to so become had enraged Elmer was equally apparent.

Elmer, of course, had taken steps which ordinarily would have protected him against being linked with the junket in space. The Preachers probably did not even dream Elmer had anything to do with their experiences.

For the hundredth time, Lathrop forced his thoughts back along the trail to that interval between the moment he had left the excavation site until the moment he had found himself aboard the spaceship. But the blank still existed — a black, tantalizing lack of memory. Whatever had transpired in that interval had been wiped clean from his brain. He knew now Elmer had done that, hadn’t bothered to supply him with fictitious memories to fill in the gap.

Granting, however, that Elmer was engineering the indoctrination of the Preachers, what could be his purpose? Why did he bother about it? What possible interest could he have in whether the human race knew of the evil that existed in the outer worlds — why be so insistent that the race hide from the danger rather than fight it? There was illogic somewhere — perhaps a racial illogic, a wrong way of thinking.

Another funny thing. What had happened to the ship? Of all the incredible happenings, that had been the most insane.

The creature had been right about the ship being automatic. Snicking, whispering controls had driven it back to Mars in a few weeks’ time, had brought it down to a bumpy landing not more than a mile from Elmer’s city. That, Lathrop knew, could be explained by engineering — but there was no explanation, no logic in what had happened when he left the ship and walked away.

The craft had shrunk, dwindling until it was almost lost in the sand, until it was no more than an inch or so in length. Lying there, it glistened like a crystal on the desert floor. Then it had shot upward, like a homing bee. Lathrop remembered ducking as it whizeed past his head, remembered watching it, a tiny speck that streaked straight toward the Martian city until he lost it in the glare of the setting sun.

That shrinking must have been automatic, too. There was no hand inside the ship to activate controls. Perhaps the action had become automatic when he opened the port to leave.