I hear Jack’s voice say, “They grew bigger out here, more vicious. They wait to take vengeance on those who expelled them from the warm and bountiful Earth.”
My heart pounds, and my palms sweat. My throat closes with terror. How big have they grown? How vicious? Big enough to pierce the skin of an interstellar ship? To devour us all, crew and passengers, suddenly, half-roused from our slumbers and screaming from terror nothing can appease?
Screaming for help that will never come?
Here there be dragons.
Robert Sheckley
The planet obviously had been home to a civilization with a technology advanced far beyond that of Earth, but apparently not much more advanced in other ways, since their records revealed a history of wars. There were no more wars going on now, because all of the inhabitants had disappeared, and those records gave no clue as to what had happened to them. Not that the three humans let the mystery concern them. They were looking for a legendary cache of high-tech weapons more powerful than anything in Earth’s arsenals which they could sell to the highest bidder, and weren’t bothered by that enigmatic disappearance. But they should have been . . .
Robert Sheckley (1928-2005) seemed to explode into print in the early 1950s with stories in nearly every science fiction magazine on the newsstands. Actually, the explosion was bigger than most realized, since he was simultaneously writing even more stories under a number of pseudonyms. His forte was humor, wild and unpredictable, often absurdist, much like the work of Douglas Adams three decades later. His work has been compared to the Marx Brothers by Harlan Ellison®, to Voltaire by both Brian W. Aldiss and J.G. Ballard, and Neil Gaiman has called Sheckley “Probably the best short-story writer during the 50s to the mid-1960s working in any field.” Of course, Robert Sheckley’s ingenious and inventive humor often took very dark turns—as in the story which follows.
THE LAST WEAPON
Robert Sheckley
Edsel was in a murderous mood. He, Parke, and Faxon had spent three weeks in this part of the deadlands, breaking into every mound they came across, not finding anything, and moving on to the next. The swift Martian summer was passing, and each day became a little colder. Each day Edsel’s nerves, uncertain at the best of times, had frayed a little more. Little Faxon was cheerful, dreaming of all the money they would make when they found the weapons, and Parke plodded silently along, apparently made of iron, not saying a word unless he was spoken to.
Bud Edsel had reached his limit. They had broken into another mound, and again there had been no sign of the lost Martian weapons. The watery sun seemed to be glaring at him, and the stars were visible in an impossibly blue sky. The afternoon cold seeped into Edsel’s insulated suit, stiffening his joints, knotting his big muscles.
Quite suddenly, Edsel decided to kill Parke. He had disliked the silent man since they had formed the partnership on Earth. He disliked him even more than he despised Faxon.
Edsel stopped.
“Do you know where we’re going?” he asked Parke, his voice ominously low.
Parke shrugged his slender shoulders, negligently. His pale, hollow face showed no trace of expression.
“Do you?” Edsel asked.
Parke shrugged again.
A bullet in the head, Edsel decided, reaching for his gun.
“Wait!” Faxon pleaded, coming up between them. “Don’t fly off, Edsel. Just think of all the money we can make when we find the weapons!” The little man’s eyes glowed at the thought. “They’re right around here somewhere, Edsel. The next mound, maybe.”
Edsel hesitated, glaring at Parke. Right now he wanted to kill more than anything else in the world. If he had known it would be like this when they formed the company on Earth . . . It had seemed so easy then. He had the plaque, the one which told where a cache of the fabulous lost Martian weapons were. Parke was able to read the Martian script, and Faxon could finance the expedition. So, he had figured all they’d have to do would be to land on Mars and walk up to the mound where the stuff was hidden.
Edsel had never been off Earth before. He hadn’t counted on the weeks of freezing, starving on concentrated rations, always dizzy from breathing thin, tired air circulating through a replenisher. He hadn’t though about the sore, aching muscles you get, dragging your way through the thick Martian brush.
All he had thought about was the price a Government—any Government—would pay for those legendary weapons.
“I’m sorry,” Edsel said, making up his mind suddenly. “This place gets me. Sorry I blew up, Parke. Lead on.”
Parke nodded and started again. Faxon breathed a sigh of relief, and followed Parke.
After all, Edsel thought, I can kill them any time.
They found the correct mound in mid-afternoon, just as Edsel’s patience was wearing thin again. It was a strange, massive affair, just as the script had said. Under a few inches of dirt was metal. The men scraped and found a door.
“Here, I’ll blast it open,” Edsel said, drawing his revolver.
Parke pushed him aside, turned the handle and opened the door.
Inside was a tremendous room. And there, row upon gleaming row, were the legendary lost weapons of Mars, the missing artifacts of Martian civilization.
The three men stood for a moment, just looking. Here was the treasure that men had almost given up looking for. Since man had landed on Mars, the ruins of great cities had been explored. Scattered across the plains were ruined vehicles, art forms, tools, everything indicating the ghost of a titanic civilization, a thousand years beyond Earth’s. Patiently deciphered scripts had told of the great wars ravaging the surface of Mars. The scripts stopped too soon, though, because nothing told what had happened to the Martians. There hadn’t been an intelligent being on Mars for several thousand years. Somehow, all animal life on the planet had been obliterated.
And, apparently, the Martians had taken their weapons with them.
Those lost weapons, Edsel, knew, were worth their weight in radium. There just wasn’t any thing like them.
The men went inside. Edsel picked up the first thing his hand reached. It looked like a .45, but bigger. He went to the door and pointed the weapon at a shrub on the plain.
“Don’t fire it,” Faxon said, as Edsel took aim. “It might backfire or something. Let the Government men fire them, after we sell.”
Edsel squeezed the trigger. The shrub, seventy-five feet away, erupted in a bright red flash.
“Not bad,” Edsel said, patting the gun. He put it down and reached for another.
“Please, Edsel,” Faxon said, squinting nervously at him. “There’s no need to try them out. You might set off an atomic bomb or something.”
“Shut up,” Edsel said, examining the weapon for a firing stud.
“Don’t shoot any more,” Faxon pleaded. He looked to Parke for support, but the silent man was watching Edsel. “You know, something in this place might have been responsible for the destruction of the Martian race. You wouldn’t want to set it off again, would you?”
Edsel watched a spot on the plain glow with heat as he fired at it.
“Good stuff.” He picked up another, rod-shaped instrument. The cold was forgotten. Edsel was perfectly happy now, playing with all the shiny things.
“Let’s get started,” Faxon said, moving towards the door.