The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

THE DRAINPIPE, by Philip E. High

The Ilurine had been through a rough time and needed replenishment. She needed an area with the correct level of solar radiation as partially screened by atmosphere, and the nearest was a planet its inhabitants called Earth. She did not know it as Earth and a quick sense survey did nothing to endear her to it. She judged on emotional values and the general standards of the inhabitants were pathetically primitive. There were, however, exceptions. This youth approaching through the quiet woods was one of them. She lifted his age from his mind — twelve local cycles. Would he make twenty? She doubted it very much.

She realized suddenly that if he continued on his present route he would see her. In a normal state she could have rendered herself invisible but, at the moment, she lacked the strength.

His reaction, when he saw her, was a pleasant surprise. Shock, yes, nervousness, yes, but very little actual fear. The predominant reaction was care; he thought she was ill or injured. Again, when she was absorbing she shivered and he thought she was cold.

He frowned down at her. “You poor little thing,” he said, and, “I won’t hurt you, no need to be afraid, I won’t hurt you, honest.”

Then, very slowly, he took off his jacket, and laid it gently across her body. “Warm you up a bit, eh?”

Compassion! It lifted him far above the majority of his race and was the standard by which she judged all intelligence.… It made him vulnerable, his chances of reaching maturity very doubtful. Compassion generated compassion; she must move him to a word like his own with the same type of intelligences. However, it would take time and in the meantime something must be devised to protect him.…

The city utility services, generally known as the Clerk Of Works, dealt with every possible need of the city. Blocked drains, holes in pavements, maintaining highways, mending walls and countless other things which a community requires.

The organization’s offices are scattered round the city and, for reasons unknown, look very much the same. All are not quite sure if they are offices or workshops. Benches are often used as desks or desks as benches, most of them have nails driven into the walls from which hang clips holding written orders or printed instructions. Some are visibly yellowing with age but no one bothers to remove them.

The desks are not much better and Quentin had to push maps and instructions to the very edge of his desk to find the phone.

“Yeah?” He listened, his face darkening. “You having me on? Right, take it easy. Yes — yes — I know you wouldn’t — just run that past me again.”

He listened again, his face becoming puzzled rather than disbelieving. “Right, I’ll come out, but it had better be genuine. I’m very busy and I’m not happy about this business, not happy at all.”

Here placed the receiver and shook his head. “I’ll have to go out for a short while,”

Limerton, crouched behind a corner desk, said, “What was all that about?”

“To be honest, damned if I know exactly! That was Jim Page at the old sports ground.”

“Not drunk is he? He’s only classified as a laborer.”

Quentin, loyal by nature, slapped him down. “Page has been with the department for twenty five years. He may not be a great brain but he’s utterly reliable and completely honest.”

“Sorry, only reading from the Works List here. I’ve never met the man. What is the problem anyway?”

“I have to go because I can’t tell you. It’s a weird sort of story about a drainpipe if you can make sense of that.”

Quentin arrived at the old sports center twenty minutes later. The complex had become too small for the expanding city and a larger, more modem set-up was being erected elsewhere.

Page lifted the barrier for Quentin’s car to enter then stood unmoving while he got out. The man’s face, usually ruddy, seemed oddly streaked and inclined to twitch.

“What’s the trouble?” Quentin thought that Page looked frightened out of his wits.

“It’s one of them pipes, Mr. Quentin, you know, one them old fashioned metal ones what used to lead up to the changing rooms. There were four when I left at five o’clock, lying together near the West entrance. When I come in this morning there were only three. I found the other one later, right in the middle of the old sports field.”

Quentin was about to say ‘kids’ and changed his mind. The pipes were twenty-five metres in length; it would take a lot of very hefty kids to carry one that far.

“I think you said that the pipe was queer too.”

“Yes, Mr. Quentin but it’s something you’ll have to see, I can’t explain it properly.”

As they reached the edge of the sports field, Quentin frowned at the ravaged surface. “What the hell made all this mess? Think the pipe was dragged across by a tractor?”

“If it was, Mr. Quentin, they must have brought their own. Our two packed up within a day of each other, not expected back until the middle of the week.”

Quentin frowned and strode on. The whole damn business was turning into— Reasoning thought was cut suddenly and a huge no seemed to fill his mind.

He remembered the pipe was twenty-five metres long but he had forgotten the other measurements. He knew the pipe would not quite admit the normal clenched fist and he thought the outer casing was as thick as his — but there his memory stopped because there was a bulge in the middle of the pipe.

The bulge — or should it be a huge bubble? — was about five metres in length and measured at its widest point, around two to two and half metres both in thickness and diameter.

“You can’t do that, Mr. Quentin,” said Page, “you can’t put pressure inside that stuff to make it expand, it would simply splinter. It won’t swell outwards like heated glass, ’cause it ain’t proper metal like.”

“Someone seems to have found an answer.” Quentin went closer, took a coin from his pocket and tapped the metal cautiously. “Doesn’t sound like metal,” he said. “No echo at all.”

“I think.…” Page paused to clear his throat and started again. “I think there’s something stuck in there, Mr. Quentin., stuck in the bulge like. Look. sir, I’ve got to say this — if you sniff at either end of that pipe, there’s a right nasty smell.”

“The hell there is!” Quentin took a cautious sniff himself and almost retched, the picture of a slit trench clear in his mind. Whatever was in that pipe might not be human but the smell of decay was unmistakable.

There seemed to be only one answer: he called Landring at the police station. It was a good choice. Inspector Landring was a political policeman who had his eye on a position in the Mayor’s office.

“You were quite right to call me, Quentin. As you say, there might be a dead dog or a badger in there but the situation raises questions. Something a bit weird about the whole business and the very last thing we want is the press and the media getting wind of it.”

He frowned, ruddy faced, thumbs stuck into his belt. “I’ll go back and change into civvies, come in an unmarked car; no need to advertise a police presence in the area. The Mayor wants to present a picture of an open, safe, seaside city, suitable for families, you know what I mean.”

He turned towards his car. “I’ll bring someone back to open up this pipe for, for all I know, it could be full of dead rats.”

He was back in twenty minutes with a little bald man and a bag of tools. He didn’t look like a police employee but he knew his job.

Within minutes he said, in a frightened voice: “There’s a man’s shoe here, Superintendent, and his foot’s still in it.”

It took a full two hours to reveal the complete body The face looked blotchy but the features were recognizable.

Landring said: “Well, well! ‘Basher’ Cole, full name Silas Manton Cole. No mistake, half his left eyebrow missing, anchor tattoo on left wrist. He’s an ex-pug, spent most of his life in prison, came out a couple of months ago. Just done a ten year stretch for robbery with violence.”

He paused and looked thoughtfully at Quentin. “No one is going to miss him, are they? No relatives of any kind. Point is, this could be swept away with the minimum of fuss. He could have been found dead, exposure, heart attack.”

Quentin shook his head. “Fine until you get to the medical examiner.”

“Yes, yes, you have a point there.” Landring nodded slowly and thoughtfully but his face was untroubled. Doctor Pierce LeGraton would be the examiner: married, highly respectable with a large influential family background. Surely the doctor would like his assignations with a certain lady at ninety two Lake Street to remain a secret?

Landring smiled. “I know I can rely on you, old son.”

Quentin said: “Of course,” fully conscious that it was the wrong answer, but hell, he only had eight weeks to go before retirement. He didn’t want some upset threatening his pension. Again, no one was going to lose anything by a little blindness on his part.

Landring interrupted his thoughts. “What about him?” he said and jerked his head in the direction of Page.

“Oh, I’ll have a word with him later,” said Quentin. “He’ll keep quiet.”

He thought, when Landring had gone, what did he mean by a word? He meant, of course, a deliberate lie. He had told Page, who trusted him, that he must keep his mouth shut because certain aspects of National Security were involved.

His thoughts turned back to the incident itself. He could well see reasons for hushing the matter up and sweeping the whole affair under the carpet but the man’s indifference defeated him. A man’s body had been found in the middle of a drainpipe, the ends of which would not have admitted his clenched fist. Apparently Landring wasn’t even interested, his only concern was to get everything out of sight as soon as possible.

Quentin shrugged mentally, he supposed that attitude was called single mindedness but it didn’t apply to him. In point of fact it did but he was unable to see it at the time. The vow of silence he had imposed upon Page was about to be broken by himself,

That evening he called in on his lifelong friend Ben Hoathe, and told him the whole story He had a certain justification; Hoathe had been with the police department for thirty years and had only recently retired as Detective Inspector.

Hoathe pushed the lank, graying hair away from his forehead and smiled.

“I believe you, man, of course, but run it through again and give me the chance to ask questions.”

Forty minutes later he thrust a short, black pipe into his mouth and began to chew it, frowning. He never lit it but it always helped him to think. “Give me a couple of days to scout around, meet you in Harry’s Bar around seven on Friday.”

Hoathe arrived on time two days later and gulped at his beer before he spoke. “I’ll be honest got quite a bit, but some of it I’m holding back because there’s more I need to know. I have to fit the parts together in my own mind first. However, I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that ‘Basher’ Cole died of a heart attack due to an excess of alcohol. The body was found by a workman taking a short cut to Clarges Street via the old sports complex.”

“What about the Medical Examiner’s report?”

“That is the report.”

“Dear God!”

“Exactly my own reaction but there’s more, old son, due to some mismanagement of the lists, the body has already been cremated.”

Quentin frowned. “I don’t like the sound of this, could be repercussions.”

“Not for you, old friend, I’ll just keep you in the picture, you’re not involved.”

He paused and changed the subject. “They had to go through the motions of course, looking for witnesses, those who might have been in the area before or around the time.”

“Did they find any?”

“Well, yes, but it’s not thought to be important. A young lad, Tommy Beal, was seen leaving the sports area just before dusk on the night in question. They’ll send a man round tomorrow just to ask a few questions. They don’t expect much — the boy is only twelve.”

Emotionally, Tommy Beal was an old twelve. His introduction to school and much of his experience since had been a living hell.

He was different, children can sense that sort of thing. He was frail, quietly spoken and well mannered. As such he became an almost instant target for bullies. Worse, although in his early days he was often reduced to tears, he never fought back. On the other hand he never ran telling tales to the teachers. It seemed to make no difference, he was subjected to every humiliation and minor cruelty that his classmates could conceive. Glue or bright paint were squeezed onto his chair just before he sat down. Notices were frequently stuck to his back bearing the words KICK ME or a similar unpleasant invitation.

The real reason, yet again, was the fact that he was different. He didn’t join school sports and the only exercise at which he excelled was swimming. Here, too, he placed himself beyond the pail — he refused to compete.

“You could out-swim young Nolan by a length, lad, beat him hollow.”

“I don’t want to beat anyone, sir, I just like swimming.”

His tastes, also, were considered outlandish. He was not interested in the things which concerned normal boys, he was much more concerned with nature. He spent a lot of his spare time in the country studying plants, birds and insects.

His foster-father virtually disowned him in public. “Studying bloody birds and flowers, it’s not natural, is it? Sissy pastime in my opinion, okay for girls, but for a boy, well, I ask you!”

Not everyone disapproved of him, there were a large number of women who secretly wished they had sons like him. He was so quiet and well-mannered, he held doors open for ladies and things like that.

The elderly were more forthcoming. “You want an errand done or some small thing like that, just ask young Tommy Beal and you can’t go wrong.”

This, of course, increased the opposition even more; ‘he was sucking up to the old people’ and ‘he took money for it, of course’.

To the majority, however, it was just a blind unthinking cruelty that would eventually die but with one lad it had turned to hatred.

His name was Wayne Cantra, a large boy with ginger hair and a heavy freckled face. He hated Beal because somehow the smaller boy made him feel inferior and he wouldn’t fight. Wayne was sadistic, he favored a savage kidney punch or an agonizing kick to the knee or ankle. With the passing of time, however, a great deal of support began to fall away, particularly among the girls.

“Leave the poor little devil alone, can’t yer, this has gone on long enough.”

A fair number of the boys were changing, too. “He don’t hurt no one and he never runs to the teachers.”

Worse, although Beal wouldn’t fight he had become skilled at ducking and weaving. He rode a large number of the blows and evaded quite a few more. Recently Wayne had thrown heavy blows at Beal’s head, only to strike empty air and nearly lose his balance.

Infuriated, Wayne began to organize special tactics. One of which was to snatch Beal’s school books as the day ended. These he would throw into the road, preferably just in front of the approaching school bus.

Needless to say, young Beal paid for this at home.

“You think I want to buy the school, boy? How many times have I got to buy the bloody books that you can’t take care of?”

Despite these apparent successes, Wayne was becoming desperate.

Support was now falling away on an almost weekly basis and Wayne could only rely on four lads of his own age who hated Tommy Beal almost much as he did.

“Tell you what we’ll do, getting a bit dangerous to rough him up properly here. When he goes out in the country on one of them weekend walks of his, we’ll follow out of sight and spring the little bastard on the way back.”

The weekend they choose was the one in which Tommy Beal found the alien.

He had not the slightest idea that the creature was out of this world and his innocence was complete. He had read in the papers and had it underlined on television that there was a vast and illegal trade in exotic creatures from abroad. Probably it was one of those, come from India or Malaysia, somewhere like that. He liked it, he had the feeling it liked him and it was in trouble — he could sense that. In any case, he could tell it was freezing cold by the way it was shivering. He covered it carefully with his jacket and thought: ‘perhaps she’s thirsty.’ There was a small stream just below and he always carried a tin mug.

Half way back he wondered why he thought of the thing as a ‘she’ but in his mind it sort of fitted and he did not question it again.

When he returned, however, she had gone. There was an impression in the grass where she had been with his jacket, neatly folded, beside it but there was no clue as to where she had gone.

He worried about her for some time, hoping she’d made it to safety. He had the odd feeling he had missed something very precious.

On his way back home he noticed a small blue flower in the long grass, which he did not recognize. Unfortunately it was protected by the thin, barbed branches of a hawthorn. What he needed was something like a piece of wood to hold those branches back.

Ah! A length of dead sapling, a bit long and worm-eaten in places but strong enough for the job.

He lifted it and stretched forward but the rear part seemed caught on something, probably held by bindweed or ivy, something like that. It was held so firmly that it almost seemed to be jerked from his hand and he nearly lost his balance.

He stood upright again and looked around. Where the devil had it gone? Oh yes, probably in that bed of nettles over there. Well he was not going to there, hang that for a pastime.

It was then, less than forty metres distant, hidden by trees, someone screamed.

There were shouts, a splintering of small branches and a terrified voice: “Get it off of me, get it off!” Another scream and: “It’s got my bloody legs — get it away from me!”

He hurried towards the sound and found two of the boys supporting Wayne an either side.

“What happened?”

“We was attacked.” All had forgotten the reason they were in the woods. “Damn great snake, we all saw it.”

“It nearly got me.” Wayne was blubbering. “Tied itself round my legs and brought me down — look.”

There were deep impressions, bruised and slightly bleeding round calf and shin of both legs. It looked as if a thick wire had been tied there and suddenly jerked tight.

“I thought I was going to die.” Tears ran down Wayne’s face.

“A boa constrictor,” said one of the boys.

“According to Mr. Brixton at the school, there are no large snakes in this part of the country,” said one of the boys.

“Just because he’s a master doesn’t mean he knows everything,” said another. “In any case we all saw it — must have escaped from somewhere, a zoo or something.”

From that day on, Wayne seemed to lose fire. It was two weeks before he tried to mount something again, but that, too, went wrong. Two were stung by wasps, and a third was fouled by a seagull before the latest trick had begun.

Wayne’s last supporters slowly detached themselves from the group. Varying excuses were used but the implications were clear: they had formed their own conclusions. Play hell with another poor little bastard if you like but not with Beal, not anymore, it always backfires on us.

Wayne was beginning to draw the same conclusions himself and began to start a line of verbal persecution. ‘Young Tommy Beal is a bit queer if you ask me, goes in for occult stuff. I’ve got an aunt from Europe somewhere who said he had the evil eye as soon as she saw him’.

It was only a few weeks after this that Cole’s body was found. Landring, having made sure that everything was carefully swept under the carpet, continued with the exterior motions. An elderly detective named Ransom was given the job of checking for witnesses in case someone had seen Cole in an inebriated state beforehand.

No, but someone had seen young Tommy Beal leaving the complex about half an hour before dusk, maybe he had seen the man.

The detective duly presented himself at Beal’s house.

“He’s still at school. Don’t tell me that the little swine has got himself wrong with the law now?”

“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that, no question of it all — troublesome lad, is he, sir?”

“Not in the way you mean it, Detective Ransom, no, but weird, not like other boys if you know what I mean?”

Ransom didn’t but it might be worthwhile finding out later. “Would six this evening be a suitable time, sir?”

Ransom was quick to note that the boy was different but this he quickly brushed aside. He was more interested in the immediate reaction; clearly the lad was terrified. He was shaking visibly and he stuttered occasionally.

“Never been interviewed by the police before, Tommy?”

“No, sir, never.”

“Nothing to be afraid of, laddie, you’re not involved in any way. All we are looking for is witnesses. Someone who was later taken ill while taking the short cut through the old sports complex — a big tall man in blue jeans.”

“I didn’t see anyone like that, sir. I didn’t see any man at all, I swear sir.”

“No problem, lad, no problem at all. If you saw no one, that’s it.” He laid his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell you what, son. I’ll leave it today; I can see you’re a bit upset. You’re not used to the police, I can see that. I’ll give you a call around the same time tomorrow. Time to settle down, eh? And, maybe you’ll remember something tomorrow.”

The local police always favored the same bar, The Grapevine, and Hoathe still favored it even after retirement. He met old colleagues there and it always relaxed his mind to talk ‘shop’.

It was not quite coincidence that he choose Ransom’s table. He said: “What’ll you have? You look as if you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“I’ll have my usual, thanks. And, yes, I have not only a lot on my mind but too much on my plate as well. First that hold up in Welsh Drive, a near fatal domestic out at Potter’s Field, but I’ve been handed that damn Beal kid as well.”

“Having trouble there?”

“You could say that — the little bastard has done a runner. I gave him a break as he was obviously nervous, said I would call next day, which I did, but he’d gone. His father said he’d done it properly, taken quite a bit of stuff with him. He added, as I left, “If you can’t find the little swine, expect no tears from me.”

Ransom sighed. “It means, of course, I’ll have to search his room for leads.”

Hoathe saw his chance. “You could delegate, a retired officer in good health, say with the permission of an area officer etc, etc. Hell, it’s well within the non-hazardous section.”

“They’d pay peanuts for that, a day’s work would hardly buy a beer.”

“True, but I get hellish bored, y’know—”

Two days later he dropped some written pages on Quentin’s front room table.

“What’s this lot?”

“The kid kept a diary in an old exercise book, found it hidden in his bedroom. I’d like you to look it through for me, I’ve quite a few facts, to bring together myself.”

Quentin looked again at the pages, noted that they were a copy and started to read.

An hour later Hoathe rejoined him. “You’ve read it through?”

“Three times, the boy was not quite right in his head, was he? I mean, it’s all sheer fantasy, it couldn’t happen.”

“Mind if I just follow through, old chum? I happen to have quite a few facts which are unknown to you. For instance, Ransom was dead sure that the boy knew a damn sight more than he was saying and that was the reason he ran away.”

“Right, old friend, we’ll play this any way you want, but I still think it comes from a lad with a disturbed mind.”

Hoathe shrugged. “I wish it was that simple. I could dismiss it but the facts won’t let me. As a starter, does he describe the alien?”

“Well, not in detail, no. He says she was a sort of shining, silver-white with huge golden eyes.”

“Does he refer, or imply in any way at all, that he thought she was an alien?”

Quentin frowned. “I see what you’re driving at and you’re quite right. He thought she came from India and, no, he makes no mental connection with the events he recounts and her.”

Hoathe nodded quickly. “Fine, now you keep giving an outline and I’ll fill in the facts when appropriate.”

“Right, well, the next incident he mentions concerns that bully boy, Wayne. You remember that he was attacked by and brought down by a snake. You know, and I know, that there are no snakes of any size in this part of the country. We checked and nothing had escaped from anywhere. The point is that the dead sapling, which he was using and felt had been snatched from his hand, had somehow got there before him. It was lying about two metres away. Wayne and young Beal recognized it instantly. Only later did he begin to draw conclusions and—”

Hoathe interrupted him quickly “Got to hold you there to make another point. As stated earlier, young Tommy ran away from home but he was picked up four days later. He’d been hiding out with an ancient aunt a few miles up the coast. He was brought back and put in a cell to be questioned later.”

“A cell, a proper cell, for a kid of twelve!”

“My thoughts exactly, but blame Landring. In any case, if you don’t, a lot of people will. Much to my satisfaction he’ll never talk his way out of this one.”

Hoathe paused and gulped at his beer before dropping his bombshell. “When someone went to let him out, the boy had gone. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know how. That is the real reason I have failed to agree with you on this fantasy angle. The cell door had a manual lock and an electro-magnetic lock which could only be opened by the primary duty officer.”

Quentin pushed the printed pages away from him. “No more for me, please, my theories are giving way to a kind of coldness inside which I don’t care for.”

“A feeling shared! Care to hear my theory?” Hoathe did not wait for an answer. “The alien he met — and there can be no doubt she was exactly that — took pity on him or took a liking to him. She saw that his life was pretty hellish and devised a means to protect him until she could do more.”

“How to protect him?” Quentin was getting out of his depth

“After his meeting with the alien, some inner faculty inside him warned his unconscious mind of approaching trouble. Anything he was touching at the time was given a brief pseudo life in his defense.”

“Oh God, that length of sapling!” Quentin could see it suddenly in his mind, turning suddenly from an object of wood into something lithe and scaled.

“The boy’s defense faculty seemed able to discriminate,” said Hoathe. “Something nasty for something nasty and an unpleasant deterrent for a mild scheme. The boy describes how part of the school wall seemed to come alive beneath his hand. How wasps went sailing over that wall and down onto the little group below.”

“Shut up!” said Quentin hoarsely. “Just shut up.” He felt as if unseen fingers were touching his body and encasing it in ice. He could see it all, the boy, well dressed, clearly of good background, taking a short cut through the complex. Cole, also in the complex, the worse for drink and probably short of money. There was a quick and easy hit, a bloody school kid probably with money.

It seemed to Quentin that the picture became even more real in his mind. Must have been near the West entrance with Cole lurching out from behind that broken wall there.

The little boy, terrified, staggering back, touching one of the pipes by accident, and then—?

In his mind Quentin saw the pipe, ripple, shine, develop jaws and rise in an enormous black loop above Cole—

He forced the picture from his mind. “It’s absurd, wilder that fantasy. We have to assume that whatever it was that took Cole as far as the playing field lost its short life there and became a pipe again.”

“My reactions entirely.” Hoathe might have been reading the other’s thoughts. “There is only one dreadful contradiction. The police surgeon looked over Cole’s body before it went the examiner. He swore to several witnesses, on oath, that some surface areas of the body had been—partly digested!”