The Anomaly

By Jerry Sohl

THE MASTER PLANNERS—AND THE SCHEME THAT COULD CHANGE THE SHAPE OF HUMAN EXISTENCE

Far beyond the searching eye of any creature, in the darkness and emptiness of space itself, the ship dispatched a capsule. No sooner had it effected this than it vanished among the stars, lost in the outer reaches.

Then suddenly the capsule exploded without a sound, without a flash, and a billion captive motes, suddenly free, spread over vast distances in the upper air. Some floated aimlessly; others drifted toward Earth.

But the planners knew this would happen. Some, they knew, would survive this day. Few would survive many days. None would survive more than a week—unless...

"Jerry Sohl undoubtedly possesses one of the most imaginative minds of our day."
—Houston Post

Jerry Sohl is the acclaimed writer for Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and scores more novels and TV/movie scripts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311671356

Jerry Sohl

Jerry Sohl is best known for the numerous scripts he wrote for Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, etc. He wrote over two dozen books, mostly, science fiction and horror but spanning all genres, including several acclaimed mainstream novels (e.g. THE LEMON EATERS), romance, and humor books such as UNDERHANDED CHESS.

Book preview

THE MASTER PLANNERS—AND THE SCHEME THAT COULD CHANGE THE SHAPE OF HUMAN EXISTENCE

Far beyond the searching eye of any creature, in the darkness and emptiness of space itself, the ship dispatched a capsule. No sooner had it effected this than it vanished among the stars, lost in the outer reaches.

Then suddenly the capsule exploded without a sound, without a flash, and a billion captive motes, suddenly free, spread over vast distances in the upper air. Some floated aimlessly; others drifted toward Earth.

But the planners knew this would happen. Some, they knew, would survive this day. Few would survive many days. None would survive more than a week—unless...

THE ANOMALY

by

JERRY SOHL

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Jerry Sohl:

Costigan s Needle

Night Slaves

The Mars Monopoly

One Against Herculum

The Time Dissolver

The Transcendent Man

I, Aleppo

The Altered Ego

Death Sleep

The Odious Ones

Point Ultimate

The Haploids

Prelude to Peril

The Resurrection of Frank Borchard

The Lemon Eaters

The Spun Sugar Hole

Underhanded Chess

Underhanded Bridge

Night Wind

Black Thunder

Dr. Josh

Blowdry

Mamelle

Kaheesh

© 2012, 1971 by Jerry Sohl. All rights reserved.

http://ReAnimus.com/authors/jerrysohl

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

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CHAPTER 1

Entry

1

The ship did not diminish speed as it entered the system but sped nearly at the speed of light into the edge of the galaxy. It did not pick its way. It did not waver. Rather, like a well-aimed shot, it sailed past stars and planets and planetoids and the debris of space, hurtling unerringly and sure, avoiding that which might deflect and deter. Its mass worked in its own behalf; its path could have been nothing less than the product of the finest intelligence.

Far beyond the searching eye of any creature, in the darkness and emptiness of space itself, the ship dispatched a capsule. No sooner had it affected this than it vanished among the stars, lost in the outer reaches.

The capsule, lost in the bewildering push and pull of a hundred worlds, went this way and that, and yet it remained untouched and unsullied as it drifted here, plummeted there, careened around this mass and that. A cold little world itself, it seemed to be letting cosmic forces decide its destination.

But it had been truly sent, and its planners had not erred, and at last it dipped toward one planet, darted toward its moon, sped quickly past in a long arc, settling on a course straight to the heart of the mother planet, reaching a fantastic speed. When it had but touched the air shell, it exploded without a sound, without a flash, and a billion captive motes, suddenly free, spread over vast distances in the upper air. They were unhurried, unheeding things. They floated aimlessly; some were caught in gigantic air currents while others drifted slowly toward the earth. Some were destined to circle the globe forever, part and parcel of jet streams. Some fell into the oceans, into the seas, into the lakes and rivers. Others dropped into smokestacks, into trees, into fires, into eyes, noses and mouths. Most of them died, what little flickering life remained after the long journey across space ebbing quickly on an icy slope, under roller-skate wheels, in freshly poured cement.

But the planners knew this would happen. Some, they knew, would survive this day. Few would survive many days. None would survive more than a week, unless...

2

Warmth, comfort, rest, ease, a togetherness, a part of a whole. Then suddenly a wrenching that crushed cruelly, and after that, the unbearable cold. Gone was the warmth, the comfort, the ease. All that remained was the togetherness, a growing wonder, and then a gradual diminishing of feeling, of knowing. Ultimately, encroaching cold brought a numbness that killed the will for anything. Surely there was nothing to see here. Nothing but death.

A shattering awakening. Suddenly there was joy in new warmth, for the cold was gone and there was an ecstatic softness, a substance caressed, flowed, eddied, floated, whirled this way and that. And just as suddenly there was real warmth there, and there was light too and both enveloped it tenderly and effectively, and now there was born an urge, an urge that was no longer a secret thing. Now the softness was there to be used, and it would become the river that would surely flow to the place.

But for days there was only agonizing flowing and floating, interspersed with sudden dartings here and there when attractions pulled. Still, though the warm things attracted, some weren’t right. There would be a right one. There had to be. The softness whispered it, the brightness shouted it. And these provided the strength to find it.

There! That one is right! But—agony!—it moves here and there so fast! Eddy close! Whirl around, seek an entry—oh, it is gone again. Come on, scramble toward it! It must not escape!

Ah, yes, this warm one is right. Stay close now as it moves in and out of brightness. Do not let go! Now the cold of night is everywhere, but triumph is near! The thing moves, but it is followed oh so closely past lights, masses, sounds, other warm things.

Finally it is at rest. Float down ever so gently. Ah, there!

This is right. Enter now! Push, push—

Ping!

This is good, and it is ecstatically, exultantly right. But not yet! No, not yet. Seek, search through this maze for the place. There is still something to be reached.

Slowly, now.

There is no hurry.

CHAPTER 2

Nesting

1

Nancy Bradford woke with a start, her heart thudding, her breath caught, and she gave a gasp as she sat up. Her instant concern was Lyle, and she turned to see his vague shape in the darkness of the other bed. He moved a little, but he was not awake.

For a long moment she just sat, letting the terror subside, the silence of the house reassuring, the faint hum of the refrigerator a welcome sound. Her shoulders and throat felt clammy, and she drew the bedclothes around her.

What had she been dreaming of? She hadn’t had a nightmare since she was a little girl, but this night brought the feeling back to her, the dread, the difficulty in breathing, the cold sweat. She remembered that as a child she could always recall something of the dream, enough substance of it to bring back a little of the horror of it, and sometimes she would scream and carry on until her mother came to reassure her, soothe her. Sometimes, too, when the terror would not entirely subside, she would be allowed to crawl into bed with her parents. There was no fear there. Only warmth and comfort and security and love.

She glanced toward Lyle again and felt a sudden urge to throw off the covers and tiptoe over to his bed and slip in beside him. Lyle would protect her. She knew she would find warmth and comfort and security and love there. But she would not bow to such a foolish personal demand at this hour of night, even though Lyle would be more than kind. She would not disturb him. He was entitled to his sleep.

Nancy looked idly about the room, undecided whether to try to go to sleep again or to get up. There were sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. There was milk in the refrigerator and it could be warmed. There was the swing-out bar in the living room, the portable bar in the study, together with their many attractions in tiny bottles, large bottles, square and round bottles. Something for every mood. Anything for a nightmare? But that would be Lyle’s question, not hers. Warm milk was more to her liking.

The glowing hands of the clock in the wall said one twenty-five. They had not been sleeping long. Not two hours. What did I have to eat? She reviewed the day’s menu. The only thing that could have upset her was the barbecued chicken she had eaten that evening, but it had never upset her before.

She laid back the covers, slipped into her robe and slippers and quietly went into the kitchen. When she turned on the lights, there was such a flood of brightness that she had to shut her eyes for a moment to get used to it. She and Lyle had designed the kitchen. A man who liked to work with his hands, he had installed most of the gadgets. It was bright and airy and an altogether beautiful kitchen, and she loved it. It was new and modern and the envy of many of her friends because of its revolutionary design, its efficiency and because of its thoroughly functional layout. She loved it not so much for that as the fact that she and Lyle had created it, had slaved over it.

From a built-in refrigerator she withdrew a quart of milk. Selecting a copper pan from the row on the wall, she poured a little into it, set it on the range to heat. She placed a glass on the table, sat in a chair to wait, still feeling a little uneasy from sleep’s interruption. Something was wrong; she could sense it vaguely. She rose and turned on the patio and carport lights, looked out.

It was quiet and peaceful. The yellow insect-repellent lights cast a rather unearthly glow over everything, but they always did that. The trees were where they ought to be, the bushes she knew would be wet with dew if she were to walk there, and no doubt dew worms were busy in the grass. The rose trellis was beautiful even at night. To the right were two peony plants so large they looked like bushes, and they were covered with pink blossoms and blooms. During the day tiny ants crawled there. Would they be busy now? Do they ever sleep? Do ants have dreams? She had to smile at herself, caught a glimpse of herself in the window. Really, I look young, like a girl. Am I so far removed from that little girl who used to have nightmares? I feel eight. Or do I feel twelve? What’s it like to grow old? I don’t feel twenty-nine.

Her gaze went past the window to the peonies again. It was there the sandbox would have been and if the sandbox were there, I would not be up seeing to my own needs I would be up warming a bottle for the baby I wonder what he would be like I wonder if he would have gray-green eyes like Lyle’s or deep blue eyes like mine I would not mind his cries I would nurture him I would watch him grow and we would be proud, Lyle and I, even prouder than we are of this new kitchen, of this house. She felt a surge of love in her breast, a start of tears, and she knew this was not the way.

She sighed, turned and saw the horror at the door.

She stepped back, colliding with a chair, her hand going to her throat.

Lyle came smiling into the kitchen. You look as if you thought I were a ghost.

Lyle, she said weakly, dropping into the chair, you frightened me, standing in the shadows like that.

I wasn’t standing. I was in motion all the time. What do you think you’re up to? He glanced at the stove. Enough in the pan for two?

Do you want milk?

I’ll try anything once. He came over, lifted her from the chair, kissed her soundly. Have any other suggestions?

At this hour?

The best hour, they say.

It’s boiling. She disentangled herself and lifted the pan off the fire. Lyle handed her milk from the refrigerator and she poured in another glassful.

Couldn’t sleep? His eyes were concerned. They were able to look very concerned, just as they could look warm or cold or loving. They were never hateful. She loved his eyes.

It’s nothing.

It is too something. You haven’t done this for months.

I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.

Just what is it, Nancy?

She laughed. You are the most persistent man I know.

They hate me at the plant.

She took his hands in hers, caressed them. They were big, brown hands, and there was strength in them, and there was tenderness, too. Nobody could hate you, Lyle. She looked into his eyes.

He reached around, brought her head close and kissed her forehead. Tell me about it, darling.

It’s nothing. She brought out another glass and divided the milk. Something woke me, that’s all.

Same old thing?

They were sitting and she met his look squarely and was glad to be able to say, No, I don’t think so.

You don’t know exactly what it was, eh?

Not exactly. It was—well, as if an alarm went off somewhere, and I woke feeling afraid. I don’t know why. I know I didn’t want to go right back to sleep. I was afraid it might happen again.

Lyle looked down at his milk, studying it. She liked the way he absorbed things, his ability for quiet reflection, and there was no angle at which his head was not flattered. He was a good-looking man, Lyle was, all the more so since the hint of gray at his temples. He was so much more distinguished now, so much more of a man than the youth she had married ten years before.

He looked up. It was probably the party, the barbecued chicken. You did load the sour cream with Tabasco, you know.

Margie likes it that way. So does Paul. I’m developing rather a taste for it, aren’t you?

A little less Tabasco, maybe. But I suppose you need something to let you know you’re eating after those Manhattans Paul makes. I swear he puts in double shots of bourbon. I can hardly taste the vermouth.

You took two.

I’m too agreeable. Or they’re tricky. He grinned at her, Or maybe I just like the stuff.

She tapped the glass. This is my drink.

He made a wry face. I’m just agreeable, I guess. I drink anything anybody offers me. Even cow juice.

It’s not so bad.

Maybe not, but when I was a kid my mother poured so much down me I swore I’d never touch the stuff when I grew up.

She laughed, but there was little humor in it, I was the same way. Her face sobered quickly.

He said, "That is what’s the matter, isn’t it?"

No, it is not, Lyle. I confess when I was looking out into the backyard I had a... a spasm. But it’s part of my life and I suppose I’ll always see other people’s children—Margie’s and Paul’s and everybody else’s—and think of what I might have had. I think that’s normal, don’t you?

I suppose. But I don’t want you to brood.

I am not brooding.

Good. He turned the glass in his hand. The refrigerator clicked on. We still have the room. I don’t think there would be any difficulty.

She laid a hand over his. Really, Lyle, I think I can handle it. Sometime, perhaps.

Those things take a long time. It would be best to put in an application.

If you want to.

No, Nancy. It’s up to you.

I know. She sighed. I didn’t want you to put in an application right away because the shock of losing Lyle Junior—

I wish you wouldn’t speak of him as if he’d been born. He was only just a... a little thing without any character or anything yet.

"But I loved him, Lyle. I loved him from the moment I knew he was there. I know it doesn’t make sense, but some women do that, you know. Some women are just made