The Project Gutenberg eBook of The brat

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Title: The brat

Author: Henry Slesar

Illustrator: Harold W. McCauley

W. E. Terry

Release date: August 23, 2026 [eBook #79435]

Language: English

Original publication: Evanston, Illinois: Greenleaf Publishing Company, 1955

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79435

Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRAT ***

Transcribed from Imaginative Tales, September 1955 (Vol. 2, No. 1).

The Brat

by Henry Slesar

It has been said that what a man does not understand he hates. Turesco felt that way about mutants. So he asked Remington to help destroy—The Brat.

The brat came flying out of the doorway, just preceding the tip of a heavy farmer’s boot. He scrambled down the short flight of wooden steps, fell to his knees and was up in a flash and racing around the corner of the house.

The farmer followed in a plodding run, swearing loudly and waving a blunt-edged shovel. But the brat was too quick and too clever. At the back of the house, he dropped to the ground and skittered under the raised building, into the concealment of the shadows. He saw the man stride past, his mud-crusted boots thrashing through the high grass. The farmer swore again. Then he completed his circuit of the house and went up the steps to his wife.

The brat listened.

“Trustin’ everybody!” the farmer was shouting. “There ain’t nobody you won’t trust! He might of been a thief, for all you know. And you feedin’ him!”

“He was just a little boy,” came the patient voice of his wife. “Just a boy who was lost.”

“How did a kid get lost way out here?”

“I don’t know. He was hungry.”

“Sure he was hungry! But for all you know he might have—”

The brat tuned out their voices.

The grass under the house was soft, and even a little warm. It was nice, just lying there, tuning out all sounds.

All sounds, but not the smells. The brat smelled food—hot dumplings and frying chicken, sizzling in bacon grease. The farmer was at his meal, and the brat was hungry.

He rolled over on his stomach and tuned in the sounds again, but this time the voices had stopped and all he could hear were the friendly chirpings of the insects. He plucked a handful of the tall grass and put the ends into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, his eyebrows a sharp V in the middle of his broad forehead.

A grasshopper leaped into a spot two inches from his elbow.

The brat regarded it intently, and then said: “Hello.”

“Hello,” said the grasshopper.

“Where are you going?”

“Hello,” said the grasshopper. Then with a bound, he was out of reach and hopping in the sunlight.

The brat was disappointed. He looked around. Sure enough, another grasshopper appeared out of the clump near his feet. The brat raised himself carefully, and with a lightning motion, captured the insect in his fist. He held it up close to his eyes.

“Hello,” he said.

The grasshopper squeaked.

“Where are you going?” asked the brat.

“OVER THERE!” cried the insect, and with a mighty leap, escaped the brat’s fist and went bounding off in the same direction as the first.

The brat suddenly realized that all the grasshoppers beneath the farmhouse were emerging from their shaded resting spots and were heading for some sort of special place.

“Ward Remington, Protector First Class.” The secretary made the announcement, then she turned and went out.

The man behind the desk was fat, forty-five, and his face was strangely familiar. He rolled a cigar between his thumb and forefinger as lightly as if it had been a toothpick. His name was Turesco. At least, that was the name on the desk plaque. Alfred G. Turesco. But Ward thought he had another name, more familiar, like his face.

“Oh, yes!” said the fat man. “Protector Remington! Please come in!”

“Mr. Turesco—”

“Let’s start off right. Call me Al. And I’ll call you Ward. All right?”

Ward nodded. “All right.” He took a seat and said: “Shall we get on with it?”

“Something to drink first?” Turesco’s plump fingers reached for a decanter on his desk. Ward waved them away. The fat man shrugged, sat down and lit his cigar. From a manilla folder he brought out a neat manuscript.

“History first?”

Ward said: “What?”

“The history of the case. Shall I review it?”

“Please.”

“All right.” He re-settled his bulk firmly in the leather chair, placed his cigar carefully on a tray, and began to read.

“In the year 2040, Dr. Benjamin Lake returned from the Second Interstellar Expeditionary Flight, accompanied by a native of the Twin Planet Gemini, the first approximation of terrestrial life discovered in the galaxy. His name was Ars Tenz Li, and his physiological resemblance to the human organism was considered remarkable.”

Turesco looked up for a moment, picked up his cigar and took a long puff. When he returned to the folio, his voice lost its formal tone—and appropriately so, for the manuscript, too, lost its air of impartial formality with the next words.

“‘Ars Tenz Li was a tall gray-skinned, rather repulsive creature with an elongated skull, on the forehead of which grew four long antennae. He spoke no English, and demonstrated no desire to learn the language. The great majority of people were suspicious of his actions and intentions.

“‘When Dr. Lake died of pulmonary thrombosis in September of that year, the Geminite mysteriously disappeared.

“‘In March of the year 2045, a Nebraskan air pilot reported seeing the gray man plowing up farmland in the hill country of Colorado.

“‘The Committee for Human Advancement sent its investigator to the area, where he learned the shocking fact that Ars Tenz Li had taken unto himself a wife. Prompt action enabled the Committee to free the woman, whose name was Bess Marshall. She was taken, although against her will, to Central City. The Committee felt no compunction in taking her from the Geminite, despite her objections, since she obviously had been influenced through hypnosis or other means, by the Geminite.

“‘Ars Tenz Li followed immediately, and demanded of the police of the city that his wife be found and returned to him. He now spoke perfect English.’”

The fat man glanced up again. Ward had been staring at his moving lips with a strange fascination.

Turesco said: “The rest, you probably know. The police found that the Geminite and the Marshall girl had been ‘legally’ married, and the records duly entered with the County Clerk in the little community they had settled in. However, our lawyer contested the ‘legality’ of this marriage, since the Geminite—although the late Dr. Lake had managed to have him declared an ‘honorary’ American citizen—was not truly human, and therefore, not liable unto the laws of the country, state, or city.”

Ward fingered his visor. “And you lost,” he said.

The fat man scowled, his lips working. “Yes. We lost. The judge voted the marriage legal. Ars Tenz Li went back to the farm with his wife.”

Ward examined the man’s face. Familiar.

“After that,” he was saying, “they remained there for some ten years, and then—well, you know what happened.”

“The lynching.”

“Yes. Most unfortunate.”

The Protector said: “Was it?”

Turesco’s head jerked forward, a strange light in his eyes. “Don’t you think so?” he asked.

Ward relaxed. “I guess so.”

“Oh.” The fat man mopped his brow with his open palm. “Well, that ended it. The folks in the community had been having some hard times, but somehow, the Geminite had managed to keep his farm prosperous. A crazy mob, a couple of drunken instigators, and the Geminite died on the rope. The CHA closed its book on the case.”

“And now it’s open again. Is that it?”

Turesco leaned back. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s open again.” He took some glossy photo prints from the bottom of the manuscript and handed it to the protector.

Ward looked. It was a picture of a dead child on a slab. The body was horribly decomposed. But there was something else, something different. It was a tall child, taller than seemed right for its age, which appeared to be seven or eight. And the skull was elongated. And there were the stumps of some growth on each side of the forehead.

“Why wasn’t this reported to the Police?”

The fat man raised his hand. “Now, now. In due time. We wanted to do a little investigating on our own, first. As you know, the CHA has worked hand in glove with the Police since its inception. We’ve only done what we thought right.”

“And is this why I’ve been called here?”

“That’s right.”

“What for?”

“To enlist your aid, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s simple. This body was discovered last month in Nebraska. As you know, Bess Marshall disappeared after the lynching. Our operatives traced her to Nebraska. It was there she had this—” he grimaced—“child.”

“So what?”

“So this. We sent our man to the county clerk who had so conveniently kept mum about the recorded marriage. Well, that wasn’t all he kept mum about. No, sir. We had to beat—use extreme measures to get the information from him, but by God, we got it, and here it is!”

So saying, the fat man lifted a thick volume from a desk drawer, its pages yellowed, its binding broken.

The Protector bent over to read the faded words on the cover. “Birth Records, 2045-2050 A.D., Federal City, Colorado.”

The brat followed the grasshoppers into a green-swarded valley, two miles from the farmhouse. A stream the width of a man’s body flowed crookedly down the center of the valley, entering a natural tunnel in the face of a hillside. It was right into the tunnel they hopped, droves of them, right into the darkness. The brat ran after them, unconsciously leaping in imitation of the insects he pursued. But when they disappeared into the tunnel, the brat stopped.

He was frightened of the uncompromising darkness. The night was a darkness he could understand, a cloak of things familiar. But a tunnel.... He sat down to consider the problem.

An ant crawled across his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Busy, busy, busy,” said the ant.

The brat flicked it from his thumb. Then he got to his feet and started for the tunnel.

It wasn’t quite so dark when he entered. The stream still bubbled here, its sound echoing. He walked on further, looking for the grasshoppers.

Then he saw them faintly, gathering into a lawn-like thickness, surrounding something, somebody. It was a boy, about his age, only not really like him. Different, with an elongated head and pale skin, and long antennas waving out of his forehead.

“Hello,” he said.

The boy looked up, startled. Then with a sudden spring, he threw himself on the brat, forcing him to the ground and pinioning his arms to his side.

Protector First Class Remington said to his superior: “I remembered his name after I left. It used to be Lewis. Herman Lewis.”

Chief Protector Harris answered: “So? And now it’s Turesco?”

“Right. He was with some other organization a while back—maybe even a few of them. They were the race-haters. Professional rabble-rousers.”

“Mm.” Harris swung his feet off the desk. “No, Ward, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“The CHA has been lending us a hand right down along the line. Sure, I know you don’t like the idea of their own private police force.”

“Do you?”

“—but there are other things, too. They’ve got a string of charities that takes a big burden off the taxpayer’s shoulder. They don’t preach any hate doctrines. They get out of hand once in a while, but—”

“You mean like lynching.”

The Chief said nothing.

“Like lynching the Geminite,” continued Ward. “Like that.”

Harris was silent. He picked up the glossy prints of the Geminite-Child and studied them. “What about this?” he asked finally.

“Turesco showed me a birth record book they took from the county clerk at the little town the Geminite lived in. It seems the Geminite and Bess Marshall have other offspring besides that poor dead thing there. Turesco wants to enlist our aid in finding them. He feels that they’re a menace to society.”

“Can’t that omnipresent organization of his dig them up?”

“That’s the point. They can’t. They traced Bess Marshall to Nebraska, but that’s as far as they got. They haven’t the faintest idea where the kids are. And one thing’s got them worried. Mendel.”

“Mendel?”

“The CHA’s afraid that one, maybe two of the Marshall kids take after their mother. They can spot one of those—” he gestured towards the photographs—“but they’d have a hell of a time recognizing the brat if he looked like that.” The Protector pointed to the framed desk-photo of the Chief’s own son.

“What are they afraid of?”

“Cross-breeding. The Geminite’s already proved that the races are compatible. Now, they’re afraid the kids’ll grow up and marry and have other kids—maybe ordinary kids, maybe gray-faced kids with long heads and antennas. They want to nip this ‘race problem’ in the bud.”

“And what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Find ’em. Put our scientists to work on it. The CHA’s helpless. They specialize in thugs, goons, smart lawyers—”

The Chief interrupted. “Do they have any clues, anything we can start with?”

“Not much. Bess Marshall might have had her kids anytime during the past twenty-five years. Whether she sent them out on their own, took them with her, or what—they don’t know. She kept to herself, just like her husband. Turesco told me that his men questioned her, but couldn’t get a sensible answer.”

The Chief looked at him.

“She’s mad,” Ward said.

“I see.” The Chief swiveled around and faced his desk. He drummed lightly on the glass top. Remington took off his helmet and examined the lining. His action was careless, but there was a tightness around his mouth. He said:

“Well? Do we play ball?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to investigate the legal end first.”

“Don’t bother.” Ward slammed his helmet back on his head, a sinking feeling in his chest. “That’s sewed up. It’s a charity project. They want to find those poor kids so they can take care of them. Yeah. On the operating table.”

He stood up and walked out, his shoulders unnaturally high.

The Chief picked up his phone and called the Police laboratory.

The brat looked down at the supine figure at his feet. He closed his eyes and tuned out the annoying sound of the grasshoppers, squeaking and chittering in anger.

His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He knelt down by the boy’s side and examined his face. It was oddly familiar, yet it made him feel uneasy. The boy’s face was gray, like the rocks bordering the stream.

His fingers reached out and touched the wire-like protuberance sprouting around his forehead. The body of the gray boy quivered. Quickly, the brat jerked his hand away and rose uncertainly to his feet.

The stream still flowed nearby, thinner now in the greenless ground beneath the tunnel, flowing towards some unguessable destination. The brat went over to it and filled his cupped hands. He brought it to the gray boy and dropped the water over his face. The two antennae suddenly stiffened, but the body remained still.

Then the gray boy opened his eyes.

“Hello,” said the brat, “Are you all right?”

“Who are you?”

The brat thought this over. “Nobody. Who are you?”

The gray boy lifted himself by his elbows. “I am Ars Tenz Li,” he said, his voice proud. A faraway look shone in his large eyes. He looked through and beyond the brat as he said: “Dead is my Home, so I take to my heart the Green Land; Dead is my Past, so I take to my bosom the Future.”

“Who taught you that?” asked the brat. “Is it a poem? I know a poem. It’s called Ozymandias.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“No funnier’n yours. Can you talk to grasshoppers?”

The gray boy started. His large eyes narrowed as he drew himself up from the floor, suspicious, ready for anything.

“No,” he said sullenly. “Of course not.”

“Oh.” The brat was disappointed. “I thought because—” His eyes lit up. “I can, a little. Watch.” He reached down and picked up one of the green insects from the throng around them.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” said the grasshopper.

“Did you hear him?” The brat turned to the gray boy, his eyes shining with delight. “Did you—What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

The gray boy shrank back against the rock wall.

“Who are you?”

Protector Remington walked into the Police laboratory. He went straight to where Chief Harris was talking earnestly to the head physicist. He caught Harris’ words:

“... radio. Shut off all radio communication in the area, and focus our beams. The slightest—oh, hello, Ward.”

“Chief; Dr. Frankel.”

“I think we’ve hit on it,” said the Chief. “Frankel’s sure the antenna will react to a strong radio beam, and vice-versa. There’s an insect strain in these Geminites.”

“So? Going to broadcast to them? ‘Baby won’t you please come home’!”

Dr. Frankel, eyebrows raised, said: “I’m afraid I—”

“Don’t mind him, Doctor,” Harris said. “Remington doesn’t quite take to the idea.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Listen, Chief.” Remington licked his lips. “Why does this have to be a CHA project? Why don’t we handle it our own way, without calling in that gang? Can’t we take care of our own—foundlings.”

The doctor snorted. “Foundlings? You mean hybrids!”

“I mean foundlings! You know why CHA wants those kids. Why can’t our own welfare agencies take on the job? Why do we have to kow-tow to them, just because they found out about Bess Marshall’s kids? Now that we know, we can proceed on our own.”

Harris flushed. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. The CHA’s a recognized charity organization. We’re just lending a hand. It’s a private matter.”

Ward looked defeated. “What’s the first step?”

“Radio,” said Frankel. “We’re issuing directives to all Nebraska stations and ham operators to cease operations at a specified hour tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ll send out our strongest radio beams—an excellent chance to experiment with the new Kohler Wavex, by the way—and pick up any signals we can get. There’ll probably be a lot of false alarms, but we’ll have enough men on hand to investigate them all. We’ll find them if they’re in the state. At least, that’s my theory.”

“I see. Who’s going?”

The Chief answered: “Ten groups will stand by. I’ll be in charge of one of them. Then there’ll be the group that Turesco will be with.” He paused. “You’ll be in charge of that. Of course, there’s every likelihood that we won’t find any other Geminite. They could have wandered all over creation by this time. But anyway—we’ll try it. What can we lose?”

“I don’t know,” said Remington dully.

The gray boy took the brat by the hand and led him into the dark recesses of the tunnel. He cautioned him about each loose rock and pitfall, guided him sure-footedly on a path he seemed to know very well.

It was at the Stygian point of their journey, when the brat’s heart thumped wildly in his chest in fear of the darkness, that the gray boy released the brat’s hand and left him standing there, quaking, helpless in the enveloping nothingness. Then suddenly, there was a burst of light. The sides of the tunnel reflected the light from a cave, cut directly into the wall. The cave was brilliantly lighted, a light which emanated from two thin pencils of glass, perched on ledges on each side of the walls.

“It was my father’s,” said the gray boy, pointing a long finger at the radiant sticks. “He gave them to me when—”

“When what?” asked the brat.

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it your father who taught you the poem?”

“Yes.” The gray boy walked to the corner of the cave and dropped to his knees. From a pile of miscellaneous objects, he took a mesh bag and began fingering the cord. The brat watched him carefully, trying to guess what the round-shaped things inside the bag were.

His host lifted one out. “Oranges,” he said.

The brat leaped for the fruit. He was very hungry.

Protector Remington was sorry now that he had let Turesco talk him into using the CHA’s Copter instead of the usual Police craft. And he was unhappy about the two officers assigned to the group. They seemed all right, outwardly—young, and cleancut. But Ward imagined he saw something cruel in the cast of their eyes and the set of their jaws.

One of the officers was busy with the small, compact Wavex, checking its Morse-like signals with the chart in his hand. The other had earphones on his head and was talking in low tones to the Police broadcasting unit, where the beams were emanating.

Suddenly, he whipped off the phones and turned—not to the Protector, but to Turesco.

“They got ’em,” he said.

Turesco said nothing, but Ward heard his sharp intake of breath.

“They heard one word,” continued the officer.

“What was it?”

“‘Good!’”

Turesco grinned. “Get your instructions. Then get to wherever it is. But fast. I want to be there first.”

The brat examined the U-shaped tubing curiously.

“And your father gave you this?” he said in wonder. The word “father” had taken on new meaning for the brat.

“Yes. It works when you squeeze it,” said the gray boy. “Only don’t squeeze it at anybody. It hurts.”

Fascinated, the brat pointed the two open ends of the tubing at the rock wall and squeezed the curved end. The thing shot out a beam of blue-gray light. Where the beam struck the wall, there arose a faint mist of pulverized rock. When it cleared, there was a slight depression in the wall.

“That’s how I made the cave,” the other explained. “It was just a tunnel when I got here, so I made a cave with this.”

“Gee.” The brat was awe-struck. He aimed the tubing at the wall again, and was just about to press the end, when the headache that had caused him so much past misery struck him suddenly. The pain was terrible. He put the tubing on the ground and held the heel of his palm against his forehead. He would have cried out, had the other not been there to hear.

But the gray boy wouldn’t have heard a thing. As if by some mysterious signal, he had fallen against the wall, burying his long head in his arms. The brat heard the thud as his body hit the ground, and trying to forget his own pain, he hurried over to him.

Then the pain became more intense. He had had such headaches before—chiefly in the cities—but now it was almost unbearable. He fell to his knees and began to sob aloud. He dug his face into the gritty sand and rock of the cave floor and strained his small fists against the ground. Then he cried out.

Protector Remington had meant to be the first to enter the tunnel, but somehow the other officers had managed to get between him and the entrance, and it was Turesco who went in first.

Ward shut off the portable Wavex and put it carefully on the grass, a few feet from the small stream which bubbled on into the mouth of the tunnel. Then he started after the fat man, his pocket Light Tube in his hand.

“Over here!” came Turesco’s voice, now a booming harshness. Ward hurried in the direction of the sound. He saw the light.

“Look!” Turesco was gleeful. “They’ve got a cave lit up with two glass sticks. Some of that Geminite-science. Look at ’em!”

Ward put his Light back in his hip pocket and knelt down beside the two prone figures on the floor of the cave. One was gray-skinned, with an elongated head and now limp antennas growing out of his forehead. The other was a boy; just a boy.

“Are they both—”

“Of course they are!” cried the fat man. “Both of ’em, the Geminite’s sons. See—the Wavex put ’em out of commission.” The smile left his face. “Go outside,” he said to one of the officers. “Don’t let anybody in till we get out.” He turned to Ward as the officer left. “Bring them around,” he demanded.

Ward was doing that already. He chafed their wrists, wet their lips with stream water. It took ten minutes. The boy came around first.

“What is it?” he said.

“Easy son.” The Protector cradled the young head in his elbow. “You’ll be all right.”

“Ozymandias—”

“Who?”

“No,” the boy shook his head, as if to clear it. “Not Ozymandias. Ars—”

“What’s he saying?” The fat man had started to perspire. “Lemme talk to him.” He put his big hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Listen, kid,” he said. “Listen to me. Do you remember your father?”

The boy stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

“Leave him, Turesco,” Ward said.

“Your father, remember?”

“Turesco—”

“Shut up!” the fat man shouted. “I’m handling this!”

The Protector’s lips tightened. “Where’d you get that idea? I’m in charge here.”

Turesco smirked, and squeezed the boy’s shoulder harder. “Listen, brat! I’m talking to you! Tell us about your father!”

“Turesco!” The blood rushed to Ward’s head.

“Shut up, damn it!” The perspiration was like a coating of oil over the fat man’s face now, and behind the film, his skin was feverish and red, the eyes hot.

“I’m warning you!” said the Protector tensely, his control leaving him. “Let the boy alone.”

Turesco looked up, hate twisting his features—not hate for a man, for Remington, for the boy beneath his hand; it was sheer hate in the abstract; ugly, terrifying.

With a snarl, the fat man struck the boy across the mouth.

Things happened fast. Ward, in blind anger, made a rush for Turesco, but as he did, the remaining officer lunged to break the Protector’s charge. There was a scramble. Suddenly, the officer stiffened, screamed, then fell, clutching the small of his back with his hand.

Remington whirled. The gray-skinned boy had propped himself up on his elbows. In his hand was a U-shaped tubing, faintly glowing with a blue-gray light.

“See?” Turesco’s scream was almost hysterical. “Murderers! Killers! He killed him!” He stared wildly at the gray boy, his finger pointing accusingly.

“It’s all right now, son,” said Ward, trying to keep his voice steady. “Put it down.”

The boy’s eyes were pleading. He put down the weapon.

“Blucher!” the fat man was screaming. “Blucher!” The officer who had been posted outside came running into the cave.

“Your own guards, Turesco? I should have known.”

“Blucher!”

“What’s wrong?” Blucher had his pistol drawn.

“He killed Marley!” cried the fat man. “Shoot him!”

Ward was stunned.

“NO!” he shouted. It was too late. The officer stood at the entrance, feet braced against the recoil, and pumped bullet after bullet into the figure on the floor, and left it writhing and twisting, clutching at its wounds in the last agonies of death.

Suddenly, Turesco was very calm. “Now take the boy,” he said softly, “and we’ll go to the Copter.”

All the Protector’s control had left him. “You won’t get away with it Turesco!” he shouted, shaking with his rage. “It’s murder! I’ll get you for it!”

The fat man smiled. “How would you do that? It would be just as easy to have Blucher kill you, too, you know. Then we’d say it was the boy who did it. As it is, I’d rather the authorities found only one dead man in the cave—two, if you want to count that.” His face softened. “Listen, Remington—this is all very unfortunate, but if you only knew—”

“Knew what?”

“That this was all for the best. It is, you know.”

Blucher lifted the boy gently and walked out with him. Turesco’s hand reached out and fell on the Protector’s shoulder. He winked.

“Relax,” he said.

Then he turned and went out.

Remington walked slowly across the field, through the tall grass, his helmet dangling by the strap from his hand.

He watched the copter rise serenely into the air and then level off into horizontal flight. When it was out of sight, he dropped to the soft ground and opened the top button of his tunic. He had a headache.

An ant crawled slowly across the back of his hand. He lifted it to eye level.

“Hello,” he said.

“Busy, busy, busy,” said the ant.

Transcriber’s Note:

This etext was produced from Imaginative Tales, September 1955 (Vol. 2, No. 1). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.

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