Vampires of Space
by
Commander John Hanson recounts his harrowing adventure with the Electites of space.
Sometimes, I know, I must seem a crotchety old man. “Old John Hanson,” they call me, and roll their eyes as though to say, “Of course, you have to forgive him on account of his age.”
But the joke isn’t always on me. Not infrequently I gain much amusement observing these cocky youngsters who strut in the blue-and-silver uniforms of the Service in which, until more or less recently, I bore the rank of Commander.
There is young Clippen, for instance, a nice, clean youngster; third officer, I believe, on the Caliobre, one of the newest ships of the Special Patrol Service. He drops in to see me as often as he has leave here at Base, to give me the latest news, and to coax a yarn, if he can, of the old days. He is courteous, respectful … and yet just a shade condescending. The condescension of youth.
“Something new under the sun after all, sir,” he commented the other day. That, incidentally, is a saying of Earth, whence the larger part of the Service’s officer personnel has always been drawn. Something new under the sun! The saying probably dates back to an age long before man mastered space.
“Yes?” I leaned back more comfortably, happy, as always, to hear my native Earth tongue, and to speak it. The Universal language has its obvious advantages, but the speech of one’s fathers wings thought straightest to the mind. “What now?”
“Creatures of space!” announced Clippen importantly, in the fashion of one who brings surprising news. “‘Electites,’ they call them. Beings who live in space–things, anyway; I don’t know that you could call them beings.”
* * * * *
“Hm-m.” I looked past him, down a mighty corridor of dimming years. Creatures that lived in space…. I smiled in my beard. “Creatures perhaps twice the height of a man in their greatest dimension? In shape like a crescent, with blunted horns somewhat straightened near the tips, and drawn close together?” I spoke slowly, drawing from my store of memories. “A pale red in color, intangible and yet–“
“You’ve heard, sir!” said Clippen disappointedly to me. “My news is stale.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” I nodded. “‘Electites,’ they call them, eh? That’s the work of our great scientific minds, I presume?”
“Er–yes. Undoubtedly.” Clippen started to wander restlessly around the room. He had a great respect for the laboratory men, with their white coats and their wise, solemn airs, and he disliked exceedingly to have me present my views regarding these much overrated gentlemen. I have always been a man of action, and pottering over coils and glass vials and pages of figures has always struck me as something not to be included in a man’s proper sphere of activity. “Well, I believe I’ll be shoving off, sir; just dropped in for a moment,” Clippen continued. “Thought perhaps you hadn’t heard of the news; it seems to be causing a great deal of discussion among the officers at Base.”
“Something new under the sun, eh?” I chuckled.
“Why, yes. You’ll agree to that, sir, surely?” I believe the lad was slightly nettled by my chuckle. No one likes to bear stale news.
“I’ll agree to that,” I said, smiling broadly now. “‘Tis easier than debating the matter, and an old man can’t hope to hold his own in argument with you quick-witted youngsters.”
“I’ve never noticed,” replied young Clippen rather acidly, “that you were particularly averse to argument, sir. Rather the reverse. But I must be moving on; we’re shoving off soon, I hear, and you know the routine here at Base.”
* * * * *