SEEDS OF INVASION, by Philip E. High

Markham locked the door of his car unhurriedly. There was no great haste the body would not go away.

He walked through the police cars and ducked under the restraining ribbon. A constable standing in his path, recognized him and saluted.

“Right by the green shed, sir.” He stepped smartly back.

“A nasty one, Cole?” He had already noticed that the officer was pale.

“Well, yes, sir, it is. I’ve seen a few in my time, sir, as you know, but this one—he’s been crucified, sir.”

Markham passed on, not the first by any means. Two in Africa and some religious madman in Warsaw—Yes, it was not new, he had seen worse.

He had not.

Those had just been corpses.

This one was not. This one was a skeleton.

Not an old one, brown with age and falling apart but a new one, picked or scraped clean.

And worse, it was dressed. It wore a flat brown hat with a small peak.

It wore a brown industrial cover-all such as a man might wear in a trade that was not too messy.

Beneath it he wore normal everyday clothing.

He wore boots and they were on.

Somehow a gold ring was adhering to the bone of his finger.

Markham noticed that the black boots were polished and neatly tied.

He was not, strictly speaking, crucified. The position was correct with the arms outspread but no nails held him to the green painted wood of the garden shed.

He was literally stuck there, held by his clothes by some unknown adhesive.

A doctor and two paramedics were on the scene, all looking distraught, but Markham knew that only forensics would be able to give him some clue as to the time of death.

Investigation at the scene took a lot of time. The body was not removed from the shed. The wooden wall was cut round him and taken with him. Just what sort of adhesive had kept him stuck there and why?

It was fairly obvious, however, who he was. He was the owner of a small rural business dealing in agriculture.

A business that dealt in seeds, both vegetable and floral. He had had not a little success in business despite its smallness. Some of the hybrids he had produced had won awards.

An employee gardener arrived who had to be treated for shock before he could give evidence. “I suppose it’s him. How can you tell? It’s his clothes, his pocket watch, his signet ring. No, it don’t look as if he had been robbed. Eight hundred would be about normal, Monday is a slack day.”

“Anything unusual strike you before you left yesterday? Anything, man, however trivial or irrelevant it might seem.”

“Well, sir, there was a funny packet of seeds although I don’t suppose that had much to do with it.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It came with the rest of the post—I suppose. It didn’t have no address and no supplier’s name on it. It just said what seeds were in it out they weren’t printed right either. It said ‘Turrn Nip Seed’.”

“Have you got the packet?”

“No, sir, I threw it in the bin but I dare say I could find it; bin ain’t been emptied yet.”

In the middle of the search, a pale-faced constable came in. “I think I’ve found a dog, sir.”

The man looked up from his search. “Oh, that would be Charlie, sir. Wondered where he was. Black Retriever, you can’t mistake him.”

“You bloody can now,” said the constable in a bitter voice.

He led Markham to an open tool shed at the bottom of the smallholding. The animal was held upright between two forks, one forepaw raised as if about to run. It struck Markham as singularly grotesque that it should have been left in this manner for the dog, like its owner had been stripped clean. The collar still hung round its neck but that was all. There was no fur and no flesh, nothing to suggest how it had died.

Markham slouched around the garden for some time, hands locked behind his back, deep in thought.

The smallholding was compact and neatly laid out. Two fair size greenhouses, six wooden sheds and eight divided garden plots. The entire unit was linked by a number of small shingle paths and entirely surrounded by a tall wicker fence.

Markham took out his pipe and clamped it between his teeth. When he arrived at the main storeroom, his assistant, Detective Wayne, had news from forensics.

“No doubt about the identity of the skeleton, sir, it was the owner of this place, Aaron Cord. Dental records match exactly, the man broke his leg as a teenager and the mend is visible. We’re lucky enough to have found a clear and recent photograph, taken not long ago at an agricultural dinner.”

Markham studied the picture carefully, not knowing if the picture would be of much use now. He had, however, a photographic memory and was careful to take in details.

Cord had been a big man, broad shouldered but slightly bowed forward. Age forty- five, bald, but with a bushy, square cut type of beard.

Wayne interrupted his thoughts. “Sorry to bring bad news, Chief, but high brass are coming.”

Who—exactly?”

“Exactly, I can’t help, Chief, but the whisper I got was a Commander and an Area Superintendent.”

The Commander turned out to be Hugo Frederics who knew Markam of old and respected him.

The Area Superintendent was named Haslett and did neither. He was going to learn the hard way.

“What are going to do about the media, Markham, this is a nasty business to inflict on the public.” Frederics looked worried.

“Well, sir, I thought it best to compromise. This is not a thing we can cover up forever. I stated that the victim had been crucified but I did not mention the macabre side.”

“You issued that to the press without consulting higher authority?” the Superintendent sounded shocked.

“Time was of the essence, the reporters had already sensed that this murder was unusual.”

The other scowled at him. “That remains to be seen. Oh, and, yes, I am quite sure the Commander can do without that filthy pipe.”

Commander Frederics sighed; he had put up with the man’s ingratiation long enough. “Detective Markham does not smoke a pipe,” he said, gently. “He never has. It is a clay pipe and he sucks at it because it helps him to concentrate.”

The Superintendent paled slightly. In his mind he could see a black line being drawn through his chances of promotions. Somehow it was not fair, he had worked hard at trying to impress his superior. It was all Markham’s fault, these bloody hick detective thought they knew everything.

He was wrong; in this case Markham was up against a brick wall and knew it. He did not know where to look or what to look for. Of one thing, however, he was certain: this was not murder. He had no evidence to support the belief but his instincts and hunches told him it was so. He was far too experienced to ignore them for they had never failed him.

Soon after the high brass left, he was joined by Winsler from Forensics. “You’ve got some funny stuff with this lot, Ted. I’ve done my best with it but I can’t give you much. For instance, that seed packet, it’s not paper. Candidly I don’t know what it is but I can draw parallels from its construction. It runs very close to a wasp nest, produced in the same sort of way. The badly spelt print saying that it contains turnip seeds is not print at all. It is hundreds of thousands of minute perforations. It only looks like black print.”

“Anything on the skeleton?”

Winsler nodded. “It’s bloody horrible, Ted, but I know I’m not alone in this. My whole team feels the same, and as you know they’re an experienced lot.”

He paused and cleared his throat before going on. “The flesh on the bones was eaten. Chewed and sucked clean and so deeply that it makes vultures look like dirty eaters. Under a microscope, the scraping and indentations are clearly visible.”

“This seed packet—you still don’t know what it is?”

“Honestly, no. I only likened it to a wasp nest because the structure follows a similar pattern. We still have no idea what the structure is made of.”

Markham had the frightened feeling that he was running out of ideas; he had yet to unearth a lead. “How does the substance respond to chemical tests?” he asked.

“Well, there is only one which seems to touch it. Almost the entire line of corrosive acids left it untouched but, by accident, we discovered it doesn’t like alcohol.”

“You mean like whisky?”

“Not exactly, we wouldn’t waste good Scotch on any strange substance although I suppose it would have the same reaction. No, this was industrial alcohol—you can’t drink it.”

Markham sucked at his empty pipe. “Where would I get a casket or barrel or whatever it comes in?”

“You’d need a license but, of course, we can get you one. What do you propose doing with it?”

“I have no idea yet, just a hunch.”

After Winsler had gone, Markham mooched round the grounds again, aware he was looking for something but not knowing what. He had the vague idea that somewhere here was something that didn’t quite fit.

After ten minutes more walking he came to a slow stop and said: “Ah!”

He returned to the main building and found the gardener. “Your help, please; just a question or two.”

He led the way to his original position. “Those two huts, what are they?”

“Well, the one on the left is full of tools, forks, spades, things like that. The one on the right is mostly plant food, you mix it with the soil to promote growth.”

“Anything strike you as odd about that hut?”

“Not that I can see, sir. You do mean the right hut?”

“You make a habit here of varnishing just one side of a hut, do you?”

“Varn—” The gardener’s mouth fell open. “Hell! Sir, you’re right, of course, I can see it now. I never done it—don’t know who did.”

He made to go forward but Markham stopped him. “We’d rather you didn’t touch it.” He could lie convincingly when he had to. “There might be fingerprints on it.”

The gardener nodded vigorously. “I do see your point, sir, could have made a mess of things there.” He frowned at the side of the shed. “Damn thick covering for varnish, must be a special kind.”

Markham put guards on the place for the night. He wanted six but the station would only allow him three. “We haven’t got the men to spare, Markham, you’ll just have to manage.”

When they arrived, he was careful to keep to the facts. “Pick a spot, stay in it for about forty minutes then move on but be alert.”

“What are we looking for, Chief, exactly?”

“Candidly, I have no idea. All I can say is, be ready for anything unusual, odd sounds, calls, strange movements and be ready to switch on your torches.”

When he had gone the men muttered together and swore a lot. “Chasing bloody ghosts by the sound of it.”

Nonetheless Markham was genuinely liked and they soon fell into the routine of forty-minute patrols.

It was around three in the morning when constable Didget said: “Mack isn’t responding to the move call.”

“We’d better go and see.”

They went round to a small greenhouse, powerful torches flashing before them, and came to a dead stop. Both men were experienced and, fortunately, both quick thinkers.

Their colleague, Mack, was sitting on a wooden box and half slumped against the wall of one of the huts. His eyes were shut, he was moaning but, all too clearly, he was regaining consciousness.

Didget eased the unconscious man to an upright sitting position. “Easy, Mack, easy. You must have slipped and fell, knocked yourself out. No, don’t try and sit up, you might have concussion, just take it easy, eh?”

The other officer was on the ’phone. “Yes, the police. An ambulance fast—understood?”

The paramedics, when they arrived, were stricken for a few seconds. “My God! How—?”

“Never mind about that; he’s coming round. We think, when he does, the pain will come with it.”

They called Markham before the ambulance left. “Nothing we could do, Chief. The medics couldn’t do much for him either except make him as comfortable as possible. Pardon—? No, sir, not a hope. Nothing left, nothing at all. They reckon a complete amputation, just below the knee.”

He finished his report and turned away feeling slightly sick. Only now had the full implications hit him. Coming on Mack and seeing—The light of his torched had touched a small pile of black fragments, later proved to be the remains of his sock.

The shoe was intact but the foot within it was not, it had been picked clean to just above the ankle.

Both men were convinced, that but for the interruption, Mack would have ended up the same way as the unfortunate Aaron Cord.

Markham arrived half an hour later and immediately got onto Forensics. “Where’s that bloody alcohol?”

“On it’s way. Oh, and I’ve been in touch with the Doctor at the hospital, personal friend of mine, fortunately. Your man, Lewis Mackton, was taken there this morning. His condition is stable. The Doc said there were traces on an alien liquid in his blood stream. There was too little left to work on but computer analysis suggested some sort of parallel with anaesthetic compounds.”

“Dangerous side effects?”

“The Doc said none were appearing and he was keeping his fingers crossed.”

Later, Markham found a quiet corner and took out his notebook. Pointers were appearing, he had suspected from the first that the killer of Aaron Cord was not human. It had been equally clear that it was a carnivore, but now new facts were emerging. The unknown was highly intelligent, had a clear idea of his prey and had some sophisticated drugs to back it up.

The alcohol arrived mid morning; they were generous, they had supplied a full jerry can.

Markham did not look for anything elaborate at first and was quite satisfied with the small tin cup, which the gardener found for him at the back of a cupboard.

“I take it you have spray machines for clearing insects or gentle watering?”

“Oh, yes, sir—three, although the old one you have to pump with your foot.”

“Fine, thank you. Please see that they are in full working order when I need them.”

With some balancing, they managed to half fill the tin cup and Markham put it carefully on the counter.

“The steps I am about to take may produce absolutely nothing or may be highly dangerous. Any one of you may back out now if you wish.”

He looked around but no one moved. “Right, thank you all. To continue, the question in all your minds right now must be, ‘what the hell is he doing?’ With equal honesty I have to tell you, I don’t know. I have a faint lead but beyond that I am fumbling in the dark.”

He turned to his assistant. “You armed, Wayne?”

“As far as is possible, Chief. One shot gun and a gun hand spray full of alcohol.”

“Didget?

“The same, Chief.”

Wilcox raised the standard camera without being asked. “Ready for a full frontal.”

The gardener pushed forward. “What do you want of me, Mr. Markham?”

“Nothing, lad. I can’t use you, can’t expose you to risk—you’re not in the police.”

“I’d like to do something, sir. Mr. Cord was a good man and I mean good. Not like the religious garbage some of them used to throw at me in the orphanage. I mean real good…if I was in trouble, Mr. Cord was there—know what I mean? I’m only a bloody gardener, sir, but Mr. Cord treated me like an equal, almost like I was a partner. Please, I’d like to feel I was helping.”

Markham knew he could do nothing but tried to soften the blow. “Keep within shouting distance, boy, we’ll call if we need you.”

Markham led the way down the shingle path and stopped beside the two small huts.

“You will notice that one side of the hut on the right appears to have been varnished. I don’t think it has but I’m about to find out for certain.”

Markham went forward slowly, the tin cup ready in his hand. Outwardly he was calm but icy things seem to be running round inside him.

Now that he was close to the shed, the substance no longer resembled varnish. In the first place, it was at least four or five centimetres thick and contained a tracery of fine lines like a road map. In some places where they joined, it seemed to him there was movement.

Terror seized him, they were little pulses or nerve centers or something, He had his damn face within touching distance of a hostile alien life form.

He threw the contents of the tin cup directly into the center of it and ran desperately backwards, terrified that he might trip.

He heard himself shout, “Stand by!” as he reached the shingle path. The urge to keep on running had been almost overwhelming.

Nothing happened at first and then a fist-size bubble appeared in the center of the substance.

And it screamed!

They heard a thin, almost grating, remote whistle but everyone there knew it was a scream.

The entire object peeled itself from hut wall and fell to the ground. It lay there for some seconds, spread out, like a huge transparent bed sheet. Then it began to undulate, waves passed over its surface increasing in size. Then suddenly, the thing was airborne.

Markham ducked desperately as it passed close above him in a rush of wind.

He heard the bang of a shotgun. A ragged hole appeared in the creature’s surface but it was all too clear that it was already weakening. The undulations that gave it the power of flight began to lack forces. Pieces were flying off it, breaking into smaller pieces and vanishing.

Then, abruptly, the efforts at flying came to an end. It became an untidy sphere, which dropped like a stone. They saw it hit the roof of a hut, bounce, and disappear on the far side.

They ran round the hut, ready to attack but little of it was left. It had become a bubbling mess on the brown soil and was rapidly shrinking. It had vanished completely in less than fifteen seconds.

They drenched the soil in alcohol later for safety reasons but all of them were convinced it had gone for good.

They sat in the front part of the main building and tried to unwind. Conversation was limited and sometimes irrelevant.

“That was a bloody good shot with the gun.”

“Was it? The bloody thing was right above me, couldn’t miss. In any case, I was scared to death and I had the feeling that it was a gesture. I think if that damn thing hadn’t been dying already, I could have blown holes in it forever. It couldn’t be killed that way.”

Markham, sucking at his empty pipe, reached into an inner pocket. “In twenty years of service, I’ve used this once.” He produced a flask. “I’d say it was time to make it twice.”

“The bloody thing stank.” Didget took a gulp from the flask gratefully.

“More than that,” Wayne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I learned something, the thing that all these scientific experts and imaginative writers miss. An alien need not be like that thing or a little bug-eyed monster to frighten you to death. It just has to be alien. It could be a flower of lovely colors, a beautiful butterfly—but if it was alien, you’d still go cold inside. I don’t think the human psyche has evolved enough to cope with aliens.”

He stopped, suddenly embarrassed, and changed the subject. “Is that the end of this business, Chief?”

Markham, on the point of nodding, nearly dropped his pipe. “Dear God, no! What am I thinking of?”

He looked about him quickly. “Has that gardening lad gone home?”

“No, sir, I’m still here.” He appeared from somewhere at the back of the shop. “I hung around in case you needed me.”

“Thank God you did.” Markham smiled at him. “I keep calling you lad. How old are you? Hell, I’ve never even bothered to find out your name.”

“I’m nineteen, sir, and the name is Sam.”

“Right, young Sam. We need your help, particularly your memory. Those turnip seeds, you say they arrived a couple of days ago?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Markham. He only threw the packet away then. I think he was trying to find out where they came from. He’d had the seeds about five weeks, planted them about the same time.”

“Planted them!” Markham felt goose pimples covering his body. He did not say ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ because the boy had no clue as to their importance, but he wished he had known.

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yes, sir. They’re in one of the smaller plots, just in front or the big greenhouse.”

“Show us, please.”

They stared at the row of turnip plants, feeling almost mesmerized. They looked ordinary enough yet—

“How about you, Sam? How do you feel about them?”

“Well, I reckon they got too much sort of foliage and the color ain’t quite right. That one clear of the rest, Mr. Cord set aside for study. He had his doubts, I think, and was going to dig that one up on Friday.”

Markham thrust his pipe between his teeth and scowled. It was going to be Wednesday, tomorrow. Time was getting on, and the idea of doing the job in the dark was just too much.

* * * *

They started at seven a.m. the following day and this time they were more prepared.

Markham had taken a chance and sent their findings directly to the Commander. Protocol had been affronted but it was worth the risk. In the early hours of the morning an unmarked car had arrived with protective clothing. They now wore gowns and goggled helmets with breathing masks.

“What, exactly, are we going to do first. Chief?” Wayne was on edge and finding it difficult to keep his feet still.

“First,” said Markham, “we are going to dig up the one Mr. Cord set aside. Fortunately young Sam found us three hoes with very long handles. We will pull the earth away from around it but slowly, very slowly indeed.

Markham and Didget started the digging and the detective was aware that he had never been so frightened in his life. Undoubtedly Wayne had been correct when he spoke about alien life.

They drew small amounts of soil away from the growth and it soon became apparent that bore no relation to a turnip. The tuber was three times the width of a normal turnip and a sickly orange color. Worse, it was covered in innumerable white and waving tendrils which somehow reminded them all of maggots.

Shocked, they watched those same tendrils pulling the soil back as they removed it.

“Oh, no you don’t, you bastard!” Didget gave it a savage and heavy jab with the edge of the hoe.

The action seemed to trigger something. The creature stiffened and jerked itself abruptly from the soil. The false turnip foliage fell from the top of it and it turned as if to face them.

It stood no chance—Wayne stepped forward and swung a heavy spade in a savage arc.

He looked at the result, his body frozen in the act of delivery. Then he straightened, his face colorless. “Sorry, Chief, I’ve got to be sick.” He ran behind on of the huts.

“At least it’s not immortal.” Wilcox was taking pictures, forcing his shaking hands to become steady. “It can be killed even it is a blasted alien.”

Wayne returned. “I suppose I’ll be in trouble for this. I’ve not only killed a specimen, I’ve cut the bloody thing in halves. What do we do now—preserve the remains to be examined by scientists?”

“No, we do not.” Markham’s voice was quite calm. “In front of the major seed shed, over to the left there, is an incinerator. Sam told me Cord bought it years ago as a curiosity. It not only burns garden rubbish, but can be adapted to heat, straightening bent forks and things like that. Its got foot bellows at the side to raise the temperature.”

“You’re going to burn it?” Wayne sounded pleased but slightly shocked. “Won’t the scientific bodies raise hell about this?”

“With luck, science will never know about this. Look, my friends, I must be honest about this. As you know, I had a long talk with the Commander yesterday and he, in his turn, has been in conference with the upper heads of government. They don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry from the scientific bodies crowding in on this thing; they want to put a lid on it. If the whole truth or even distorted versions of it got out, it could cause a worldwide panic. ‘Flesh-eating aliens’ would be an obvious headline, wouldn’t it? Unless things get out of hand, this is our baby and we have to deal with it.”

“Only too glad.” Wayne had a long handled shovel. “Anyone got a hoe to push the parts onto this, please?”

He watched Didget push the two pieces on the extended spade. “Even if I know it’s dead, I want it to burn, and burn and burn. I know, however, I can never erase it from my mind.”

They carried the two parts, arms extended before them, slowly, almost ceremoniously to the incinerator. It was already hot, a small pile of coal beside would ensure it could be made hotter.

Markham saw the end of a hoe push open the metal door to reveal the fire.

He saw the spade tipped and the two parts falling into the flames.

Wayne started the bellows and began to pump steadily. “Burn, you horrible thing, burn!”

He paused and became practical. “Anything that touched it had better go in too. The ends of those hoes, and certainly this spade. We don’t know that they’re contaminated but they might be.”

Markham’s thoughts at the moment were elsewhere. They were doing their best to keep a lid on the situation here, but it did not stop here, did it? Outside events would have to be tidied up to keep the public happy and the press assured.

He was a good-natured man but he was a realist and had no illusions. Sooner or later a man would be found with a long history of mental problems. A man doomed to spend the rest of his life in an institution. This man would, of course, ‘confess’ to the crucifixion of Aaron Cord. Sufficient ‘evidence’ would be produced to confirm this and the man would be brought to trial. There, he would be found unfit to plead. He would be sent to an institution for life where he would have ended up anyway. It was all very tidy and convincing.

Markham wished it was so easy here, but all he mad was theory. This theory was just his own guesswork, but it seemed to make a kind of sense. The thing that had looked like varnish was, he had decided, the organizer, the invasion leader or—stretching possibility—the mother of the seeds. In any case, it seemed to be here to keep a watchful eye on things.

It, or the supposed turnips, had a liking for flesh, living flesh, and had an unpleasant means of getting it. They had a sting which rendered their prey unconscious. While he was unconscious they ate him alive.

This made the invader only slightly more advanced than a spider but the danger did not stop.

It could duplicate exactly the victim it had eaten and digested.

Markham’s thoughts returned to the picture he would never be able to push from his mind.

The alien thing had grown about a metre in length and broadened accordingly. The upper half, however, although as yet miniature, was already shaped and recognizable.

The head of a dog. The head of a Retriever, the long ears already formed and a fuzz of black hair round the jaws.

In his imagination he could see the possible future if they had failed to find it.

One dark night, when fully developed, it would have scrambled out of the soil and trotted away.

The invasion of Earth had begun.

Later they drenched the entire plot in alcohol. The things dragged themselves out of the soil and lashed around like recently landed fish.

Markham, dropping a lighted match on the highly inflammable soil could feel no pity. They all had had tiny human faces and untidy square-cut beards.