Philip Dick: The Crawlers

He got out of the cab awkwardly, his legs numb and unresponding. The things were moving slowly between the woods and the en- trace tunnels in the center of the clearing. They were bringing building material, clay and weeds. Smearing it with some kind of ooze and plastering it in rough forms which were carefully carried beneath the gound. The crawlers were two or three feet long; some were older than others, darker and heavier. All of them moved with agonizing slowness, a silent flowing motion across the sun-baked ground. They were soft, shelless, and looked harmless.

Again, he was fascinated and hypnotized by their faces. The weird parody of human faces. Wizened little baby features, tiny shoebutton eyes, slit of a mouth, twisted ears, and a few wisps of damp hair. What should have been arms were elongated pseudopods that grew and receded like soft dough. The crawlers seemed incredibly flexible; they extended themselves, then snapped their bodies back, as their feelers made contact with obstructions. They paid no attention to the two men; they didn’t even seem to be aware of them.

‘‘How dangerous are they?” Gretry asked finally.

“Well, they have some sort of stinger. They stung a dog, I know. Stung him pretty hard. He swelled up and his tongue turned black. He had fits and got hard. He died.” The driver added half-apologeti- cally, “He was nosing around. Interrupting their building. They work all the time. Keep busy.” “Is this most of them?”

“I guess so. They sort of congregate here. I see them crawling this way.” The driver gestured. “See they’re born in different places. One or two at each farmhouse, near the radiation lab.” “Which way is Mrs. Higgins’ farmhouse?” Gretry asked.

“Up there. See it through the trees? You want to—”

“I’ll be right back,” Gretry said, and started abruptly off. “Wait here.”

THE old woman was watering the dark red geraniums that grew around her front porch, when Gretry approached. She looked up quickly, her ancient wrinkled face shrewd and suspicious, the sprinkling can poised like a blunt instrument.

“Afternoon,” Gretry said. He tipped his hat and showed her his credentials. “I’m investigating the—crawlers. At the edge of your land.”

“Why?” Her voice was empty, bleak, cold. Like her withered face and body.

“We’re trying to find a solution.” Gretry felt awkward and uncertain. “It’s been suggested we transport them away from here, out to an island in the Gulf of Mexico. They shouldn’t be here. It’s too hard on people. It isn’t right,” he finished lamely.

“No. It isn’t right.”

“And we’ve already begun moving everybody away from the radiation lab. I guess we should have done that a long time ago.”

The old woman’s eyes flashed. “You people and your machines. See what you’ve done!” She jabbed a bony finger at him excitedly. “.Vow you have to fix it. You have to do something.”

“We’re taking .them away to an island as soon as possible. But there’s one problem. We have to be sure about the parents. They have complete custody of them. We can’t just—” He broke off futilely. “How do they feel? W'ould they let us cart up their—children, and haul them away?”

Mrs. Higgins turned and headed into the house. Uncertainly, Gretry followed her through the dim, dusty interior rooms. Musty chambers full of oil lamps and faded pictures, ancient sofas and tables. She led him through a great kitchen of immense cast iron pots and pans down a flight of wooden stairs to a painted white door. She knocked sharply.

Flurry and movement on the other side. The sound of people whispering and moving things hurriedly.

“Open the door,” Mrs. Higgins commanded. After an agonized pause the door opened slowly. Mrs. Higgins pushed it wide and motioned Gretry to follow her.

In the room stood a young man and woman. They backed away as Gretry came in. The woman hugged a long pasteboard carton which the man had suddenly passed to her.

“Who are you?” the man demanded. He abruptly grabbed the carton back; his wife’s small hands were trembling under the shifting weight.

Gretry was seeing the parents of one of them. The young woman, brown-haired, not more than nineteen. Slender and small in a cheap green dress, a full-breasted girl with dark frightened eyes. The man was bigger and stronger, a handsome dark youth with massive arms and competent hands gripping the pasteboard carton tight.

Gretry couldn’t stop looking at the carton. Holes had been punched in the top; the carton moved slightly in the man’s arms, and there was a faint shudder that rocked it back and forth.

“This man,” Mrs. Higgins said to the husband, “has come to take it away.”

The couple accepted the information in silence. The husband made no move except to get a better grip on the box.

“He’s going to take all of them to an island,” Mrs. Higgins said. “It’s all arranged. Nobody’ll harm them. They’ll be safe and they can do what they want. Build and crawl around where nobody has to look at them.”

The young woman nodded blankly.

“Give it to him,” Mrs. Higgins ordered impatiently. “Give him the box and let’s get it over with once and for all.”

After a moment the husband carried the box over to a table and put it down. “You know anything about them?” he demanded. “You know what they eat?”

“We —” Gretry began helplessly-

“They eat leaves. Nothing but leaves and grass. We’ve been bringing in the smallest leaves we could find.”

“It’s only a month old,” the young woman said huskily. “It already wants to go down with the others, but we keep it here. We don’t want it to go down there. Not yet. Later, maybe, we thought. We didn't know what to do. We weren’t sure.” Her large dark eyes flashed briefly in mute appeal, then faded out again. “It’s a hard thing to know.”

The husband untied the heavy brown twine and took the lid from the carton. “Here. You can see it.”

IT was the smallest Gretry had seen. Pale and soft, less than a foot long. It had crawled in a corner of the box and was curled up in a messy web of chewed leaves and some kind of wax. A transluscent covering spun clumsily around it, behind which it lay asleep. It paid no attention to them; they were out of its scope. Gretry felt a strange helpless horror rise up in him. He moved away, and the young man replaced the lid.

“We knew what it was,” he said hoarsely. “Right away, as soon as it was born. Up the road, there was one we saw. One of the first. Bob Douglas made us come over and look at it. It was his and Julie’s. That was before they started coming down and collecting together by the gulley.”

“Tell him what happened,” Mrs. Higgins said.

“Douglas mashed its head with a rock. Then he poured gasoline on it and burned it up. Last week he and Julie packed and left.” “Have many of them been destroyed?” Gretry managed to ask.

“A few. A lot of men, they see something like that and they go sort of wild. You can’t blame them.” The man’s dark eyes darted hopelessly. “I guess I almost did the same thing.”

“Maybe we should have,” his wife murmured. “Maybe I should have let you.”

Gretry picked up the pasteboard carton and moved toward the door. “We’ll get this done as quickly as we can. The trucks are on the way. It should be over in a day.” “Thank God for that,” Mrs. Higgins exclaimed in a clipped, emotionless voice. She held the door open, and Gretry carried the carton through the dim, musty house, down the sagging front steps and out into the blazing midafternoon sun.

Mrs. Higgins stopped at the red geraniums and picked up her sprinkling can. “When you take them, take them all. Don’t leave any behind. Understand?”