Mind Webs - The Gun Without A Bang

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Mind-wise.

Welcome to a half hour of mind-wise. Short stories from the worlds of speculative fiction.

The story comes from a collection edited by Robert Hoskins called Wondermaker's

Tool. Its Robert check lays, begun without a bang.

Did a twig snap? Dixon looked back and thought he saw a dark shape melt into the underbrush.

Instantly he froze, staring back through the green bowl trees. There was a complete and

expectant silence. Far over had a carrying bird balanced on an updraft, surveying the sunburned

landscape, waiting, hoping. Then Dixon heard a low impatient cough from the underbrush.

Now he knew he was being followed. Before it had only been an assumption but those vague half-seeing

shapes had been real. They had left him alone on his track to the signal station, watching,

deciding now they were ready to try something. He removed the weapon from its holster,

checked the safeties, re-holstered its and continued walking. He heard another cough.

Something was patiently trailing him, probably waiting until he left the bush and entered the

forest. Dixon grinned to himself. Nothing could hurt him. He had the weapon. Without it,

he would never have ventured so far from his spaceship. One simply didn't wander around on an alien

planet, but Dixon could. On his hip was the weapon to end all weapons, absolute insurance against

anything that walked or crawled or flew or swam. It was the last word in handguns, the ultimate

in personal armament. It was the weapon. He looked back again. There were three beasts,

less than 50 yards behind him from that distance they resembled dogs or hyenas. They coughed at him

and moved slowly forward. He touched the weapon, but decided against using it immediately.

There would be plenty of time when they came closer. Alfred Dixon was a short man, very broad in the

chest and shoulders. His hairy was streaky blonde, and he had a blonde mustache which curled up at the

ends. This mustache gave his hand face a frank ferocious appearance. His natural habitat was

terraced bars and taverns. Their dressed and stained khakis he could order drinks and allowed

belligerent voice. In Paris's hollow drinkers with an narrow gunmetal blue eyes. He enjoyed explaining

to the drinkers in a somewhat contemptuous tone the difference between a psyched needler and a

cult three point between the Martian horned adloper and the Venuzian scum. And just what to do when

a Rinerian horn tank is charging you in thick brush and how to beat off in the pack of winged glitter

flits. Some men considered Dixon all bluff but they were careful not to call it. Others thought he

was a good man in spite of his inflated opinion of himself. He was just over confident they explained

death or mutilation would correct this flaw. Dixon was a great believer in personal

armament. To his way of thanking the winning of the American West was simply a contest between

bow and arrow and quote 44. Africa the spear against the rifle. Mars the cult three point against

the spin knife. H bombs mirrored cities but individual men with small arms took the territory

while look for fuzzy economic philosophical or political reasons when everything was so simple.

He had of course utter confidence in the weapon. Clensing back he saw that half a dozen dog

like creatures had joined the original three. They were walking in the open now tongues

lulling out slowly closing the distance. Dixon decided to hold fire just a little longer.

The shock effect would be that much greater. He had held many jobs in his time explorer hunter

prospector Asteroiter. Fortunes seemed to elude him. The other man always stumbled across the lost

city shot the rare beast found the ore bearing stream. He accepted his fate cheerfully.

Then poor luck but what can you do? Now he was a radio man checking the automatic signal stations

on a dozen unoccupied worlds. But more important he was giving the ultimate handgun its first test

in the field. The guns and ventures hope the weapon would become standard. Dixon hoped he would

become standard with it. He had reached the edge of the rain forest. His ship lay about two miles

ahead in a little clearing. As he entered the forest's gloomy shade he heard the excited squeaking

of aborials. They were colored orange and blue and they watched him intently from the treetops.

It was definitely an African sort of place Dixon decided. He hoped he would encounter some big

gain get a decent trophy header too. Behind him the wild dogs had approached twenty yards.

They were gray and brown the size of terriers with a hyenas jaws. Some of them had moved into

the underbrush raising the head to cut him off. It was time to show the weapon. Dixon unholstered it.

The weapon was pistol shaped and quite heavy. It also balanced poorly. The inventors had promised

to reduce the weight and improve the heft in subsequent models but Dixon liked it just the way it was.

He admired it for a moment and clicked off the safeties and adjusted for a single shot.

The pack came loping toward him coughing and snarling. Dixon took casual aim and fired.

The weapon hummed faintly. I head for a distance of a hundred yards. A section of forest

simply vanished. Dixon had fired the first disintegrator. From a muzzle aperture of less than an

inch the beam had fanned out to a maximum diameter of twelve feet. A conic section waist high and

a hundred yards long appeared in the forest. Within it nothing remained. Trees, insects, plants,

shrubs, wild dogs, butterflies, all were gone. Overhanging bows caught in the blast area looked

as if they had been sheared by a giant razor. Dixon estimated he had caught at least seven

of the wild dogs in the blast. Seven beasts with a half second burst. No problems of deflection or

trajectory as with a missile gun. No need to reload. For the weapon had a power span of eighteen

duty hours. The perfect weapon. He turned and walked on re-hosting the heavy gun. There was silence.

The forest creatures were considering the new experience. In a few moments they recovered from

their surprise. Blue and orange arboreals hung through the trees above him. Overhead the

carrion bird soared low and other black winged birds came out of the distant sky to join it.

And the wild dogs coughed in the underbrush. They hadn't given up yet. Dixon could hear them

and the deep foliage on either side of him moving rapidly staying out of sight. He drew the weapon

wondering if they would dare try again. They dared. A spotted greyhound burst from a shrub just

behind in the gun hummed. The dog vanished in mid-leap and the trees shivered slightly as air

clapped into the sudden vacuum. Another dog charged and Dixon disintegrated it frowning slightly.

These beasts couldn't be considered stupid. Why didn't they learn the obvious lesson

that it was impossible to come against him and his weapon. Creatures all over the galaxy had quickly

learned to be wary of an armed man. Why not these? Without warning three dogs leaked from different

directions. Dixon clicked to automatic and molded them down like a man swinging aside.

Dust world and sparkled filling the vacuum. He listened intently. The forest seemed filled with

low coughing sounds. Other facts were coming to join in the kill. Why didn't they learn?

It suddenly burst upon him. They didn't learn, he thought, because the lesson was too subtle.

The weapon disintegrating silently, quickly, cleanly. Most of the dogs he had simply vanished.

There were no yelps of agony, no roars or howls or screens. And above all, there was no loud

boom to startle them. No smell of cortide, no click of a new shell levered in. Dixon thought,

maybe they aren't smart enough to know this is a killing weapon. Maybe they haven't figured out

what's going on, maybe they think I'm defenseless. He walked more rapidly through the dim forest.

He was in no danger, he reminded himself. Just because they couldn't realize it was a killing

weapon didn't alter the fact that it was. Still, he would insist on a noise maker in the new models.

It shouldn't be difficult, and a sound would be reassuring.

The aborials were gaining confidence now, swinging down almost to the level of his head,

their fangs bared, probably carnivorous sticks and decided. With the weapon on automatic,

he slashed great cuts in the treetops. The aborials fled screaming at him,

leaves and small branches rained down. Even the dogs were momentarily cowed, edging away from the falling

debris. Dixon grinned to himself just before he was flattened. A big bow severed from its tree

had caught him across the left to show.

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There is it fell. The weapon was knocked from his hand. It landed 10 feet away

still an automatic disintegrating shrubs, a few yards from him.

He dragged himself from under the bow and dived with a weapon.

And our boreal got to it first.

Vixen III himself faced down on the ground. The arboreal screaming and triumph world

that disintegrated around its head. Giant trees cut through when crashing to the forest floor.

The air was dark with falling twigs and leaves and the ground was cut into trenches.

A sweep of the disintegrator knifed through the tree next to Dixon and chopped to the ground

a few inches from his feet. He jumped away and the next sweep narrowly missed his head.

He had given up hope, but then the arboreal became curious.

Shattering galea turned the weapon around and tried to look into the muzzle.

The animal's head vanished silently.

Dixon saw his chance. He ran forward leaping a trench and recovering the disintegrator

before another arboreal could play with it. He turned it off automatic.

Several dogs had returned. They were watching him closely. Dixon didn't dare fire yet. His hands

were shaking so badly there was more risk to himself than to the dogs. He turned and stumbled

in the direction of the ship. The dogs followed.

Dixon quickly recovered his nerve. He looked at the glittering weapon in his hand. He had

considerably more respect for it now and more than a little fear. Much more fear than the dogs had.

Apparently they didn't associate the forest damage with the disintegrator. It must have seen

like a sudden violent storm to them. But the storm was over. It was hunting time again.

He was in thick brush now firing the head to clear a path. The dogs were on either side keeping

pace. He fired continually into the foliage, occasionally getting a dog. There were several

dozen of them pressing and closely. Damn it. Dixon thought, aren't they counting their losses?

Then he realized they probably didn't know how to count. He struggled on, not far from the

spaceship. A heavy log lay in his path. He stepped over it. The log came angrily to life and

opened the enormous jaws directly under his legs. He fired blindly, holding the trigger down for

three seconds and narrowly missing his own feet. The creature vanished. Dixon gulped, swayed,

and slid feet first into the pit he had just dug. He landed heavily rushing his left ankle.

The dogs rained, the pit snapping and snarling at him. Steady, Dixon told himself.

He cleared the beasts from the pit's rim with two bursts and tried to climb out.

Besides of the pit were too steep and had been fused into glass.

Friendically he tried again and again, recklessly expending his strength. Then he stopped and forced

himself to think. The weapon had got him into this hole. The weapon could get him out.

This time he cut a shallow ramp out of the pit and limped painfully out. His left ankle could

hardly bear weight. Even worse was the pain and the shoulder that bow must have broken it he

decided. Using a branch as a crutch, Dixon limped on. Several times the dogs attacked. He

disintegrated them and the gun grew increasingly heavy in his right hand. The carrion birds came down

to pick at the neatly slashed carcasses. Dixon felt darkness crawl around the edges of his vision.

He fought it back. He must not faint now while the dogs were round him.

The ship was in sight. He broke into a clumsy run and fell immediately. Some of the dogs were on him.

He fired, cutting them in two and removing half an inch from his right boot almost down to the toe.

He struggled to his feet and went on. Quite a weapon he thought. Dangerous to anyone including

the wielder, he wished he had the inventor in the sights. Imagine inventing a gun without a bang.

He reached the ship. The dogs ringed him as he fumbled with airlock. Dixon disintegrated the

closest two and stumbled inside. Darkness was crawling around his vision again and he could feel

nausea rising quickly in his throat. With his last strength, he swung the airlock shut and sat

down. Safe at last. Then he heard the low cough. He had shot one of the dogs inside within.

His arm felt too weak to lift the heavy weapon but slowly he swung it up. The dog,

barely visible in the dimly lighted ship, leaped at him. For a terrifying instant, Dixon thought he

couldn't squeeze the trigger. The dog was at his throat. Reflex must have clenched his hand.

The dog yelled once and was silent. Dixon bladped out.

When he recovered consciousness, he lay for a long time, just savoring the glorious sensation of

being alive. He was going to rest for a few minutes. Then he was getting out of here away from

alien planets back to a Terran bar. He was going to get roaring grunk. Then he was going to find

that inventor and ram the weapon down the man's throat, crossways. Only a homicidal maniac would invent

a gun without a bang. But that would come later. Right now it was a pleasure just to be alive,

to lie in the sunlight, enjoying the sunlight inside a spaceship. He sat up. At his feet,

lay the tail in one leg of the dog. Beyond it there was an interesting zigzag slashed

through the side of the spaceship. It was about three inches wide and four feet long,

sunlight filtered through it. Outside, four dogs were sitting on their haunches bearing in.

He had cut through his spaceship while killing the last dog. Then he saw the other slashes in the

spaceship. Where they come from? Oh yes. Yes, when he was fighting his way back to the ship,

that last hundred yards, a few shots must have touched the spaceship. He stood up and examined the cuts.

A neat job, he thought, with a calm that sometimes accompanies hysteria. Yes, sir, very neat indeed.

Here were the severed control cables. That was where the radio had been. Over there he had managed

to nick the oxygen and water tanks in a single burst, which was good shooting by anybody's standards.

And here, yes, he'd done it all right. I really clever hook shot. It cut the fuel lines

and the fuel had all run out in the beatings to law of gravity and formed a pool around the ship

and sunk into the ground. Not bad for a guy who wasn't even trying Dixon thought crazily. Couldn't

have done butter with a blowtorch. As a matter of fact, he couldn't have done it with a blowtorch.

Spaceship hulls were too tough, but not too tough for the good old little old surefire never missed

weapon. A year later, when Dixon still hadn't reported, a ship was sent out. They were to give

him a decent burial. If any remains could be found and bring back the prototype disintegrator,

if that could be found. The recovery ship touched down near Dixon's ship and the crew examined

the slash and got it all with interest. You know, some guys just don't know how to handle a gun,

said the engineer. Well, say, said the chief pilot. They heard a banging noise from the direction

of the rain forest. They heard over and found that Dixon was not dead. He was very much alive

and singing as he worked. He had constructed a wooden shack and planted a vegetable garden

surrounding the garden was a palisade. Dixon was hammering in a new sapling to replace a rotten one

when the men came up and quite predictably one of the men cried. You're alive! Dixon said,

damned right, touch and go for a while before I got the palisade built, nasty brutes,

those dogs, but I taught him a little respect. Dixon grinned and touched the bowl that leaned

against the palisade with an easy reach. It had been cut from a piece of seasoned springy wood and

beside it was a quiver full of arrows. They learned respect after they saw a few of their pals

running around with a shaft through their flanks. But the weapon! The weapon exclaimed Dixon with a

mad merry light in his eyes. The weapon couldn't have survived without it. He turned back to his work.

He was hammering the sapling into place with a heavy flat butt of the weapon.

Dixon was hammering the sapling into place with a heavy flat butt of the weapon.

Dixon was hammering the sapling into place with a heavy flat butt of the weapon.

Dixon was hammering the sapling into place with a heavy flat butt of the weapon.

I was Robert Sheckley's story, the gun without a bang. From a collection put together by Robert

Hoskins called Wonder Makers 2. This is Michael Hanson speaking technical production for mindwebs

by Leslie Hosenoff. Mindwebs comes to you from WHA Radio and Madison, a service of University of

Wisconsin Extension.

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